Forgive and Forget (8 page)

As she trudged up to the goods yard at the railway station carrying two buckets to collect their share of the drinking water that was now being brought in by train from Newark, Polly was still worrying. Soon water – allegedly the cause of the epidemic – would be all they had left.

And on Monday, she realized with a fresh wave of panic, the rent man was due to call. She’d avoided his last visit by hiding in the backyard until he’d given up knocking at the front door and gone away. Now they owed him for two months.

The Hallidays had been wonderful. Mrs Halliday had brought pies, scones and a loaf of bread and Leo, as he’d promised, had told her that he was keeping an eye on young Eddie, but Polly couldn’t expect them to pay the rent the Longdens owed.

And she’d tried everything she could think of to stir her father: pleading, getting angry, even forcing a light-hearted teasing. Anything to cajole William out of his chair. But nothing was working.

Help came from a very unexpected quarter on the last Sunday afternoon in March.

‘I just wondered how you all were.’ Once more Roland Spicer was standing nervously on the doorstep, clutching his cap in white-knuckled fingers.

Polly smiled at him and opened the door wider. ‘Please come in, Mr Spicer. I’m sure it’s safe now. Dad’s home and no one else in the family has the disease.’

‘Roland,’ he prompted, smiling and stepping over the threshold. ‘I’d heard your father was out of hospital. How is he?’

Standing close beside him just inside the front door, Polly lowered her voice. ‘Better. Much better. In fact, the doctor said he can go back to work, but I can’t get him to budge. I – I suppose he’s still mourning Mam, we all are, but I’m getting desperate. The rent man comes on Monday and—’ She stopped, appalled at herself for spilling out such private matters to a comparative stranger. And yet Mr Spicer – Roland – didn’t seem like a stranger. True, he had been her boss at the factory, but he’d always been so friendly, so kind to her, even stepping in on more than one occasion when the raucous teasing of the older women had got hurtful.

He needn’t have done; young though she was, Polly was an equal match for any of the women at the glue factory, giving back as good as she got. In time, as with all teasing – even that which bordered on bullying – once their prey stood up to them, the bullies’ fun was spoiled and they turned their attention to more sensitive souls. But Polly had remained one of Roland’s favourites, a fact not lost on the other women, whose teasing had then turned to spite.

‘She’s a bit young for a man of his age to be eyeing up.’ Ida Norton was malicious, hinting at something improper.

Nelly Rawdon had rounded on her. ‘You wash yar mouth out, Ida. There’s not a bad bone in Roland’s body. He’s only looking out for a young lass who has to deal wi’ the likes of you.’

Nelly became Polly’s one real friend at the factory. She reminded Polly of Bertha; a big woman with a heart to match who’d taken the young girl under her wing from Polly’s first day. And when the teasing about Roland Spicer had started, Nelly told her, ‘They’re only jealous. You stick with me, duck, and I’ll see you right. Don’t let them buggers get to you with their nasty tongues, specially that Ida Norton. She’s a cow and a half.’ Nelly had laughed loudly. ‘An’ that’s insulting cows!’

And Bertha Halliday had agreed with her when Polly had confided in her. ‘Pretty young lass like you working at the glue factory? Stands to reason they’re envious. The sooner you get out of that place the better. In the meantime, you stick with Nelly. She’s a good sort even if she is a bit rough round the edges.’

Well, Polly was out of the factory now, but not of her own choice.

And here was Roland Spicer still concerned about her. She smiled ruefully at him. ‘I shouldn’t be telling you all this. I’m sorry.’

‘Of course you should.’ Suddenly, she found her hand being clasped in his slightly sweaty one. ‘Polly – I want to help you. You can trust me, you know. Whatever you tell me will go no further.’

‘You’re very kind,’ she murmured, pulling her hand away. ‘Please, come and talk to Dad. I – I’m sure he’ll be pleased to see you.’

Roland sat down in the chair on the opposite side of the range. ‘There’s a bit of good news,’ he began cheerfully. As she moved about the kitchen and scullery, Polly listened in.

