The Pride of Polly Perkins Page 11

  Steve cheered up a bit at that. Polly had classed him in with the men and he began to walk tall. He’d be more thoughtful in future, take more notice of what was going on in the house. He wasn’t a kid any more; this time next year he’d be looking for a job. And he should have known all these things without Polly having to tell him. Mind you, she had a head on her shoulders, did Polly Perkins. She always did well in school; she could read and write much better than him. And she couldn’t half spell, even the hard words. But him, he was always nearer the bottom of the class than the top. It was his own fault; he’d never really tried. He was always getting the cane for talking, or staring out of the window when he should have been listening. Well, he only had one year left to make up for it, so he’d better pull his socks up. And he’d be nicer to his mam. If she gave him dry bread again, he’d eat it and keep his trap shut.

  They were nearing their street when Steve pulled on Polly’s arm. ‘Hang on a tick, I’ve got somethin’ for yer.’

  Polly’s face broke into a smile. ‘It’s not an egg, is it?’

  ‘I’d look well walkin’ around with an egg in me pocket, wouldn’t I, yer daft nit.’ Steve opened his clenched hand and held it towards her. ‘I want yer to have this.’

  Polly stared in disbelief at the bobby dazzler lying in his palm. He’d given it a good wash and the different shades of blue running through the white marble were lovely. It must have been filthy last time she saw it because it hadn’t looked as colourful as it did now.

  ‘I can’t take that off yer, it’s yer best ollie!’

  ‘I want yer to have it.’ Steve’s eyes were looking somewhere over her shoulder. ‘Me mam said I’m too big an’ ugly to be playin’ ollies at my age. In fact she said, an’ don’t you dare tell me mates, that my backside reminded her of the rising sun.’

  Polly’s laugh rang out. ‘Oh, she’s a scream is your mam! Honest, she can turn anythin’ into a joke.’

  ‘Here yer are.’ Steve pushed his hand nearer. ‘I won’t be playin’ any more so I want you to have it.’

  Polly felt a sinking sensation in the pit of her tummy. She’d miss playing marbles, ’cos if Steve wasn’t there the other boys wouldn’t let her play – even though she could knock spots off every one of them any day. ‘Yer’ll still be playin’ out, won’t yer, Steve? I mean, yer not too big to play footie, are yer?’

  ‘Of course I’ll be playin’ out.’ Steve’s voice was in the process of breaking and ranged from high soprano to deep bass. ‘I’ll just be keepin’ me backside out of sight, that’s all.’

  Polly took the marble from his hand and held it nearer for a closer inspection. ‘It’s beautiful. I’ll never play with it, I’ll keep it safe an’ it’ll always remind me of you.’

  Blushing the colour of beetroot, Steve growled, ‘An’ I’ll keep the birthday card yer gave me.’ As they carried on walking, he asked himself how he was going to manage to keep the card hidden. And hidden it must stay if he was to have any peace. His mam wasn’t the only joker in the family; their Clare was just as bad if not worse. She wouldn’t only pull his leg, she’d have a go at Polly. And Steve wasn’t going to give anyone the chance of showing Polly up. After all, she was his best mate.

  Steve sighed. He’d have to take the card with him everywhere he went, that was the only solution. Unless, of course, he made his own bed every morning. But if he did that his mam would think he was sick and send for the doctor.

  Chapter Eight

  A hand flew to Ada’s mouth as she let the curtain fall back into place and moved away from the window. She’d been keeping her eye out for the rent man and he was on the opposite side of the street now, knocking on Freda Ashcroft’s door. But to Ada’s horror it wasn’t their usual collector, Mr James, it was the man who owned nearly all the houses in the street – Mr Roscoe. And if rumour was to be believed, he owned property all over Liverpool. It wasn’t often he deigned to show himself in this neck of the woods; in fact, Ada could only remember seeing him about half a dozen times in all the years she’d lived there.

