She liked listening to the men talk on a Sunday afternoon now, and more and more she found her views corresponded with those expressed by Luke. Why should Sunderland have the highest infant mortality rates in the country? Why should it be acceptable to those in governmental power that whole communities be forced to exist in unimaginable depths of squalor in the north-east, when huge investments in the south were readdressing such problems? When Luke got on his high horse the farm kitchen fairly buzzed, and more often than not Polly felt her Uncle Frederick was out of his depth with the younger man.
‘A hundred and twenty-four dead in the Glamorgan pit disaster last July, thirty-two in a pit in South Wales four months before that, accidents are happening all the time to a greater or lesser extent.’ Luke had been burning with anger a few Sundays ago. ‘The owners and viewers look on miners as expendable; there’s always plenty more when a few die, so why bother to spend money on making the mines safe? And the men know it, they know it all right, but they’ve no choice but to work death traps if they want to feed their families. It’s all very well for Lord Londonderry to spout that it’s the parental duty to feed bairns, and school meals and such are unnecessary ; what does he know about hunger and starvation, eh? When was he ever out of work? You answer me that, man.’
Luke’s gaze had swept round the kitchen and his eyes hadn’t been their normal warm chocolate brown but fiery and hot. ‘The trade unions have been calling for old-age pensions, eight-hour days and universal suffrage for years, and
that’s
why the working-class man is supporting them, Frederick. Not because they want to bring down the establishment. James Keir Hardie wants reform
within
the establishment, and so do plenty more. Why do you think Labour upped their seats from two to twenty-nine in the General Election in February, if not because the working man is waking up to the fact that he’s got to fight back?’
There had been more talk of the same, and Frederick hadn’t called for the last three Sundays, but tomorrow was Polly’s sixteenth birthday and she knew her uncle wouldn’t miss her special tea.
‘You’ll come to my birthday tea tomorrow, Miss Collins?’ Polly now rose to her feet and dusted her skirt as the fire she had set began to crackle and shoot flames. The older woman had been living in the cottage for the whole of the winter but she had only entered the farmhouse twice in all that time, and had never stopped more than a minute or two. Polly knew that once the inclement weather improved their lodger was planning to move on, and she did so want her friend to meet Michael before she left.
‘That’s very kind, my dear, but a birthday is a family occasion,’ Gwendoline said with a smile to soften her refusal. And then she added – with a twinkle in her eye that told Polly she was aware of more than Polly thought she had divulged in their conversations – ‘But why don’t you bring Michael across to see me at some point? You mentioned he is very fond of ornithology and I have one or two fine books on the subject he might like to borrow.’
‘May I?’ Polly was blushing; she hadn’t realised she’d been so transparent.
‘Of course.’ And then Gwendoline’s voice became brisk as she reached towards a package wrapped in brown paper on the sofa beside her and said, ‘I was going to give you this tomorrow, but then I thought that was silly, as you would perhaps care to wear it on your birthday.’
‘A present? Oh, Miss Collins, thank you. I don’t know what to say.’
‘It’s not new.’ Gwendoline brushed aside the thanks with a flap of her hand. ‘But I thought you could do something with it as you are nearly as tall as I am, and slim, although you have more shape. I have never had any shape. But you might not like it; I won’t be offended if you don’t like it. It’s one of several I brought with me.’
‘Don’t like it?’ Polly had carefully unwrapped the paper and was gazing at the thick rich fabric in russet brocade the parcel had held. The dress had a small, neat collar and wide cuffs in fine cream lace to complement the warm autumn shade, and as Polly reverently shook it out, the folds of material seemed to shimmer in the light from the cottage window. She had never seen anything quite so beautiful in all her life. ‘Oh, Miss Collins.’
Polly’s voice was small, for the words had to negotiate the lump in her throat, but the expression on the young face seemed to satisfy the other woman, because Gwendoline said gaily, ‘You’ll need to let it out a little over the bust and possibly nip in the waist a mite, but otherwise it should do. Yes, it should do very well.’
