Authors: Freda Lightfoot
Polly's War
Polly’s War
Freda Lightfoot
Born in Lancashire,
FREDA LIGHTFOOT
has been a teacher and a bookseller, and in a mad moment even tried her hand at the ‘good life’. A prolific and much-loved saga writer, Freda’s work is inspired by memories of her Lancashire childhood and her passion for history. For more information about Freda, visit her website:
www.fredalightfoot.co.uk
.
The Polly books were inspired by a story of Freda’s great-aunt, who ‘sold everything but the bread bin and bed’ to survive in the thirties.
Praise for Freda Lightfoot
Freda’s book was a joy to read for her characters were so believable and richly drawn I really cared what happened to them and interspersed with the story was the the arrival of the Americans, who caused such a furore in that small Cornish town as D Day approaches, And when World War 2 grinds to a halt, people’s lives are changed for ever. It was a real page turner with a very satisfying end.
— Anne Bennett.
‘Polly is made of stern stuff. . . the tale of her courage and grit against the backdrop of a Northern city in the grip of depression makes for a powerful narrative.’
Newcastle Evening Chronicle
on Polly Pride.
‘Freda Lightfoot is strong on sense of place’
Westmorland Gazette
on Lakeland Lily
‘The scene is set for an excellent, hard-to-put-down read with some deeply drawn characters...’
The Historical Novel Society
on Angels At War
‘Another Lightfoot triumph’
Dorset Echo
on Daisy’s Secret
‘A bombshell of an unsuspected secret rounds off a romantic saga narrated with pace and purpose and fuelled by conflict.’
The Keswick Reminder
on The Bobbin Girls
‘An inspiring novel about accepting change and bravely facing the future.’
The Daily Telegraph
on Ruby McBride
‘This is a book I couldn’t put down . . .
a great read!’
South Wales Evening Post
on The Girl From Poorhouse Lane
‘a fascinating, richly detailed setting with a dramatic plot brimming with enough scandal, passion, and danger for a Jackie Collins’ novel.’
Booklist
on Hostage Queen
‘You can’t put a price on Freda Lightfoot’s stories from Manchester’s 1950s Champion Street Market. They bubble with enough life and colour to brighten up the dreariest day and they have characters you can easily take to your heart.’
The Northern Echo.
‘Another heartwarming tale from a master story-teller.’
Lancashire Evening Post
on For All Our Tomorrows.
‘a compelling and fascinating tale’
Middlesborough Evening Gazette
on The Favourite Child
(In the top 20 of the Sunday Times hardback bestsellers
)
‘She piles horror on horror - rape, torture, sexual humiliation, incest, suicide - but she keeps you reading!’ Jay Dixon on House of Angels.
‘paints a vivid picture of life on the fells during the war. Enhanced by fine historical detail and strong characterisation it is an endearing story...’
Westmorland Gazette
on Luckpenny Land
Table of Contents
With the end of WW2 Polly Pride feels as though the fighting has moved to her own home. Her son, Benny, is mixed up with some unsavoury characters but continues to pull the wool over his mother’s eyes. Daughter Lucy is carrying on with a fancy man behind her husband’s back, leaving her children to run riot. And Charlie, Polly’s beloved husband, is battling ill health and doesn’t want her interfering.
Polly risks losing all she’s worked so hard to achieve, but refuses to go back to Ancoats area of Manchester and a life of grinding poverty. She will sacrifice all she has before she stands by and watches her family tear itself to pieces…
A dramatic and emotional story of one woman’s story to keep her family together.
Chapter One
1945
Polly Pride stared at her boss open mouthed. ‘Laying me off? I’m thinking that’s a mean-minded, low-spirited thing to be doing to a body, particularly since you know I’m the family bread winner just now.’
‘Your Charlie no better then?’ Jack Lawson had the grace to look uncomfortable, as well he might faced with the blistering power of Irish temper which now confronted him.
Standing with her fists screwed into her still slim waist, Polly Pride was an awesome sight even in a crossover pinny. She was still a handsome woman, her dark shining hair with its glimmer of red catching the light as she shook her head at him, greeny-grey eyes flashing dangerously. The fact that she was still known as Polly Pride for all she’d been wed to Charlie Stockton, her second husband, for near a decade spoke volumes. ‘Indeed you know full well he’s been off work these three weeks past. So how are we to manage without a wage coming in, will ye tell me that?’
Lawson’s solemn face did not soften the slightest degree. ‘Same as everyone else Poll. By doing the best you can. Anyroad, your Benny’ll be home from the front soon, and your Lucy’s chap. That’s why we have to let all you women go, to make way for our boys.’ He raised his voice a little, glancing about him as if appealing to their compassion but more than one woman in the workshop shook a clenched fist and told him where he could stick the cards he was giving them all.
‘Put ‘em where the sun don’t shine,’ yelled one, not known for her finesse.
‘Aye, and then take a long jump off th’end of Irwell Street Bridge.’
Many of the women no longer had husbands, brothers or fathers who could come home, and those men who had survived in one piece weren’t necessarily coming home to them. Jack Lawson turned away, almost at a run, so eager was he to evade their accusations and sharp wit. The workers in this warehouse close by Potato Wharf weren’t the only ones to get the chop, not by a long chalk. The building had served as a
store for many things during the long war, cotton, timber, packing cases, even food. Now it was returning to its original purpose - a print works. There’d be no employment then for women like these.
