The Pride of Polly Perkins

  The Pride

  of

  Polly Perkins

  Joan Jonker

  Copyright © 1996 Joan Jonker

  The right of Joan Jonker to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2012

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

  eISBN: 978 0 7553 9025 0

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  An Hachette UK Company

  338 Euston Road

  London NW1 3BH

  www.headline.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  About the Author

  Also by Joan Jonker

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Joan Jonker was born and bred in Liverpool. Her childhood was a time of love and laughter with her two sisters, a brother, a caring but gambling father and an indomitable mother who was always getting them out of scrapes. Then came the Second World War when she met and fell in love with her husband, Tony. For twenty-three years, Joan campaigned tirelessly on behalf of victims of violence, and it was during this time that she turned to writing fiction. Sadly, after a brave battle against illness, Joan died in February 2006. Her best-selling Liverpool sagas will continue to enthral readers throughout the world.

  Joan Jonker’s previous novels, several of which feature the unforgettable duo Molly and Nellie, have won millions of adoring fans:

  ‘Wonderful … the characters are so real I feel I am there in Liverpool with them’ Athena Tooze, Brooklyn, New York

  ‘I enjoy your books for they bring back memories of my younger days’ Frances Hassett, Brixham, Devon

  ‘Thanks for all the good reads’ Phyllis Portock, Walsall

  ‘I love your books, Joan, they bring back such happy memories’ J. Mullett, Lancashire

  ‘I’m an ardent fan, Joan, an avid reader of your books. As an old Liverpudlian, I appreciate the humour. Thank you for so many happy hours’ Mrs L. Broomhead, Liverpool

  Also by Joan Jonker

  When One Door Closes

  Man Of The House

  Home Is Where The Heart Is

  The Pride Of Polly Perkins

  Sadie Was A Lady

  Walking My Baby Back Home

  Try A Little Tenderness

  Stay As Sweet As You Are

  Dream A Little Dream

  Many A Tear Has To Fall

  Taking A Chance On Love

  Strolling With The One I Love

  When Wishes Come True

  The Girl From Number 22

  One Rainy Day

  Featuring Molly Bennett and Nellie McDonough

  Stay In Your Own Back Yard

  Last Tram To Lime Street

  Sweet Rosie O’Grady

  Down Our Street

  After The Dance Is Over

  The Sunshine Of Your Smile

  Three Little Words

  I’ll Be Your Sweetheart

  Non-fiction

  Victims Of Violence

  To my dear friends Pat Scott and John Rowley

  And to Josie, who, when she was growing up in a poor area of Liverpool, used to sing this song:

  Mary Ellen at the pawn-shop door,

  A bundle in her hand,

  And a bundle on the floor.

  She asked for seven and six,

  But they only gave her four,

  Poor Mary Ellen at the pawn-shop door.

  Chapter One

  It was dark in the narrow street of two-up two-down houses, and the howling wind blowing in from the Mersey was bitterly cold. It wasn’t a night to venture out if you didn’t have to, and most people were sat huddled around their grates to keep warm. There wasn’t a soul in sight except for two young girls playing swings on the gas lamp, which shed an eerie glow on the two slight figures. Polly Perkins and her friend Doreen Ashcroft had thrown a length of thick rope over one of the two arms of the gas lamp and were taking it in turns to swing around the iron post.

  ‘Ay, Polly Perkins, I can count, yer know! That’s ten swings yer’ve had an’ we said six each. So come on, let’s be havin’ yer, it’s my turn now.’ Doreen bent down to pull up the thick black socks lying in folds like a concertina around her ankles. ‘Me mam will be callin’ me in for bed soon.’

  ‘Yeah, okay.’ Polly bent her legs back and scraped her shoes along the ground to slow down her speed. ‘You be quick havin’ your turn, then I’ll climb up an’ get the rope down before me dad comes in from work. If I’ve scuffed me shoes I’ll get me ears boxed, ’cos they’re the only pair I’ve got an’ me mam said she can’t afford to buy me new ones.’

  This remark gave Doreen food for thought. Her father had put new soles on her shoes last week and had warned her about playing rough games or sliding down the railway embankment. If he knew she was using them as a brake she’d get more than a clip around the ears. She wiped the sleeve of her coat across her running nose before rubbing her arms briskly to warm herself up. The thin coat she was wearing was no barrier against the strong wind and she was frozen to the marrow.

  ‘I’m not ’alf cold, Polly, so I think I’ll skip my turn an’ have an extra one temorrer.’

  ‘Please yerself.’ With the agility of a monkey, Polly climbed up the post to release the knot in the rope. She was eleven years old, slight of build and a real tomboy who was far happier playing cowboys and Indians or football with the lads in the street than cissie games like skipping or hopscotch. ‘Come down the entry with us, Doreen, while I throw this rope into next door’s yard. If me mam sees me with it I’ll get a thick lip.’

  Just then a door on the opposite side of the street opened and a voice yelled, ‘Doreen, get yerself in here, quick, before I belt yer one.’ The tone of her mother’s voice warned Doreen that it was woe betide her if she didn’t obey.