  Biting on a nail already bitten down to the quick, Ada crossed to the sideboard and picked up the dark blue rent book. She flicked through the back pages, thinking she hadn’t been a bad tenant. Now and again she’d been a few bob short but she’d always made it up the following week. The trouble was, she was four shillings short this time, and while it would have been bad enough telling Mr James, it would be a hundred times worse telling the owner of the house – the man who had the power to put her and the children out on the streets. It wasn’t likely he’d do it this week because she was straight up to today, but what about next week when she knew she wouldn’t be able to pay the full rent again, never mind making up the difference?

  Ada went back to the window. Mr Roscoe was now at the Greens’ house, the last before he crossed the street. In a few minutes he’d be knocking at her door … She began to panic. She’d taken Joey next door and asked Dolly to mind him so she could invite the collector in and explain the situation, but now all those plans had been sent haywire. She could hardly invite a man of Roscoe’s standing into her living room. You only had to look at him to realise he was a man of substance and not used to slumming it.

  Then an argument raged in Ada’s head. He’s no better than I am! After all, it was the rent of poor people like herself which made him into a rich man. A voice in her head came back to say, That’s all very well, but he’s still the one who can put you and the children in the workhouse …

  Ada jumped when the knock came on the door. She put the rent book down on the sideboard, straightened her back, and telling herself she wasn’t going to grovel to any man, she made for the door.

  ‘Mrs Perkins? Good morning to you! Mr James is off ill so I’m filling in for him.’

  Taken aback by the friendliness of the greeting and the smile on the quite handsome face, Ada was momentarily at a loss for words. She didn’t return the smile, merely inclined her head. ‘Would yer come in for a minute, Mr Roscoe, I would like to talk to yer.’

  A look of surprise crossed the man’s face, but it was brief. Closing the book he had open in his hands, he said, ‘Of course.’

  As he passed her, Ada took in the fine material of his beige and black small check suit, the heavy gold chain of his fob watch and the brown bowler hat he was now removing. She sighed. She didn’t envy anyone their wealth, but it didn’t seem right that a few should have so much while so many were reduced to living in poverty.

  ‘Sit down, please.’ Ada pointed to the one chair that still had its springs intact. ‘I didn’t want to discuss my business on the front step. I hope you understand?’

  ‘Yes, I understand your desire for privacy.’ John Roscoe placed his hat and his collecting book on the floor. ‘How can I help you?’

  Ada tried to swallow the lump in her throat but it refused to move. She needed a drink. ‘I hope you won’t think I’m trying to get round you, but would you like a cup of tea while we’re talking?’

  ‘What a good idea!’ John Roscoe was intrigued. The woman appeared to be daring him to refuse. And what a striking-looking woman she was! The clothes she was wearing were almost threadbare, but they took nothing away from the trim figure. Her dark hair was luxuriant, her nose slightly turned up, and her eyes a deep velvety brown. Dressed in the right clothes, he thought, this woman would be a beauty.

  When Ada went into the kitchen, John’s eyes scanned the room. The furniture was old and scuffed, the pattern had been worn off the lino, and there was no fire in the grate even though it was cool outside. But the room was spotlessly clean and had an air of being lived in. Poor it might be, but it wasn’t just a house, it was a home.

  ‘I’m sorry I have no sugar.’ Ada handed him one of the two china cups and saucers she’d borrowed off Dolly, before taking a seat on the couch. ‘I was goin’ to tell Mr James a sob story, Mr Roscoe, but I’ve made up me mind that it wouldn’t get me anywhere. I’ve told more lies in the last couple of weeks tha
n I’ve told in a lifetime, and I’m sick to death of it.’ Cradling the saucer in her lap, she softly told the man everything. ‘I intended paying yer four bob short and saying I’d make it up next week, but yer see that would be just one more lie. It was to buy me the time to look for another job so we wouldn’t be thrown out on the street.’

  John was going to put his cup and saucer down at the side of his chair when Ada jumped up. ‘I’ll take them off yer. You see, they don’t belong to me. I borrowed them off Mrs Mitchell next door.’