‘They’ve started a water train running daily from a well at Willoughby. It’ll bring in thousands of gallons, so they say, and they’ve promised to do it completely free of charge for at least three months.’

‘That’s good,’ was all William could muster.

‘That’s wonderful,’ Polly added, trying to make up for William’s lack of enthusiasm.

‘Are you getting water all right, Polly?’ Roland turned to ask.

She forced a smile and pushed aside her other worries. ‘Yes, thank you, Roland. Me or Eddie fetch it from the station. T’aint far.’

‘Yes, me too,’ he nodded. ‘Though with only mother and me, it’s no hardship. If you ever want any help, Polly, you’ve only to say.’

‘It tastes horrible, though, doesn’t it? But I suppose we’re lucky to get any.’

‘I think they’re putting something in the water to purify it,’ Roland explained. ‘We’ve certainly a lot to be grateful to the people of Newark for. And now Willoughby too.’

‘Did you bring me a newspaper, Mr Spicer?’ William asked suddenly.

‘Er – no. I’m sorry.’ Roland gave a wry laugh. ‘But you don’t want to be reading them at the moment. All full of doom and gloom, I’m afraid.’

‘They were saying in the hospital – just before I left – that the death column is getting longer and longer every day.’ William paused, as if waiting for confirmation of his statement.

‘Er – well, to tell you the truth, Mr Longden, they say the epidemic is widespread now, but surely,’ Roland added hastily, trying to instil some optimism into this sad household, ‘things will get better very soon.’

‘Or worse,’ William muttered morosely. He seemed determined to wallow in gloom and self-pity. Though still feeling the loss of her mother keenly, Polly was fast losing patience with her father; he should be thinking about the living, especially his children. There were hundreds of folks throughout their poor, beleaguered city who were grieving just like the Longdens. Their family wasn’t the only one suffering.

Polly turned away and busied herself in the scullery, cutting out the eyes in the potatoes that Eddie had brought home last night and peeling speckled apples. They’d already managed a Sunday dinner of a kind and there was enough left to make a meal tomorrow, though rather a strange one. She sighed as she sorted out one or two good leaves from a rotting cabbage. Perhaps she could make soup . . .

She could still hear Roland’s voice from the other room, rising and falling as he tried to steer the conversation onto happier topics. He stayed all afternoon and even when it began to grow dusk, he still sat there.

At last he rose and said with the kind of firmness in his tone that Polly had only heard him use at work, ‘Now, Mr Longden, how about you and me take a little walk whilst your lass gets your evening meal ready. The fresh air’d do you good.’

Polly held her breath as she watched her father look up and smile wanly. Then he began to lever himself out of the chair – the only time he’d risen, except to go outside to the privy or up to bed, since he’d come home from the hospital. ‘D’you know, I think it might, young feller. Polly, get me coat an’ me muffler.’

‘That’s right. Wrap up warm,’ Roland advised. ‘It’s still very cold out and you must feel it more than ever since your illness.’

Eagerly, Polly ran to fetch her father’s coat and scarf. With a silent ‘thank you’ in her eyes as she met Roland’s glance, she ushered them out of the house.

It wasn’t until the door had closed behind them that she saw a pound note lying on the kitchen table and knew that Roland Spicer had left it for the rent.

William and Sarah had been childhood sweethearts. Born only a street apart in the same area of the city where the family still lived and with only a month between them, they’d grown up with their two families knowing each other. They’d started school on the same day and played along the banks of the river flowing past the end of their streets. As youngsters they’d played with all the other children but, as they all grew older, a natural separation between the groups of girls and boys occurred. Embarrassment and teasing followed as the growing adolescents became aware of each other in a totally different way. The girls giggled and simpered, the boys swaggered and postured. But away from the others, William and Sarah began a quiet friendship that blossomed into an early love. By sixteen, they were no longer interested in anyone else other than each other and other friendships fell away. By nineteen, they were married and a year later Polly was born.

