Polly's Angel (40 page)

That was now, and the Tad she was remembering was a boy of twelve or thirteen, a boy who mitched off school more often than he attended, who worked like a slave to keep his mammy in pennies and his numerous brothers and sisters at least fed and moderately clothed in the cold weather. He had had, in those days, to battle against a drunken father who beat his wife and knocked his kids about when he could get hold of them. Tad had been good at avoiding the older Donoghue, but every now and then he would do his best to defend his mammy and would be seen on the streets the next day with a black eye, a split lip or an arm held awkwardly.

Polly sighed at the memory. Perhaps she had been wrong to stop writing to Tad but a good deal he must have cared, she reflected bitterly now, since he had not even written to reproach her for her silence.

Right now she was too excited at the thought of what was to come to worry about her old friend's behaviour. She had heard from his mammy or one of her other friends, that Angela had given Tad the go-by. Anyway, she would soon get all the gossip because she meant to spend the night with Tad's mammy, knowing that her old friend would welcome her.

Glancing around her as she walked, she realised she had reached the Cornmarket and now turned left into Francis Street, a place redolent of her childhood. As always, the street was busy, with chisellers playing games and small girls running messages. Threading her way between them, seeing the bare feet and ragged clothing, Polly realised sharply how different her life had been since crossing the water. There was poverty in Liverpool, she knew that, but because of rationing, perhaps, things were more fairly distributed now. The rich bought luxuries on the black market, everyone knew that, but at least the poor got the food to which they were entitled, and though some did sell their clothing coupons, they managed to clothe their children better than they had done when things were more easily available. Also, wages were very much better now, with men being provided with clothing and food in the forces, and having an allotment taken out of their wages and sent home to their wives and children whether they wished it or no. And then there was the money paid to women working in factories and shops; it had got better and better as labour became scarcer. Yes, things were definitely looking up in England, but here in Ireland, where there was no war, nothing seemed to have changed. Barefoot children queued for the family's bread, women in long black skirts with shawls wrapped around their heads stood and gossiped, shrieking to their children to ‘Get away outta that,' and men lounged on street corners playing toss ha'penny and melting into the shadows whenever anyone in authority – a guarda or a priest – appeared.

But they've not got to fear the thrum of an aeroengine overhead and the whistle of descending bombs, nor the whizz and clatter of machine-gun fire, Polly told herself stoutly, pausing alongside a group of small boys who were obviously about to try their luck at one of the street stalls. The stalls, she noticed, were not so well-provided as they had been when she had lived here. Oranges and bananas were no longer available, though there was locally grown fruit and vegetables in plenty. She saw a whole stall covered in round, shining brown onions and determined to take some back with her and send them to Liverpool. Deirdre was always bemoaning the lack of onions, and Peader had said that when he tried to grow them on his allotment he had to keep a nightly vigil over them or they would be stolen by some wide-boy who would promptly sell them for ten times their worth.

As she watched, amused, it occurred to Polly that it might be a nice thought to take her unwitting hostess a gift of something other than the tea, sugar and bottled coffee which bulged through her knapsack. She glanced around her, and then dived into a fish and chip shop which seemed to be doing a roaring trade. Kids, she knew, would always eat fish and chips. It was a pity that she would have to queue, but the men behind the counter, sweating freely, were working like demons to get their customers served so she should not have long to wait.

She was halfway up the queue when she noticed that one of the lads behind the counter – he could not be more than fourteen or fifteen – was wearing a curious badge made out of some shiny silvery metal pinned or stuck to the breast of his grease-stained overall. She stared . . . and saw, with a frightened bump of the heart, that it was a swastika, with the German eagle above it. Horrified, she glanced about her, and realised that several of the boys in the queue wore badges, some of them the hated swastika and others cheaply made imitations of Air Force wings and roundels.

