Free Forgive and Forget by Margaret Dickinson

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.

Eleven
     
    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