  ‘Comin’, Mam!’ She took to her heels, calling over her shoulder, ‘I’ll knock for yer in the mornin’ for school.’

  Polly eyed the rope in her hands. She didn’t fancy going into the dark entry on her own, but if she took the rope home her mam would take it off her and she’d never see it again. Neither would the boy next door, Steve Mitchell, and he’d only lent it to her. She wasn’t going to let Steve down ’cos he was a good mate
to her. When the lads were having a game of football, or marbles, they always told her to scram because they didn’t want to play with a girl. But Steve always stuck up for her, and as he was a big, strong lad for a twelve-year-old, the others all gave in and let her play.

  Polly ran as though her life depended on it. With wings on her heels she was down the entry in a flash, had flung the rope over the high yard wall and within seconds was back outside her own front door banging hard on the brass knocker her mam polished every day.

  Ada Perkins shook her head when she saw her daughter standing on the step. ‘It’s a wonder yer don’t catch yer death of cold playin’ out in this weather. Yer want yer bumps feelin’, yer know that, don’t yer? I bet there’s no one else out, they’ve all got more sense.’

  ‘I’ve been playing with Doreen.’ Polly smiled at her four-year-old brother, Joey. He was sitting at the table playing with coloured bricks, his nose running as usual. ‘What yer buildin’, Joey?’

  ‘An ’ouse,’ Joey said with pride. ‘One with a chimney pot.’

  ‘I’ll help yer.’ Polly pulled one of the wooden chairs close. She idolised her brother and acted as his guardian when he was playing in the street. Every kid in the neighbourhood knew that to upset Joey was asking for trouble. ‘What colour shall we make the roof, Joey? Red or brown?’

  Joey laid his arms flat on the table and rested his head on them. ‘You build it, our Polly.’ His blue eyes twinkled. ‘An’ when yer’ve finished it, I can knock it down.’

  ‘Yer a little tinker, our Joey.’ Polly laughed. ‘I’ve a good mind not to play with yer.’

  Ada was sitting by the fire darning a hole in the heel of one of her husband’s working socks. It was a darn on top of a darn and she knew it was a waste of time because there was none of the original heel left to weave on to. But new socks cost money, which they didn’t have, so there was no use complaining. She looked up from her task and studied her two children. They were as different in looks as chalk and cheese. Polly had her colouring – jet black curly hair and deep brown eyes, while Joey favoured his dad, with fair hair and blue eyes. And their natures were different, too. Polly was adventurous, outgoing, and as stubborn as a mule, while Joey was quiet, shy and would do anything for an easy life. Ada sighed as she lowered her head. She knew she’d never have to worry about Polly; her daughter would find her own way in life. With her pretty face, smiling eyes and deep dimples, she could charm the birds off a tree. And she wasn’t backward in coming forward, either! If she thought she was in the right she’d argue till she was blue in the face, and as for being a chatterbox, she could talk the hind legs off a donkey. But Joey was different and Ada feared for him. He’d always been a sickly child, never without a cold, even in the summer, and he was always listless as though he had no energy. But he was five in the summer and Ada was hoping that when he started school it would bring him out more. He’d have to learn to stick up for himself then because Polly wouldn’t be around to fight his battles for him.

  ‘Mam, look at this!’ Polly had tight hold of Joey’s hands so he couldn’t undo her handiwork. ‘How would yer like to live in a house with a red roof, a blue chimney and green windows?’

  Ada smiled. She was thirty-three years of age and a fine-looking woman with a warm, passionate nature. There were no strands of grey in her dark, luxuriant hair, her complexion was clear and she had a slim figure with curves in the right places. ‘Make it a hundred times bigger, stick it in a field away from all the smokin’ chimneys an’ rotten middens, an’ I’ll buy it off yer.’ She heard a key turn in the lock and quickly put her darning on the floor at the side of her chair. ‘Here’s yer dad, clear the table.’

  Joey didn’t need telling twice. He swept his arm through the bricks and sent them flying in all directions. He and Polly were laughing heartily when Tommy Perkins opened the door, bringing with him a draught of cold air. ‘Oh, aye! What’s all this, then?’

  ‘Our Joey’s just knocked me mam’s new ’ouse down.’ Polly ran to fling her arms around her father’s waist and raised her face for a kiss. ‘It took me ages to build an’ now it’s all over the floor.’

  Tommy by-passed the puckered lips and kissed her on the cheek. Then he ruffled his son’s hair before slipping his coat off. ‘Hang this up for us, Polly.’ Shivering from head to toe, he moved to the fireplace and held out his hands to feel the warmth. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever been so cold in all me life.’

  Ada was carrying his dinner through from the kitchen when he began to cough. She stood by the door and sent a silent plea to God, asking why a good man like her husband should have to go to work when anyone with half an eye could see he wasn’t fit. She’d pleaded with him this morning to stay off, have a few days in bed, but he wouldn’t hear of it. If he didn’t go to work, he argued, he wouldn’t get any wages. And how would they live without money to pay the rent, buy the coal and food? Look how they’d had to struggle the few times he had taken a day off when he wasn’t well. By the time they’d paid the rent, bought a bag of coal and saved a few pennies for the gas, there was nothing left for food. Bread and dripping they’d lived on – and that was no good for growing children.