It was odd how it affected her, she thought now, trying not to stare too obviously at the badges. She had known, because Tad's mammy had told her, that some of the boys were making a game of the war, taking sides, swearing that they wanted the Germans to win because ‘that would teach ould England a lesson, so it would!' But Polly now realised that it was one thing being told a fact, and quite another seeing it with one's own eyes. She felt hurt and rage combining; thoughts of Martin, dying at sea and leaving his wife a widow, thoughts of all the other young men . . . But it was no use blaming these boys for their ignorance and prejudice, they were just kids, chisellers who knew no better, who considered that if one were a true republican then it was Germany who one should back. And anyway, wasn't it just a game, hadn't Mrs Donoghue said as much?

Polly was at the head of the queue now and ordering her fish and chips. The youth behind the counter with the swastika badge on his shirt had a bright, cheery face and a pleasant manner. ‘Will you be wantin' some vinegar?' he asked, holding the parcel open whilst glancing enquiringly at her. ‘Will I put some on for yez?'

‘It's all right,' Polly muttered, taking the parcel and folding the newspaper tightly round the delicious contents. ‘I'm taking 'em to me friend's house, so I am – there'll be vinegar and salt there.'

She turned and walked out of the chipper, unable to throw off completely her feeling of distaste over the swastikas, but reminding herself that some of the boys had worn Air Force wings and RAF roundels. It didn't mean anything, really, not to them. Safe out here, watching a war going on as they'd watch the pictures and newsreels on a Saturday morning in the cinema, scarcely differentiating between what Tom Mix did in the big feature and what was happening on the other side of the Irish Sea.

Regaining Francis Street, she began to hurry on her way, anxious to get to Gardiner's Lane before the food got cold when someone drew level with her, turned to give her a casual glance and then grabbed hold of her by both shoulders, swinging her round to face him.

‘Well, by all that's wonderful, if it isn't me own little Polly O'Brady! Poll, what in the divil's name are you doin' here? Last I heard . . .'

Polly's heart sank into her boots for a moment. She was wearing civvies and had pulled a truly hideous felt hat down over her curls. She had also borrowed a pair of ‘props' – spectacles from one of the local amateur dramatic groups because they had plain glass in their lenses, but would help, she thought, to disguise her. And now here was this tall, broad-shouldered young man, his face difficult to see against the late sun which shone directly into her eyes, greeting her as though he had no shadow of a doubt who she was! Accordingly she pulled away from him, scowling.

‘Sure an' it must be mad you are,' she said frostily, clutching her packet of chips to her bosom and wishing she could see her companion's face more clearly. The voice sounded familiar, but that was probably simply because he was using the brogue which, after so long in England, had begun to die out of her own voice. ‘Who
are
you, anyway?'

‘Don't tell me you don't recognise me, Poll!'

‘I can't perishin' well
see
you,' Polly said irritably. ‘The light's in me eyes, and you're in shadow.'

The man moved so that the light fell on his face. Polly gasped, then very nearly let go of her parcel of fish and chips as she moved involuntarily closer. ‘Tad! Oh, Tad, you're just the same only a bit taller, and it's great to see you, so it is, but how can you ask me what
I'm
doin' in Dublin when you're in the Roy—'

‘Ssh, Poll, do you want to get the pair of us hung up from the nearest lamp post?' Tad said in an urgent whisper. He took her hand in a large, warm palm and his touch sent a thrill through Polly, though she told herself severely that it was no way to feel, especially when, for all she knew, Tad might have become a deserter. ‘Look, where are you rushin' off to, anyway? I'll walk along wit' you until we get off the main street.'

‘I'm going to Gardiner's Lane,' Polly said, her voice reflecting more than a trifle of foreboding. ‘I knew you were in England – well, you were a year ago, when you last deigned to write me a horrible little scrap of a note in answer to one – more likely a dozen – of me lovely letters. So I thought there'd be room for me to kip down on the floor somewhere.'

‘Oh, there's bound to be,' Tad said. He then walked along, still holding her hand but saying nothing until they were in a comparatively deserted street, when he turned to her once more. ‘Polleen, me darlin' girl, whatever brought you back to Dublin? All your family's in England, aren't they? And last I heard, you were in Scotland.'

