Free Forgive and Forget by Margaret Dickinson Page A

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.
    ‘I’ve missed the races then, have I?’ William asked Roland when he visited the following week.
    ‘The meeting was very poorly attended. The worst on record, they say. And the hotels and eating houses have suffered dreadfully.’ Roland grimaced. ‘The racegoers who did come brought their own food and drink.’
    ‘Can’t say I blame ’em,’ William murmured. After a pause he asked, ‘What won the Handicap? D’you know?’
    ‘Sansovino at a hundred to nine.’
    ‘No! Really?’
    Roland nodded.
    ‘Huh! Wish I’d had a bet. First time I’ve ever missed having a little flutter on that race.’ The Lincolnshire Handicap was renowned amongst racegoers. William looked up and caught Polly’s eye. ‘But yar mam wouldn’t have wanted me to be wasting money on betting when things is tight.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘I never win anyway. Mind you,’ he added, with some of his old spirit, ‘I aren’t promising I won’t have a bet another year.’
    In April the typhoid epidemic began to subside. Life for the