Polly practically floated back to the farmhouse kitchen. She paused in the yard before entering the house, looking up into the low-laden sky heavy with snow as she whispered, ‘Please don’t let it snow too much before tomorrow. Let him come. Please, please, please let him come.’ She would be sixteen years old tomorrow, and that was grown up, really grown up. Her granny had been married at seventeen, after all. She had been waiting for this birthday and she knew Michael had been waiting for it too. And when he saw her in this beautiful dress ... She shut her eyes tightly, her joy constricting her breathing as it filled her chest. He’d say something, he’d ask her. She knew he’d ask her.
Her granny oohed and aahed over the dress, but Polly sensed the enthusiasm was forced, whereas Ruth’s response – one of barely concealed resentment and indignation – was, if hurtful, at least genuine. And she could understand Ruth being envious, oh, aye, she could, because the dress was right bonny.
And it was later that evening, when her granny was making griddle cakes for supper and Polly was sitting at the old scrubbed table altering the dress while the menfolk smoked their pipes in front of the fire, that Alice said, in a tone that aimed to be casual, ‘Miss Collins given you any idea when she’ll be movin’ on, lass?’
Polly liked the rare occasions when her granny cooked griddle cakes for supper. There was nothing nicer than hot griddle cakes with butter melting into the pastry and a warm sup of tea, especially in the winter, when the oil lamps were casting a comforting softness to the battered surroundings and the fire was glowing in the blackleaded range. She felt happy at such times, contented and at peace, but she didn’t feel that way tonight, in spite of the beautiful dress beneath her fingers. And the reason for her unsettledness was summed up in her grandmother’s words.
Polly raised her head slowly, and looked straight into the old woman’s eyes as she said quietly, ‘Her rent makes all the difference, Gran. I don’t know how we would have survived this winter without it.’
‘Same as we always do, lass.’ This was from Walter, and it was sharp.
‘Things are getting worse, Grandda.’ She glanced at her father to add support to her words, and when none was forthcoming, she sighed deeply. She didn’t want to have to say it, but they had to face facts. And she knew why her granny was itching for Miss Collins to leave: Gran had decided long ago, along with her da and grandda, that Miss Collins was a bad influence on her. Polly had walked in on a discussion about it more than once, and in spite of the quick change of subject that always followed, she had known what it was all about.
And when she thought about it, she felt her grandda and da didn’t like her Uncle Frederick bringing her books and such, although she had nothing concrete to base the feeling on. But her granny – and this was surprising in view of Gran’s views about Miss Collins – her granny was for her Uncle Frederick. Overtly so. In fact, there had been times lately when she had thought her granny made more of a fuss of her uncle than her mother did.
And then the unfamiliar caress of the soft, rich material in her hands brought her eyes downwards and delight flooded her once again. What did it matter anyway? Her grandda was fond of saying, ‘There’s nowt so queer as folk,’ and the older she got the more she agreed with him, but none of it mattered beside the fact that Michael was coming tomorrow. It was snowing again but not heavily, not yet leastways, and it mustn’t – it just
mustn’t
– get too bad.
‘Sixteen years old tomorrow, lass, an’ I can remember the night afore you were born clear as yesterday.’ Her granny was aiming to lighten the atmosphere, and as Polly raised her head again and glanced across at the small, thin figure by the range, at the work-lined face and the hands knobbled with the complaint that kept her grandmother in constant pain, she smiled into the waiting eyes.
‘You want me to call Ruth, Gran?’ she asked softly.
‘Aye, aye, you do that, lass.’
Ruth was upstairs with their mother. Her sister spent most evenings thus occupied these days, and whatever the two talked about it didn’t seem to do Ruth any good, because the younger girl’s disposition was becoming more and more querulous. This was reflected when, in answer to Polly’s call, Ruth walked into the kitchen and, her voice loud and holding a note of peevishness, said, ‘Griddle scones? No one told me we were having griddle scones.’
‘I wasn’t aware I had to check with you what I’m a-cookin’,’ Alice returned tartly. ‘Butter a couple an’ take ’em up to your mam along with a sup of tea.’
‘I’ll have mine up there an’ all.’ Ruth’s tone of voice and the venomous glance she threw at the dress in Polly’s hands left no doubt as to her present source of discontent.
