Polly's Angel (3 page)

For a while mother and son worked contentedly together until a thundering on the stairs heralded the arrival of Ivan, with Polly close on his heels. Ivan was looking distinctly aggrieved.

‘Mammy, Mammy, she near on scrubbed me ears off of me head, so she did,' Ivan shouted, hurtling across the kitchen and casting himself at his mother. ‘Look how red they are – that wit' bein' pulled out sideways so's she could see the spuds growin' in 'em, she said. I telled her I didn't want lugs restin' on me shoulders and she said: “Shaddup, you, or I'll tie a knot in—”'

‘Mammy, don't listen to him, he's tale-clattin', that's what he's doin', and it's wrong to tale-clat, you've telled me so many a time—' Polly was beginning breathlessly when she saw Bevin. Immediately she rushed round the table to hug him, saying: ‘Bev! Oh, you're home early for to see that girl – and our Martin, of course. But there's a grand tea, so there is – Mammy always makes a grand tea when . . .'

‘. . .  your penny whistle!' Ivan finished his sentence at the top of his voice, glaring at his sister across the laden board. ‘Mammy, she's a bad girl an' she needs a good smackin' for sayin' bad t'ings to her little brother.'

‘Well, you shouldn't have kept pullin' away, and me only doin' what Mammy had said, makin' you respectable so that Monica wouldn't get a chance to talk about kids playin' in pigpens and things like that,' Polly said. She cast a guilty glance at her mother, standing with an arm protectively around Ivan's small shoulders. ‘Oh, Mammy, I love Ivan, so I do, but he was strugglin' like a fish in me hands . . .'

Bevin held up a hand like a policeman and made shushing noises until both children had ceased their clamour. Then he spoke. ‘Polly, the kid's little lugs look like beetroot, so they do. Say you're sorry for mauling the little feller.'

‘I'm sorry I heaved at your lug then, Ivan,' Polly said. Deirdre thought she sounded rather half-hearted about it, but refrained from saying so. An apology was an apology, after all, and Ivan was smiling once more.

‘That's all right, Poll,' he said with all his customary sunniness. ‘I'm sorry I stamped on your toes, then.'

‘Truth will out,' Bevin said. He grinned at his mother. ‘Best clothes, I see. Was that orders too?'

Deirdre turned and looked properly at her two youngest for the first time. Polly was now wearing a pale green smock dress and white stockings whilst Ivan was in all the beauty of his Sunday suit. Deirdre clutched at her hair. ‘Polly! Not your party dress, you silly young wan, nor Ivan's Sunday suit. Just something nice – your dark brown skirt wit' the pink blouse. And Ivan's grey shorts and blue shirt will do perfectly well. It isn't as if we're having the Queen to tea,' she finished.

Polly heaved a sigh and took Ivan's hand. ‘Well, there's gratitude, when I put on our bestest t'ings special,' she said as they headed across the kitchen once more. ‘I'm sure I don't know why I try so hard, when nothin' I do is ever right.'

‘Nor me,' Ivan said in a lugubrious tone. ‘You won't have to wash me lugs again, will you, Poll? I does hope not!'

Deirdre waited until they were out of hearing before she and Bevin caught each other's eye and began to laugh. After a moment, however, Bevin heard the eggs boil over and ran to take them half off the fire, and soon enough it was time to drop them into a bowl of cold water, then to crack the shells and peel them off, and to arrange them, each one cut in half on a plate, and to put it down on the big table in the parlour, between the bowls of tomatoes – grown by Peader, in the little lean-to greenhouse against the bicycle shed – and fine, floury potatoes, still hot from the pan.

‘I'd best put on a dress,' Deirdre said resignedly, when all the preparations were finished and she had put the kettle on to boil and stood the china teapot patterned with roses near at hand. ‘I'll put me pinafore over it, because otherwise I'll spill something down it, so I shall, but I just know Monica will be wearing something new and smart.'

Bevin said he would hold the fort for her whilst she changed, so she slipped up the stairs, meeting Polly and Ivan, now sensibly dressed, on their way down.