  Ada banged the plate down on the table as anger built up within her. It just wasn’t fair! The war was the cause of his ill-health, but nobody in the whole wide world cared. Men like her Tommy were used when they were needed to fight the enemy, but when it was over those in authority conveniently forgot they existed. She’d started courting Tommy in 1920, two years after the war was over. He was very nervous in those days and had admitted to having nightmares about the horrors he’d seen. But they had fallen in love and Ada thought with lots of care and kindness he would soon be better. And he had improved – the nightmares happened less frequently until they disappeared altogether. He’d had a cough then, but it hadn’t been bad enough to cause concern and neither of them had worried unduly about it. But over the last few years it had gradually got worse and now Ada fretted constantly about him.

  When the racking coughs eased off, she said softly, ‘Come an’ eat yer dinner, love, before it gets cold.’

  ‘Aye, I’ll do that.’ Tommy took a deep breath and undid the stud in the neck of his shirt. He felt terrible, worse than he’d ever felt. He’d almost collapsed in work today, and if it hadn’t been for his mates carrying his work load he’d never have completed his shift. ‘I think I’ll go to bed then, have a good night’s rest. I’ll take the oven shelf up with me to warm the bed up.’

  Ada moved to the cupboard set in the recess at the side of the big black iron grate, and took out a piece of cloth that had once been a sheet. ‘If I take it up now it’ll warm the bed through before you go up.’ She opened the oven door at the side of the fire and with her hands covered with the sheeting, pulled the heavy shelf out. ‘But you’re not goin’ to work tomorrow, Tommy Perkins, yer goin’ to see the doctor.’ When she saw her husband open his mouth to protest, she held up her hand. ‘The longer yer leave it, the worse it’ll be, so don’t argue.’

  ‘I can’t keep takin’ time off work, love, otherwise I’ll be gettin’ me cards and then where will we be? Besides, it costs a shillin’ to go to the doctor’s an’ we can’t afford it.’

  ‘Yer can have my penny pocket money on Saturday, Dad,’ Polly said, a frown creasing her brow. If her father was having to go to the doctor’s then he must be really sick. ‘I don’t mind, honest.’

  ‘Yer can ’ave mine too,’ Joey piped up. He didn’t understand what was going on, but he could see his mother was worried and if his penny helped then he didn’t mind going without his black jacks or bull’s eyes. ‘Yeah, Dad, yer can ’ave my penny as well.’

  There was a sadness in Tommy’s smile. He loved his children dearly and of late he had worried about what would happen to them and Ada if he was as ill as he thought he was. ‘We’ll see, we’ll see. But thanks for the offer, it’s very kind of yer.’

  ‘Well, we want yer to get better, Dad.’ Polly nodded
her head solemnly. ‘If me mam says yer should see the doctor, then that’s what yer should do, ’cos me mam knows best.’

  Ada hurried from the room with tears in her eyes. With the warm shelf held close to her chest she prayed softly as she climbed the steep narrow stairs. ‘I don’t ask You for much, God, but You know my Tommy’s a good man. He wouldn’t hurt a fly an’ would give anyone his last ha’penny.’ She slipped the oven shelf between the sheets on her husband’s side of the bed, then made the sign of the cross. ‘You’re the only one I can turn to for help, God, and I’m at me wits’ end. Please hear my prayer and make my Tommy better. You see, me an’ the kids love him so much an’ we need him. Don’t let anythin’ bad happen to him.’

  Polly tutted as she dashed down the hall pulling her coat on. Her dad hadn’t got up for work this morning so he must be really ill, and there was Doreen banging the door down and making enough noise to wake the dead.

  ‘There’s no need for that racket, I’m not deaf.’ Polly stood on the top step and glared at her friend as she wound the woollen scarf around her neck and buttoned her coat up. ‘It’s only twenty to nine, we’ve got plenty of time.’

  ‘It said a quarter to on our clock an’ it’s always dead right.’ Doreen was hopping from one foot to the other. Being late for school meant three strokes of the cane and she didn’t fancy that. ‘Come on, slow coach.’

  Polly closed the door slowly so as not to make a noise. She was worried about her dad, he hadn’t half coughed a lot during the night. And her mam had been up a few times because she’d heard the stairs creaking. Sighing, she reached for Doreen’s hand and pulled. ‘Come on, let’s make a run for it.’

  But they’d only taken a few steps when a figure loomed in front of them. ‘Blimey, Steve, yer gave me the fright of me life! I nearly jumped out of me skin!’

  ‘I’ve been standing in the entry waitin’ for yer.’ Steve was a tall lad, well-built with a shock of sandy hair and eyes that were hazel one minute and green the next. ‘Where’s the rope? I told yer to throw it over the wall when yer’d finished with it.’