‘For cryin’ out loud!’ Alice had caught the look. ‘Can’t you be glad for your sister for once? But no, not you! That’d be like askin’ the devil to sing in the church choir. Born whinger, you are, girl. An’ don’t forget Polly only took on the job of lookin’ after Miss Collins because you created merry hell about the extra work when I asked you to do it.’
‘Huh.’
‘An’ don’t huh me unless you’re askin’ for a skelp o’ the lug.’
‘It’s not fair.’
‘By, you’ve got a lot to learn about life, lass!’
‘Ruth, I’ve told you you can share it once you’ve grown a bit and it’ll fit you,’ said Polly appeasingly. ‘Now let it alone.’
Ruth’s reaction to Polly’s offer was a toss of her light brown curls as she gathered up the tin plate of griddle scones she had been buttering, and two mugs of weak tea, and flounced out of the kitchen.
‘She’ll drive me to drink that one, you see if she don’t.’ This from Alice, a staunch teetotaller, caused the menfolk to glance wryly at each other and Polly to hide a smile. Her granny!
The next day dawned bitterly cold, with flurries of snow showers that stung and smarted in the raw wind. Everyone at the farm went about their work as normal after breakfast, when Polly had thanked her family for her birthday presents: a studded comb for her hair from her grandparents and a box of toffee and a long cream velvet ribbon from her parents and Ruth.
‘The ribbon was my idea.’ Ruth had mellowed a little now the shock of Polly’s good fortune had faded. ‘Nellie Cook brought her mam’s periodical into school – The Lady, that the woman who her mam does for gives her when she’s finished with it – and it showed a picture of a lady with a ribbon threaded through her hair that looked right bonny. I could do it for you after dinner when we’ve changed, if you want.’
‘Would you?’ Polly hugged her sister and for once Ruth didn’t stiffen or draw away but returned the embrace. Oh, this was going to be a
wonderful
birthday!
Outside the farmhouse the icy air was enough to take your breath away, and the inch or so of fresh snow which had fallen through the night on to ground already lethal with black ice made walking treacherous. Nevertheless, the cows still had to be milked and all the animals fed and watered and cleaned out, and the eggs collected and such, besides the hundred and one other jobs the farm engendered.
Even with her old coat buttoned to her chin, her hat pulled well down over her ears and an old worn blanket tied shawl-fashion about her shoulders, Polly’s teeth were chattering as she went about her work, visiting the labourer’s cottage first and lighting the fire for Miss Collins, who was still snuggled under layers of covers in the bedroom.
‘I’m just going to help me da milk the cows and then I’ll come back with some more coal and logs.’ Polly had just finished smashing the ice on the water butt outside the cottage, and now she placed the filled kettle on the small shelf which jutted out from the chimney above the burgeoning fire. ‘The pump’s frozen up again but grandda’s seeing to it, and once you’ve had your wash I’ll bring a pan of drinking water, Miss Collins.’
‘Thank you, Polly.’ Only the tip of their lodger’s nose was visible, the thick bedspread pulled right over Miss Collins’s head cocoon-fashion.
Mid-morning, Polly and her father had a mug of hot ginger and a shive of lardy cake in the warmth of the farmhouse kitchen before returning outside, Henry to the task of rebuilding part of the dry-stone wall that had crumbled over the last week, and Polly to mucking out the stable.
She was worried about her grandda. Even the relatively minor job of melting the build-up of ice on the pump had seemed to tire him, and she had insisted the old man stay in front of the brightly glowing fire in the kitchen the rest of the morning, much to Walter’s disgust. But he hadn’t argued too vehemently, and that in itself was indicative of how he was feeling. It was strange: there was her granny, all shrivelled and frail-looking compared to her grandda, who was big and solid and hearty, and yet of the two, Gran was in the better health. She wished her grandda would let them call the doctor, just once. She would feel better if the doctor had seen him. She knew it would cost a few shillings; even if Da took her grandda into Bishopswearmouth in the horse and cart it wouldn’t be cheap and it was money they could ill afford, but with what Miss Collins paid, they would find the money somehow.