Free Polly's Angel by Katie Flynn Page B

go the rest o’ the way,’ he said gruffly. ‘See you tomorrer, then, Angie.’
    But all the way home he thought about her. That hair, fine as a dandelion clock and almost as pale. And her big blue eyes, and the nice clothes she wore! He wished he could get clothes like that for Biddy and Annie, but there was a world of difference between what two parents and an elder brother in work could afford and what one poor, hardworking mammy with a great many children could manage.
    When he reached Gardiner’s Lane it occurred to him that if Mrs Machin was a dressmaker she probably made Angela’s dresses herself, which would mean they were cheaper than he had supposed. So no one could expect his poor ould wan to compete in the matter of dresses, he told himself, and was vaguely comforted. Besides, Angela had never stuck her nose up in the air and acted superior to him. In fact, she had been very nice. Not a word of reproach had passed her lips over the state of the boys’ room, though she had mentioned that she made her own bed each day. He wondered just how one could possibly make a bed like his, though. Knowing Polly and the other O’Bradys had taught him that people with a bit of money had proper beds, with sheets and blankets over a mattress, and pillows on which one laid one’s head, but he had supposed that Polly somehow wriggled into her bed without disturbing the neat, tightly tucked-in bedding. Now he realised that Polly – or her mammy, possibly – had had to retuck those sheets and blankets each morning after they got up.
    He was just thinking that perhaps he ought to have drawn his blanket up over the pile of straw and rags when someone called his name and, turning, he saw his mammy coming across the courtyard. She was walking slowly, her shoulders drooping, and she carried a large bundle of what looked like bedding under one arm and a string shopping bag hung from the other hand. ‘Tad, giz a hand, there’s a good feller. These sheets are dry, pretty well, but they’ll need ironin’ before I can take ’em back to Mount Street tomorrer.’
    Tad took the bundle and the string bag from her, tucked the bundle under his right arm and slung the bag on his wrist. Then he put his left hand under his mammy’s small, skinny elbow and began to help her along. For the first time it occurred to him that his mammy could not be more than thirty-five or so, yet she was already grey-haired and carried herself like someone very much older. And Angela had said that her own mammy was very smart, with goldy-brown hair and pink cheeks, and didn’t look her age. Life, he concluded, helping his mother up the first flight of stairs, was not a very nice business, particularly if you were poor and overworked and managing alone. It wasn’t even that, either. His mammy had been knocked about by her bullying hulk of a husband for nigh on thirteen years, to his knowledge. She had had a broken arm, a broken nose, and her lip had been split more times than he cared to remember. Yet she had a lovely grin on her, though it was rather a toothless one, and she could laugh over something the kids did or said as though she hadn’t a care in the world.
    I believe me mammy’s a real heroine, that’s what I believe, Tad told himself as they climbed the stained and creaking wooden stairs. When I’m a man growed and earning decent money I’ll pay her back all she’s done for us, so I will. I won’t run out on her like me daddy did, nor I won’t let her down. She deserves better than she’s had these past few years.
    â€˜You’re a good boy, Tad,’ Mrs Donoghue said breathlessly as they reached the top of the last flight and Tad opened the living-room door for her. ‘Oh, me loves, is that kettle just boiled now? And is that a teapot, heatin’ up beside the fire? Eh, I’m a lucky woman . . . I’ll just sit down for ten