‘Oh, so you did get my letter?' Polly said sarcastically. ‘No, I shan't tell you a word until you tell me what
you're
doing here, Tad Donoghue! Why, for all I know you might be a deserter, and if you're after bein' one of them, I'm none too sure I want to walk along beside you.'

Tad laughed. ‘No, I've not left me pals in the lurch,' he said serenely, ‘any more than you would, Polleen! I've come over wi't some stuff for me mammy and the little 'uns, and to make sure they're all right. Oh, I know everyone says that Dublin's got it easy, but apart from the money I send, Mammy doesn't do that well, not bein' able to afford the black market. So I pop over now and then wit' whatever I've managed to get hold of which will help her. Besides, I like comin' home, it's the big bonus of workin' in Valley instead of Yorkshire. Now what about you?'

‘Valley? You mean Valley on Anglesey?' Polly gasped, quite overcome at this coincidence. ‘Well, would you believe, Tad, I'm on HMS
Bee
in Holyhead! We're neighbours, as good as. How long have you been there? What are you doing? Do you come into town much? I've only been there a couple of months, but you'd have thought we'd have bumped into one another, wouldn't you?'

‘Oh, I dunno. I don't go into town that often, except when I'm on me way over here,' Tad said. ‘What really
is
odd is that we didn't spot one another on the ferry. I take it you've just come over on the
Hibernia
?'

‘That's right,' Polly said. ‘But it was very crowded and I got meself a spot up near the bows and sat down on me knapsack and just looked out over the sea and dreamed of home. Oh, and I'm here on a buyin' spree. I've brought tea and sugar and parachute silk and I'm hopin' to get butter and cheese, lipsticks and silk stockings. The girls paid me fare over and then gave me a list.'

‘Trust you, Poll,' Tad said. He looked at her newspaper parcel. ‘Though that looks more like fish and chips than tea or sugar or silk. Still, don't you know the trouble you could get into for coming over here when the country's at war? Mind, I'm not one to talk, I do it as well and I've not been caught out yet.'

Polly turned and looked at him. He was wearing grimy overalls over a dark grey shirt and wellington boots. He could have been a farm hand or a garage mechanic, she supposed. Certainly one would not have connected him with the Royal Air Force. ‘No, you don't look much like an airman,' she admitted. ‘And I don't look anything like a WRN, we're always smart, you know. So mebbe the pair of us will get away with it. I certainly hope so. But you've not got a knapsack, Tad. Where's your stuff hid?'

‘I'm only bringing stuff for the family, don't forget,' Tad said as they turned into Gardiner's Lane and headed across the filthy paving stones for the tenement block in which the Donoghues lived. ‘I bring a bit of sugar and some tea, they're in me pockets, and I've got three or four jumble-sale jerseys tied round me waist, but I'm not tradin', like you are.'

‘I'm not,' Polly said rebelliously. ‘Not much, anyway. Don't you take butter and cheese back, then, Tad? Only if you did you could finance your next trip, couldn't you?'

‘I could. I do take stuff back,' Tad admitted. He squeezed her hand. ‘Well, I can't get over it – me little pal, growed up, and growed up pretty, an' all.'

‘Don't be so rude,' Polly scolded, but she did not pull her hand out of his. She eyed him covertly as they began to mount the stairs, side by side. He was tall, probably as tall as Sunny, and broad shouldered, and his taffy-brown hair had been cut neatly, so that you could see the nice shape of his head, but he was really very little altered from the boy she had once known so well. He still had a blunt nose, square chin, and the sort of grin which made him look as though there was not much he wouldn't do, given the chance. He wasn't handsome, she knew that all right, but he had a look of self-reliance and a sort of pride in himself which she had noticed before amongst members of the forces. Before, Tad had been scruffy, a bit spotty, but now, though he was wearing greasy old clothes, you could tell, somehow, that the dirt was not even skin deep. It was something which you could tell instinctively would be washed off every night . . . Other than that, he's just the same, Polly told herself. He's my friend and I'm fond of him, though he has let me down rather, over the writing business.