William was a hard worker; no one would ever deny that. For the most part he was an even-tempered, kindly man. But just occasionally, if he felt an injustice was being done, his temper would flare. And it was worse when he’d had a pint or two. Drink affected him quickly and badly. In one of his recalcitrant moods, Sarah was the only one who could deal with him. At such times the children scuttled out of sight; they went out to play in the street or kept to their bedroom until the shouting and the swearing had ceased and he was snoring loudly, sleeping off the effects of alcohol. Sarah knew just how to cope. She would quietly and patiently guide him upstairs, tuck him into bed and leave him there. In the morning she would make no reference to the previous night and carry on as if nothing had happened.

The worst occasions to deal with were when something angered him but he was coldly sober. But even then Sarah would sit him down near the fire when the children were in bed and would let him tell her his troubles. His voice would rise in anger and he would shake his fist in the telling of his tale, until his wife said, ‘William, the children are asleep.’ For a moment, he would grumble under his breath and then gradually his voice would rise again until another warning was required. It was doubtful whether or not the children were asleep with all the noise he made, but it was Sarah’s way of trying to calm him down.

The causes of his bouts of bad temper varied little. He rarely had quarrels with his neighbours or drinking mates – only perhaps with Bert Fowler now and again as they staggered home together. But his place of work was another matter. William worked in the goods yard on the railway and, sadly, he did not get along with the foreman. Against anything he saw as a miscarriage of justice William was quick – and often the first – to raise his voice in protest. And it was not only on his own behalf. If he saw a workmate being unfairly treated, he would leap to that man’s defence, often to his own detriment. He’d already received two warnings from the foreman and one from the boss.

‘We don’t want troublemakers here, Longden. If you don’t like the work, you know what you can do.’

But work for a poorly educated man with few skills was not easily found and his employment with the railway was steady and reasonably well paid.

‘You’ll not find another job like this one, William,’ Sarah had told him often. ‘Bite your tongue, why don’t you? ’Tis no concern of yours. Do your work and come home to your family.’

‘’Tis all very well for you to talk, Sarah. You’re your own mistress, free to do what you like.’

Sarah had laughed wryly. ‘Free, am I? Looking after you, your children and this house. Cooking, washing and cleaning. That’s freedom, is it?’

William had had the grace to look ashamed and his fit of temper had died under her calm persuasion. Seeing it, Sarah had touched his arm. ‘You’re a wonderful husband and father, William. Don’t throw it away and see us all in the workhouse just because of your pride. Life isn’t fair; it never has been and it never will be. We all just have to do our best in our own little corner of the world.’

But now Sarah was gone and there was no one to reason with William, no one who could pacify him.

Since Sarah’s death and his own illness, he’d become docile. Yet sometimes Polly wished she could see some of the old fire and vigour he’d once had. At least that would be better than this terrible apathy that kept him rooted in his chair by the fire.

But Roland Spicer’s visits were the turning point for her father. He came again the very next night and took William out again, this time to the George and Dragon. Polly heard later that William’s cronies at the local pub had made him welcome, pitching their sympathy just right; not too gushing, but with a few sincere words at first and then changing the subject to other matters, they broke the ice for him to return to some kind of normal life. And the following Monday, William, by his own choice returned to work. His fellow workmates were pleased to see him back, his employers perhaps less so. But they all soon noticed a change in him.

Now he was peaceable, grateful to be still in work and thankful to be well enough to do it. And the thought that his children relied even more on the money he brought home was enough for the moment to make him bite his tongue, as Sarah had always advised, and turn his back on trouble. He carried her words with him and tried his hardest to do what she’d always wanted; to look after his own little corner of the world. Even on his trips to the pub once or twice a week, he restricted himself to two pints, knowing that more would tip him over the edge. He marvelled at the men who could drink nine or ten pints and still seem reasonably sober or who were ‘happy drunks’. He was not, and he had to accept it. Drink – even a relatively small amount – made him nasty and now there was no Sarah to chide him gently and keep him out of trouble.