  Surprising himself, John began to chuckle. ‘By Jove, that’s honesty for you!’

  ‘Lies haven’t got me anywhere, so let’s see how honesty works.’ Ada carried the precious china out to the kitchen, saying over her shoulder, ‘If I break these, I’ll get me neck broken.’

  Once again John chuckled. When he’d started out this morning he hadn’t expected to get any satisfaction out of the day, but he found a certain contentment in sitting in the small, poorly furnished room. He remembered he’d been in a foul temper when he was told at short notice that Philip James had slipped and broken his ankle. It had been too late to delegate the job to one of his other collectors so he was lumbered – and he hated collecting the rents; it always made him miserable. He had to admit to a certain amount of shame when he saw people living from hand to mouth, doing without food to pay him their weekly rent, but he was a businessman and couldn’t afford to let sympathy take over.

  He was telling himself this when Ada came back into the room and fastened those soft brown eyes on him. ‘We’ll have the neighbours talkin’ if yer here much longer, Mr Roscoe. It doesn’t take much to start the tongues waggin’.’

  ‘Well, shall we get down to business? Not that I’m worried about wagging tongues, but we have your good name to think of. So, what did you want of me, Mrs Perkins?’

  Ada found she was no longer nervous of him. He was quite nice to talk to, really. ‘A stay of execution, please. I’m four shillings short of me rent this week, an’ I’ll do me damnedest to make it up. But I can’t promise it’ll be next week or even the week after.’ She lowered her head and her voice. ‘I’ve told yer about me sick husband an’ me two children. Our home isn’t a palace, but I’m desperate to keep it together. I’ll work me fingers to the bone to make it possible. If there’s a job to be had, no matter what it is, I’ll take it. But I need a little time an’ I’m beggin’ yer to give me that time.’

  ‘Mrs Perkins, dear, you don’t have to crawl to me.’

  ‘Mr Roscoe, I crawl to no man for meself. But for me husband and me two children I’ll crawl to the Devil himself.’

  ‘I may not be as white as the driven snow, Mrs Perkins, but the Devil I am not! Now, I think you should pay me what you can afford for the next few weeks and we’ll take it from there. I’ll be around to deal with it myself because Mr James has broken his ankle and is likely to be absent for some time. So take that worried look off your face, fetch me your rent book, and we’ll see how things go.’

  When he was leaving, Ada couldn’t thank him enough. She felt as though a ton weight had been lifted from her shoulders.

  ‘No need for thanks, Mrs Perkins. Just do me a favour and keep our deal a secret. I’m known as a hard businessman, and I can’t have people thinking I’ve gone soft.’

  He’d only been gone five minutes when Dolly came up the yard and knocked on the window before pushing the kitchen door open. ‘Eh, that’s a turn-up for the books, isn’t it? Fancy Mr Roscoe havin’ a drink out of my china cups.’

  Ada’s mouth gaped. ‘He told yer?’

  ‘Yeah!’ Dolly held her head high and looking down her nose she adopted a haughty pose. ‘He complimented me on them, said I ’ad good taste.’

  ‘What else did he tell yer?’ Ada thought if he mentioned the china he might have mentioned other things. And although Dolly was her best mate she didn’t want her to know she’d practically begged on her hands and knees.

  ‘I thought he was very nice, considerin’ he’s such a toff. Let me see, what were his exact words?’ Dolly opened the palm of one hand and crooked the fingers of her other as though holding a pen. ‘He marked me book,’ her fingers holding the imaginary pen moved across her palm. ‘Then when he’d taken me money, he closed his book, then put his pen in a pocket of his waistcoat.’ These words were accompanied by exaggerated actions. ‘Then he looked up at me an’ said, “Mrs Perkins is having a rough time of it. Pity, really, because she’s such a nice lady”.’

  Ada laughed aloud. ‘You lying hound!’

  ‘May God strike me dead! If I never move from this spot, girl, that’s what the man said.’

