Polly's War (37 page)

‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph. What has he sent us this time?’

Benny, who admitted that he possibly hadn’t checked them thoroughly enough when they were delivered, since he’d believed his mother to be making a fuss over nothing, said that he would deal with the matter himself this time. But even he returned from the fruitless visit white-faced and angry. ‘Hubert says there must be damp in our shop. The fault is ours, he says, and he’ll not offer credit for faulty goods. We’re stuck with them, Mam. No one will buy them.’

‘How can they have got damp in this shop? We’ve had them no time at all. Drat the man, I’ve had enough. No one is going to get the better over me. Certainly not Hubert Clarke.’

Oblivious to the squalls of rain misting the air, she marched down Castle Street, past the old Merchant’s warehouse where a couple of barges were unloading at the shipping holes, across the iron foot bridge and on to Potato Wharf with such a fierce look in her eye and such a determined spring in her step, people turned to watch as she passed by.

She found Hubert superintending the unloading of a shipment of wooden crates, no doubt containing more of his rubbish. ‘I’ve had enough, so I have,’ she announced, silver knives of fire sparking in her greeny-grey eyes. Several of the men involved in the unloading hesitated momentarily to look at her in shocked surprise. It was unheard of to confront Councillor Hubert Clarke in that way, let alone beard him in his den, as it were.

Hubert grabbed her elbow and propelled her towards his offices. ‘We’ll save this for a more private place, if you don’t mind.’
 

The minute the door was closed, Polly wrenched her arm free to face him with the kind of expression that proclaimed she would stand no more of his bullying. ‘I’m sure I’ve nought to be ashamed of. Have you, Councillor?’ she challenged him. ‘Haven’t I only come to tell ye that I’ll be happy to supply your credit customers with
quality
goods. Unfortunately, yours are anything but, so I mean to find a different supplier, one who doesn’t sell faulty merchandise, who delivers what we order and nothing more, and whose word is worth a good deal more than yours.’

It was several chilling seconds before Hubert deigned to respond. His face gave the impression that he’d like to throw her into the circular sluice that gushed and swirled in the canal just outside his window. Yet his voice, when he spoke, was studiously quiet as he leaned closer in a conspiratorial fashion.
 

‘I’ve no wish to quibble nor deny you your rights, Polly lass, but you seem to be in a rather delicate situation. Don’t you owe me rather a lot of money?’ He smiled his beatific smile into Polly’s shocked face. ‘If you were to try such a manoeuvre, I’d let it be known, in the appropriate quarters, that you aren’t to be trusted. So far as I can see, your credit rating as it stands now, is not good, not good at all.’ Hubert clicked his tongue, accompanied by a sad shake of his head.

She could smell the tobacco on his tainted breath, hear her own heart beating a loud warning to remain calm. ‘Isn’t that only because you pile stock on me that I don’t want, and diddle me left, right and centre.’

‘I’d take care what charges you make about me, lass. Not unless you can make ‘em stick.’ Hubert flexed his shoulders, took out his watch, studied it carefully and dropped it back into his waistcoat pocket. ‘It’s a changing world, Polly lass,’ almost as if the watch itself had told him so. ‘There’s no room in it for sentiment. Pay up what you owe and you can use whichever supplier you please. Till then, you’d best take care. You don’t want no nasty whispers going the rounds questioning your credit standing, now do you? That wouldn’t do your business any good at all.’

Polly was so furious her feet scarcely touched the ground as she sped home. But undeterred she did indeed set about finding a new supplier. She’d been in tighter corners in her life, she told herself crossly, and she sure as hell meant to get out of this one.

It proved to be more difficult than she’d expected but finally she succeeded in discovering a firm out Salford way who could provide her with good, non-utility quality furniture at a reasonable price.

‘It won’t be easy,’ she told Benny who, not unnaturally, objected to this decision. ‘But I mean to become independent again. It was a mistake to tie ourselves so closely with Hubert. It’ll be a struggle but if we pull our horns in a bit, we can soon pay off what we owe him, then we’ll be free.’