The waters of the canal basin looked as black as ever, thick with oil and cluttered with rubbish, seeming to echo the women’s dour mood as Polly and her friends made their way home at the end of their morning shift. For all they’d dreamed of this day for years, happily planned the celebrations for weeks, yet there was precious little laughter as they walked up Medlock Street and past Liverpool Road Goods Station, the taste of coal dust in their mouths and the booming and shunting of trains loud in their ears so they had to raise their voices to shout to each other.
It’d been the most exciting summer anyone could remember. They’d already enjoyed VE Day with jubilant street parties as well as the usual May Day Parades with Shire horses bedecked in ribbons and rosettes and the coronations of the various district May Queens. Now, with the surrender of Japan, hostilities really were at an end and red, white and blue bunting flapped joyously in the breeze, criss-crossing every street the women passed through, from bedroom windows more accustomed to blackout curtains during the long days of war. A Union Jack painted on a back yard wall, the hammer and sickle flying side by side with the stars and stripes; bright, brave flags heralding a day the likes of which had never before been seen, not even in Manchester where they knew how to have a good laugh. They’d soldiered on and ‘made do’ for nigh on six years, and they were only too ready for a good knees-up.
Bright eyed children in threadbare jerseys with holes in the sleeves. Boys in sleeveless pullovers and trousers they would ‘grow into’ hung on elastic braces, sparking their clogs on the setts as they kicked a ball about; girls skipping in skimpy cotton frocks, dirty bare feet thrust into scuffed sandals, not a hair ribbon among them to hold back shining bobbed hair recently washed and trimmed for the occasion but their singsong voices rang out with youthful joy and a certainty in the future, one their mothers were now beginning to fear.
‘Ta ra,’ the women called as one by one they peeled off and went home to make dinner for their children, trying not to worry about what the next week, the next day might bring.
By the time the remaining stragglers turned the corner into Pansy Street, a long string of a street which jostled with many another around the canal basin, they’d almost convinced themselves that they were doing a public service by allowing themselves to be sacked. Even so there was much bitter talk about how eager the bosses had been to take them on at the start of hostilities when men were scarce on the ground.
‘It’s all right for you,’ Maisie Wright said, as she and Polly broke their linked arms for a moment to dodge a young lad wheeling a barrow load of coal to one of the barges moored on the canal. ‘You can start up your precious carpet business again. It’s the likes of me who are up the Swanee. What am I supposed to do? I’m too old to go on the streets. I’d have to pay them to take me on,’ she joked.
‘Nay lass, you do yourself a disservice, Maggie Stubbs told her. ‘It’s experience what counts every time,’ and chuckling at her own drollness, was already yelling to her brood to ‘get t’kettle on’ even as she strode in through her own open front door.
Perhaps, Polly thought, ready as always to look on the bright side, Maisie was right. Could this be an omen? Someone up above giving her a kick up the backside and telling her to do something different with her life. ‘Tis mebbe true,’ she agreed. ‘I could take over the carrier’s warehouse and fill it with carpets, so I could.’
‘Aye, that’d be grand,’ Maisie agreed, happy to go along with the fantasy. ‘You could have the swanky manager’s office and I’d be foreman and have the pleasure of giving po-faced Jack Lawson the boot. Both women enjoyed a good laugh at the prospect, but the chuckles soon faded as they neared their own doorsteps.
‘Well, me darlin’, the war might be over, but we still have a fight on our hands,’ Polly said, ‘if only to earn a decent living. But then we’re expert at looking after ourselves, so we are.’
Even so as she gently closed her own front door behind her, some of the shine and laughter slipped from her face and a flicker of pain and worry seeped through.
In no time at all it seemed, the women were back on their doorsteps doing a bit of ‘camping’, revelling in the undercurrent of buzzing excitement, arms folded over their pinnies, as excited as the children at the prospect of the street party that afternoon to celebrate VJ Day. Others sat on their window sills, the sash windows pulled down to their knees to hold them secure while they vigorously polished already gleaming glass. Today was a day when spit and polish was important, for a husband, son or father could at any minute walk in.
At the far end of Pansy street, a young woman knelt scrubbing a doorstep, her neat figure moving with the rhythm of her effort, nose pert and mouth tight with concentration. A lock of soft brown hair fell across her brow and Lucy Shackleton pushed it away with a tired hand then sat back on her heels to survey the length of the street.
‘Have you not finished yon steps yet? You want to shape yourself. I haven’t got all day.’
Lucy didn’t even need to glance up to picture the pale oval face and blackcurrant eyes watching her through the window. It was a favourite occupation of Minnie Hopkins, owner of this fine double doorstep which, as she was so often at pains to remind her, should be clean enough to eat your dinner off, if you’d a mind. Lucy tried to imagine the woman pulling up her rocking chair, which she rarely left, to eat her pie and pickles off the whitened steps. It almost made her laugh out loud but Lucy smothered the eruption of giggles with the flat of her hand just in time.