‘Better, Mammy?' Polly said, holding out her brown skirt and doing a little bobbing curtsey. ‘Will she find fault wit' me in this?'

‘Oh, you poor lamb, fancy anyone finding fault wit' you,' Deirdre said mockingly, but she pinched her daughter's rosy cheek consolingly. ‘You and Ivan both look fine, so you do. Tell you what, the train went past a while ago, why don't you and Ivan take Delly and walk up to the station to meet Daddy and the others? I daresay you'll enjoy that better than sitting quiet in the parlour until they arrive.'

‘Oh, yes,' Polly and Ivan chorused at once. They galloped down the rest of the stairs and straight out of the front door, without even thinking about putting on a coat or a hat. Deirdre called after them, but was not surprised to get no reply. Well, it was a warm enough afternoon, they'd come to no harm. And the exercise would mean that they wouldn't fidget so much during tea, nor be so patently eager to make themselves scarce after it.

The train clattered into the small station and Martin stood up and pulled on the leather strap to let the window down. The train was still moving, though slowly, and the crisp, late autumn air came into the carriage, reminding him of the harvest fields, autumn woods, and the cropped grass of meadows where mushrooms grew at this time of year, spangling the grass with their neat white caps. Martin sighed. He loved the country, but he could not imagine Monica ever wanting to live anywhere but in – or near – the city. She was too fond of shopping, people and amusements to take kindly to country living, but privately Martin envied his parents and the young ones their rural home.

‘Is anyone waiting? Your da said he might come down and meet us.' Monica squeezed into the window space beside him and they both looked along the platform. It was empty, save for the stationmaster's brown and white terrier and a couple of pigeons, pecking between the big, flat paving stones.

‘No one about,' Martin said, and heard her draw in her breath with a little hiss of satisfaction. She had spent most of the journey telling him that his family did not like her, that she did not like them, that this visit, every other Sunday, was nothing but a farce. ‘They'd sooner we didn't come, and I'm afraid I don't enjoy being where I'm not really wanted,' she had said in a drawling, self-pitying tone. ‘We'll tell them once a month in future, eh, Martin? Then we can go to my parents' occasionally, or spend the day by ourselves.'

Martin had been looking out of the window; for a moment he let his eyes continue to roam over the stubble in the harvest fields, the leaves turning to gold and brown, tumbling down from the high branches, like falling stars from the blue arch of heaven. He had lifted his eyes from the scene beyond the glass and glanced at her briefly. So very pretty! Streaky blonde hair, light blue eyes, the full-lipped red mouth . . .

‘We'll come every other Sunday,' he had said. Not as though he were arguing with her, more as though he were agreeing. Yet the words were not the ones she wanted to hear.

‘Oh, but Martin, this just isn't fair, they're
your
family, not mine, and they resent me, you know they do. And I'm not used to children, I don't understand them – and they're so
dirty,
and then there's that huge dog, and the cat – you know I'm scared of cats – and all those hens pecking about the place . . .'

They had been alone in the carriage. Martin had said flatly: ‘I like seeing them. I'm fond of me family. As for the kids, you'd better get used to them, so when we have kids of our own—'

She had interrupted him, actually grabbing his arm, pinching it, her face white with temper save for a bright red spot on each cheek. ‘Kids! I'm not going to have kids for years and years yet! I
told
you I didn't like kids, didn't want a family, not for years and years and you never said – I'm tellin' you, Martin O'Brady, that I'm norra gal what'll act pleasant if I find meself in the fam'ly way!'

He had looked at her, then smiled. He liked it when she forgot her smart accent, her posh school, and spoke as other Liverpudlians did. ‘We're both Catholics, Monica,' he had said gently. ‘You didn't think I'd been using rubber johnnies all these weeks, did you? Because I tell you to your head I've done no such t'ing.'

‘No, of course not, but—' She had stopped, suddenly seeming to be aware of his sharpened look. She looked down at her feet, catching her full red lower lip with her very small, very white teeth. Then she had looked up at him through her thick, dark lashes. The breath caught in Martin's throat.

‘But what, Monica? So why aren't you
in the family way
already, is that what you're going to tell me?' He had caught her hand in his, squeezing the fingers until she squeaked with pain, the pale skin reddening.

