Free Polly's Pride by Freda Lightfoot Page A

Albert Square with people eager to catch a glimpse of the walkers; the banners festooned with ribbons and flowers and statues bearing the words ‘Ave Maria’; the dark-haired Italian girls in their long skirts, pretty blouses and waistcoats; and the men and young boys in fine white shirts carrying the Calvary. Last came the magnificent plaster Madonna decorated with dozens of flowers. Music filled the air, and everyone was happy and excited. All those long evenings of planning and preparation in the Green Dragon seemed to be paying off.
    The men of Dove Street got their suits out of hock especially for the occasion, wearing boots, if they were lucky enough to possess a pair, and bowler hats instead of caps. The women set aside their shawls and clogs and wore their best Sunday frocks and hats they’d made or trimmed themselves, though the breeze was brisk and demanded they be well skewered down with hatpins. The children too looked smart and pretty in their new clothes, no sight or sound of clogs amongst them.
    Even the milkman’s shire horse had its mane and tail plaited, just as it did on May Day, with coloured bows and ribbons woven in. And what a glorious sight it was, with its already glossy coat groomed and brushed till it shone like new paint.
    The brightly coloured banners flapped ferociously in the wind, one or two almost breaking loose so that the strong men who took turns to carry the poles were nearly lifted off their feet. But there were no real disasters and everybody had a grand time. It was like a holiday for a community who had little opportunity for such pleasures.
    There was a good deal of drinking, and rowdiness, but excuses were made with even the police turning a blind eye in view of the occasion. Late each evening the Salvation Army band would beat their drums and play their bugles as they led the inebriated down Ashton New Road, along Every Street and Junction Street to the Mission Hall where they could sleep it off till morning.
    The street sellers did a roaring trade, selling such delights as hot pies, black peas, or muffins. Mr Ruggiere, with his waxed moustache and fancy waistcoat, was kept busy selling the finest ice cream in the world from his beautifully decorated hand cart. There was even a man selling song sheets. The residents of Dove Street, as ever, knew how to enjoy themselves, popping in and out of each other’s houses on the slightest pretext, besides the usual borrowing of a pinch of tea or drop of milk, then staying on nattering for hours, revelling in the unaccustomed freedom.
    There was no smoke coming from Dove Street Mill for five whole days. What a treat! If some considered this as much a cause for concern as jubilation, no one was saying so out loud.
    During the festive atmosphere of Whitsuntide, Eileen’s cheeks almost bloomed, Polly noticed, as she fed her toasted currant teacakes with just a dab of margarine, not forgetting the ever-present and greedy trail of clinging children. Polly quite lost count of the number of teacakes, barm cakes and arrowroot biscuits she baked that week, every one consumed by various neighbours and family members who popped in. Benny and his cronies were constant and regular visitors to his mother’s kitchen. Even Joshua unbent enough to praise her culinary skills.
    ‘Matthew is a fortunate man to have so talented a wife,’ he told her as he accepted a barm cake, well buttered for once, and stuffed thick with ham.
    ‘My word, I’d like you to tell him that,’ she said, flushing with pleasure at the unexpected compliment.
    ‘Generous to a fault she is,’ Big Flo said, but Polly only laughed.
    ‘Sure and if you can’t feed a few friends in Whit Week, when can you? And don’t we have it to give?’
    ‘It’s a pity you aren’t so generous over more spiritual matters,’ Joshua commented.  
    Casting a quick glance at his face, which looked as if he’d supped a pint of sour milk, for once Polly refused to be overawed by him. ‘Oh,