Free Polly's Pride by Freda Lightfoot Page B

Joshua, will you leave over blathering about religion. There’s other things in life.’ She caught a glimpse of fury in his face and almost apologised for her outburst, it being Whit Week, but decided against it. Instead she turned to her husband, sliding one arm possessively under his as they all stood together on the pavement, enjoying the latest procession of white-clad witnesses. The gesture was meant to remind Joshua that he had no control over her for she was not his wife but belonged to Matthew. Had she but known it, this was a fact which rankled with him, no matter how often he spoke slightingly of her.
    In the days following everyone knew that ‘Uncle’ Joseph, the old pawnbroker who occupied the corner shop on Dove Street, would be kept extra busy as the locals handed back suits, boots and Sunday frocks, for a few essential coins to pay off some of the debts accumulated during the festivities. For a while, money would become an even rarer commodity.
    ‘Aw, but wasn’t it worth every penny?’ Polly insisted.  
    Matthew said nothing, simply swallowed his growing fear and nodded in agreement.



Chapter Six

    The next Sunday, thinking that perhaps she’d overstepped the mark in a few directions recently, yet grateful for the joy of the processions, Polly decided to pay a visit to one of the churches in the city, taking a penny tram ride in order to do so. She may be a lapsed Catholic, she told herself, but a little healthy contrition now and then was good for the soul.
    It was a cool, rather damp morning for June as she caught the number 25 that ran down Bradford Road, past McConnell’s Mill, on to Ancoats Lane and Millers Lane then to the terminus at Victoria Station.
    ‘Hey up,’ said the conductor. ‘Warm up thy pennies. Winter’s back.’
    Sitting on the hard seat of the tram as it jerked and rattled along the tracks, grateful to be in the dry while the poor driver at the front was getting a terrible soaking, Polly had ample time to confront the worries gathering in the back of her mind. Matthew wasn’t at all himself. He’d barely spoken a word to her since Whit Week was over, nor to the children for that matter.
    The white dress now hung on a nail in Lucy’s room, and Polly could tell he was still sensitive about it because when the child anxiously sought reassurance that they wouldn’t need to pop it, he’d turned his face away and refused to give her the assurance she needed.
    It had been Polly who’d done that. ‘Of course we won’t pawn it, love. You can wear it for Sunday School this summer, if you like.’ Matthew didn’t say a word, making the excuse of some urgent business he needed to do out of the house.
    Polly got off the tram and walked for what seemed like miles, first along Cheetham Hill Road and then down a myriad streets that were largely unfamiliar to her. She took the opportunity to stop and ask about work whenever she passed a likely place but didn’t strike lucky. After a while she began to feel uncomfortable, vulnerable in this strange neighbourhood. She must be somewhere near Strangeways Prison and remembered poor Mrs Murphy and her violent husband, no doubt languishing inside at this very moment. Polly half glanced over her shoulder once or twice, as if she were being followed, but then laughed at her own timidity. Could it be any worse here than Ancoats? In any case, there was no one there, the street being quite empty save for a line of people gathering outside a church, clearly Catholic. The church was quite unknown to her but as good as any, she decided. She joined the line and went inside.
    ‘Bless me, Father, for it is . . . a few weeks since my last confession,’ she began, and hurried on before he could ask exactly how many, to recount the sin of pride that had led her to take on work in a public beer-house of which her husband disapproved.
    ‘And was it food for your table you were after needing?’ the priest asked, judiciously not pursuing her faltering