Polly's Pride by Freda Lightfoot

nothing.

    Lucy and Benny arrived home later that afternoon in a flurry of wet coats and squabbles. Polly gave them each a slice of bread and beef dripping and packed them off out into the street again. More than anything today, she needed to be alone.
    When she heard the scrape of Matthew’s clogs on the flagstones at exactly the right time, and he came swinging into the house with his usual tuneless whistle, she heaved a great sigh of relief. Here she was, fretting over nothing as usual, when all that had happened was that he’d forgotten his snap tin and failed to tell her where he was working, so was it any wonder she couldn’t take it to him? What a soft-head she was, always worrying over something and nothing. She smiled to herself as she ran and kissed him.
    Hey, that’s a grand welcome for a chap,’ he said with a smile, swinging her round while he kissed her some more. He felt big and strong and warmly loving, his arms tight about her sending shivers of excitement through her. ‘Where’s the childer? Would they notice if we popped upstairs?’
    ‘Will you behave? They’ll be in for their teas any minute.’
    ‘Well, just one more kiss for a working man, eh?’
    She made no mention of the forgotten snap tin until the children were in bed, then she showed it to him. ‘Will you take it tomorrow instead? I’ve kept the lid closed so the bread won’t be too dry.’
    ‘Aye. Daft of me to forget it,’ he said easily, unclasping his clogs in preparation for giving them their nightly polish.
    As Polly set about the washing-up and clearing away she teased a trail of soap suds over his head and down the back of his neck till he grabbed her and pulled her on to his knee. ‘Will you lay off, wife? Can’t a chap find a bit of peace, after a hard day?’
    ‘Where’ve you been working today then?’  
    ‘Here and there. Usual places.’
    ‘I went looking for you,’ she confessed, wriggling free as the kettle started to sing. ‘Pity I didn’t find you, then you wouldn’t have gone hungry all day. Where should I have gone? Then I’ll know next time you forget it.’
    ‘I’ll not forget it again.’ He’d make damn’ sure of that.  
    She turned to look at him. ‘You might if you were in a rush like this morning.’
    There was the slightest pause before he answered which, on any other day, Polly might not have noticed. ‘Ducie Street. So no, you wouldn’t find me on the canal. Not today.’
    ‘That’s obviously why I missed you then,’ she quietly agreed, and as she poured hot water into the sink, stared bleakly into space for she recalled quite clearly that they hadn’t seen hide nor hair of him in Ducie Street either. Not for weeks, they’d said.

    They lay in bed together, comfortable and warm in the darkness, replete after their love-making. The wind rattled at the curtainless windows and the tiny bedroom was filled with draughts and creaks, but neither of them noticed. The light from a fitful moon, criss-crossed with cloud, seemed to blink at them and they smiled, for they were content and happy together as always.
    It was a long time before Matthew spoke. He’d had weeks to find the right words, but still he hesitated. Yet he knew the moment could be put off no longer. It was a miracle nobody had ‘shopped’ him by now. Only the way men stuck together through hard times had saved him from that particular humiliation. They knew it might be them next time and, like Matthew, would hope to have a new job before having to face the shame of telling the wife.
    ‘Wasn’t Whit Week lovely? I doubt Lucy slept all week, the excitement fair bubbled in her,’ Polly murmured.
    ‘Aye.’ This single syllable was followed by a sigh so deep it ran the length of his body. Polly resolutely ignored it. If he’d something to say, he’d get round to it in his own time.
    ‘I wondered if we couldn’t take a picnic out to Platt Fields one day this summer, if the weather is kind. We could manage that,