They were seated in the front parlour at number 32, relaxing after a substantial Sunday lunch and, while Charlie took his usual nap, Polly was happily dangling her grandson on her lap. Baby Matt had his mother’s lovely cornflower blue eyes which had not darkened at all, coupled with his father’s light brown hair and sturdy build. He’d break hearts for sure one day. Polly tickled the baby under his chin, making him erupt into happy giggles.

Benny was shaking his head. ‘What if he sends his credit custom elsewhere? How would we manage then? Take on another supplier if you must, Mam, but don’t sack Hubert.’

Polly felt a warm happiness despite her worries over the business, because her son had seemed more content of late, much more settled and mature. She touched the baby’s nose with her own, making him gurgle with fresh laughter. ‘Mebbe I’ll look for a new credit trader an’ all. Hubert Clarke isn’t the only one.’

‘No, but he’s the one with power in this neck of the woods. Make no mistake about that.’ Benny lifted his son from Polly, deciding it was time for his afternoon nap and perhaps too much excitement would prevent him from sleeping.

‘You’re a good father,’ Polly told him fondly as he changed the child’s nappy, preparatory to putting him down.
 

‘Aye, that’s because he’s all I’ve got, which is why I want to have summat to leave him one day.’ Benny stuck the nappy pin in place, taking care to keep one hand protectively against the baby’s plump tummy. ‘I’m not sure I trust Hubert any more than you do, but don’t push him too far, that’s all I’m saying. For now, at least, we need his business.’

Much as it might grieve her to admit it, the point was valid.

When Hubert heard of Polly’s new supplier, he got out his Wolsey car and had Ron drive the mile or two to Salford to see him, just for a quiet word. The next day a van drove up in front of Benny’s shop and the goods which had been so recently delivered, were all collected up again and taken away. Polly was furious.

‘If this is war, won’t I be the one to win it,’ she cried, pounding her clenched fists on a brand new mahogany table so that Benny had to grasp her hands before she marked it.

‘Just remember we’re in this together. He did Belinda few favours in the past, and she was his daughter.’ Mother and son exchanged glances locked in a grim promise of unity.

Polly found another supplier, in Ordsall this time, one who seemed only too keen to deliver a shipment of kitchen tables and chairs. Two weeks later he called at the shop on Deansgate personally and asked for them to be returned. Benny ranted and raved at the man but was told their credit rating had not come up to scratch, that the word had been put about that Polly was in hock to Councillor Clarke. Like it or not, they were stuck with Hubert and she’d have to accept that.

Desperate to find a solution to the problem, Polly went again to her bank manager to explain how well her carpet manufacturing was doing. It was admittedly new and still with a long way to go before it did anything more than break even. More importantly, she explained how the retail side of the business was draining away all her resources through overstocking she couldn’t control, poor quality furniture they couldn’t sell, and an exclusive contract she had no way to get out of except with hard cash. ‘Councillor Clarke seems to think he can deliver what he likes, when he likes, and refuses to take the stuff back when it doesn’t sell, despite our initial agreement that he would. I’ve called a halt to payments but he’s turned nasty.’
 

After some hours of tough negotiating, the manager agreed to lend her the sum she required, though not a penny more.

‘There you are,’ Polly announced with no small degree of triumph as she slapped the cheque of settlement down on Hubert’s polished desk. He barely glanced at it, made no move to pick it up, then smiled up at her. ‘So where’s the interest?’

Polly stared at him, dumbfounded. ‘Interest? What interest?’

‘On the loan. You surely don’t imagine that I gave you free rein on my money for nothing?’

‘You told me the loan was interest free.’

‘Have you got that in writing?’ Of course she hadn’t. Hubert Clarke, Polly realised, had been very clever, taking full advantage of their family links and grief over Belinda, which had distracted them. She snatched back her cheque and left his office before she did actual physical violence.

Some few weeks later, Hubert was driving home in his Wolsley. The smell of coal dust was strong on the night air as he drove along Liverpool Road, but within the confines of his motor he inhaled with satisfaction the aroma of leather and a good cigar. He didn’t usually indulge while he was driving but he was feeling particularly in need of its solace this evening. He’d already spent an hour with Myra but that hadn’t helped calm him as it usually did, his mind not quite on the task in hand. Perhaps he was growing a little bored with Myra. She never seemed as welcoming as she used to, always asking awkward questions, like if Joanna was missing Belinda. Ridiculous woman.