‘Stop it, Martin! Don't you dare try to knock me about – if that's the sort of wife you wanted I'm telling you here and now—'

‘What have you done to make sure we don't have kids, Mon?' His voice had been cooler now, faintly amused even. ‘Women's magic, is it? Something us poor, ignorant fellers don't know about?'

She had looked at him doubtfully. ‘Well, I – I went to the clinic, and they gave me . . . It's what heaps and heaps of women use if they don't want babies, there's nothing
wrong
, it's not as if . . . It's not like doing bad things to yourself. It – it's just a – a thing, a sort of sponge thing . . . it doesn't
hurt
either of us, it just – just gets in the way, kind of.'

He had nodded. ‘I see. But this is no place to talk about birth control and families. We'll discuss it later. And in the meantime, don't let me hear any more talk about not visiting my parents. Understand?'

She had nodded, her lower lip trembling, tears misting her eyes. ‘All right, Martin. And – and, Martin, don't be angry. I
did
tell you I didn't want babies yet; it was your job to make sure I didn't have them, only I was afraid you wouldn't bother, so I did it myself. I don't see that I've done anything wrong, honest to God I don't.'

Inside himself, Martin had sighed. He had known deep down even before he married her that he was not doing the right thing by her. He liked her looks, her parents' money and her air of fragility. He had not experienced the sharpness of her tongue nor her jealousy until the marriage was a couple of weeks old and then he had been dismayed. She was jealous of his parents and his siblings, of anyone in fact who Martin loved.

As to her not wanting babies, perhaps she was in the right of it after all. Babies need love, and two parents, and . . . He cut the thought off abruptly and jumped down on to the platform. He turned to help her to alight, then the two of them walked slowly, arm in arm, towards the stationmaster's office. It was a good twenty minutes' walk from here to the cottage, Martin told himself rather grimly; they had best spend the time in talking about the things which really mattered and which, to date, they had both avoided. Things like her feelings towards his family, and her reasons for not wanting babies of her own. Things like the money she insisted they put away every month towards a bigger house. For Martin, the only reason for wanting a bigger house was children, who would need more room. Surely,
surely
that must have been Monica's reason too? Why else would she want a bigger house, with a nice garden of its own? It crossed his mind, but fleetingly, that perhaps they ought to discuss their reasons for marrying one another too, but he dismissed it at once. There were some things, he told himself, that were best left unsaid.

‘Martin? You said your father was meeting us, didn't you? Not that I mind having you to myself for a while, and the walk's awfully pretty at this time of year, with the trees turning and berries in the hedges.' Martin smiled down at her. She was doing her best, he supposed. ‘We'll likely meet Daddy on the way. Come on, best foot forward.'

Polly and Ivan were good at first. Mindful of their decent clothing, they walked sedately along the lane, playing I spy and trying not to stir up too much dust, for they wore their best shoes as well. Delilah bounded ahead of them, not rushing off the lane for once but sniffing placidly at the verge and occasionally stopping to lift his leg. However, such goodness could scarcely last for long. Any time now, as Polly remarked, they would meet up with either Martin and Monica or with Daddy, and that would mean having to behave properly.

‘So we might as well play somethin' interestin', whiles we got the chance,' she said brightly, looking all around her. ‘Not mud pies – well, it's been so dry there's almost no mud – but something we can do as we're walkin'.'

‘Relievio,' Ivan said hopefully. His sister snorted and gave him a glance loaded with scorn.

‘That's not a game you can play as you walk, silly, nor wit' only the two of us! How about hide an' seek?'

‘That's not a game you can play as you walk either,' Ivan objected, but Polly sighed deeply and shook her head at him.

‘Use your imagination, Ivan,' she said. ‘Use that – that lump you've got on the end of your neck that you call a head! It just means you have to walk wit' your eyes shut whiles you count to fifty, an' I run ahead like lightnin', and hide. Then you come after me.'

‘But we'll take hours to reach the station if we do that,' Ivan pointed out. ‘Besides, why's you to hide an' me to seek? T'ain't fair!'