Nor was he satisfied with the way his business affairs were progressing. Ron, seated beside him in the front passenger seat, had just informed him that Polly was now going round the Manchester hotels trying to win a contract to supply them with carpets. She was canny that one. Never missed a trick.

The Pride family should have buckled long since beneath the pressure he was applying. He’d made sure he sent them nothing but rubbish, as well as stuff that had failed to sell anywhere else, yet still the blasted woman hung on. Maybe she was making more brass out of her carpet manufacturing than he realised. If so, it might be a good idea to put a few spokes in that wheel as well.

He rubbed the cigar between finger and thumb, enjoying the expensive aroma as he turned various ideas over in his head, then clamped it between his teeth as he changed gear and negotiated the corner into Deansgate. The simplest plans were always the best.

‘Could you get inside that warehouse of hers?’

Ron gave a snort of contempt. ‘I can get in anywhere, me.’

Hubert smiled. ‘Funny thing about the weaving industry. It never learns, does it? Spends a fortune on fancy new looms, but no matter how well they weave, whether it be coats or carpets, they still make a lot of waste. Makes you wonder don’t it, if the folk who run these places, knows just how dangerous it is to leave oily waste lying about in a weaving shed. Or even in an old warehouse.’

Ron swivelled his head round to consider his father for a long moment in silence. Then his narrow lips split into what might be called a grin, making him look rather like a lizard after it’s caught its dinner. ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘Dangerous stuff, oily waste. Owt can happen to it.’

Chapter Twenty-Four

The papers were full of the Royal Wedding. They spoke of the Princess’s beautiful ivory gown, her radiant loveliness, the rose petals which showered the bride and groom. They described the cheering crowds who gathered along the route and waited at the gates of Broadlands to welcome them on honeymoon. Everyone in the whole country seemed to have something cheer about so far as Lucy was concerned. She even caught some of the excitement herself for hadn’t she too found romance and, given half a chance, could be as radiant as any royal princess, even if she was obliged to meet her ‘prince’ in a seedy hotel.

Lucy’s ‘prince’ didn’t agree with her. She’d never seen Michael so upset and no amount of seduction or teasing on her part would mollify him. On this night when all the country was celebrating with parties and fireworks, they had their worst quarrel yet. His voice rose to such an alarming pitch that Lucy felt quite certain half the hotel must be listening to their squabble.

‘You say that you love me, that you can hardly bear for Tom to touch you. Yet you stay with him, day after day, week after week, month after month. If you loved me half as much as you say, then you’d tell him so, and ask for a divorce and leave him. Then we could be wed.’

‘You know I’d leave him if I could, Michael. I do love you only ...’

‘Show me! Prove it.’ Distress lined his face, in that instant making him look almost old. ‘By next Thursday when you come, I’ll expect you to have made it plain to him that your marriage is over. I’ve said I’ll wait for you Lucy, but not forever. I’ve had enough. If I can’t have you right and decent, then I don’t want you at all.’

It nearly broke her heart to see him so upset and two huge tears squeezed out from beneath her lashes. ‘You don’t mean that.’

‘I do mean it Lucy. I’ve had enough of this hole and corner affair.’ And she saw that he had.

‘All right. I’ll think about it. I promise.’ She longed suddenly to tell him about the baby, might well have done so had his next words not robbed her of the fragile remnants of her courage.

‘This is the end Lucy. It’s time for you to choose. That’s all I ask. It’s him or me. Make your mind up one way or the other.’

When the day for their usual meeting came round, Lucy woke with fresh determination in her heart. All week the fever of excitement had been growing in her. Michael was right. They couldn’t go on like this. She felt a new resolve to put her life in order once and for all. She would first of all tell Michael about the baby and then the pair of them would go to Tom and explain the whole situation. She couldn’t think why they hadn’t thought of doing this before. It would be so much easier to face him together. Of course if she’d ever properly explained about Tom’s violent mood swings, then he might well have offered. Tom surely wouldn’t attempt to bully her if Michael were there.