  ‘I’ll believe yer where thousands wouldn’t.’ Ada felt a sense of relief. ‘Yer right about him bein’ a nice man, he really is. He was so easy to talk to I found meself tellin’ him all me troubles an’ asking him for a few weeks’ grace.’

  ‘And?’ Dolly raised an eyebrow. ‘Did yer get it – the grace, I mean?’

  ‘He said to see how it goes for a couple of weeks. I’ve told him I’m tryin’ everywhere for another job, an’ I think he believed me. Anyway, he’ll be comin’ to collect the rents himself for a few weeks ’cos Mr James has broken his ankle.’

  ‘Ooh, er!’ Dolly pulled on her earlobe. ‘I’d better put those cups an’ saucers in a safe place if you’re goin’ to keep on havin’ posh visitors. An’ I’ll try an’ get me canteen of cutlery out of the pop shop in case he stops for dinner. An’ seein’ as half of my kitchen’s goin’ to be in your ’ouse, I want an invite as well.’

  Ada gave her a friendly push. ‘Go ’way with yer, yer daft ha’porth.’

  ‘What’s daft about that! If you’re goin’ up in the world, girl, yer ain’t leavin’ me behind.’

  John Roscoe thought about Ada a lot on his rounds that day. And when he conjured up her handsome face and figure, her warmth and loyalty to her family, he found himself comparing her with Maureen, his wife – a woman who had never known what it was to want, who had never washed a cup or lifted a finger since the day they married. Living in a big double-fronted house on Queens Drive, she had a maid to do all the things she thought beneath her. The big gardens back and front were tended to by a gardener because Maureen refused to get her hands dirty. He would have enjoyed doing the gardening himself, but she complained so much about him trailing soil through the house, or having dirt under his nails that he soon gave it up.

  And she was cold, his wife. She’d borne him a son a year after they were married, but the child was sickly and only lived for two days. Since then she’d refused to have him in her bed, saying the sex act was disgusting. He’d been hurt at first, wondering why she’d married him if she didn’t love him, but it didn’t take him long to realise she might not love him but she loved what his money could give her. Now they were like two strangers living in the same house. It was only when they had visitors or attended one of the functions Maureen was so fond of, that they put on a show of being happily married.

  When he’d finished collecting, John walked to where he’d parked his car. He slipped into the driver’s seat and sat for a while, deep in thought. Then he switched the engine on and turned the car in the opposite direction to the one which would take him home. He drove past the Perkins’ house, slowing down so he could get a good look at it. She kept her house as neat on the outside as she did on the inside, and it wasn’t done with money but with good old-fashioned elbow grease. Something his wife knew nothing about.

  His mind elsewhere, he drove automatically down Smithdown Road on to Allerton Road, then forked left into Queens Drive. He turned into the driveway of his home and wondered what his wife had done with her day. Afternoon tea at the Adelphi, perhaps? Or had she been to Cripps in Bold Street for yet another evening gown? One thing she certainly wouldn’t have been doing was humiliating herself in an effort to keep a roof over the heads of her family. What a pity she couldn’t be forced to live for a while with no hot water, no central heating or bathroom, a
nd a toilet at the bottom of the yard. She looked down her nose at people who lived in those conditions as though somehow it was their own fault. Because she’d never shown any interest in his background, only in the luxury he could provide for her, she didn’t know that both his father and mother had been working-class people who spoke with a thick Liverpool accent and were proud of it. Through sheer hard work, and going without, they’d built up the business that had come to him when they died. And the irony of it was, Maureen was enjoying the fruits of their labour now, but if they’d been alive she wouldn’t have even sat at the same table as them.

  John was so deep in thought he didn’t see the front door opening, nor did he hear his name being called. It was the loud banging on the car window that caused him to look up into a face that was twisted with anger. ‘Are you going to sit there all day? You know we’re having guests for dinner and you have to get changed.’

  John wound the window down. ‘I won’t be in for dinner. I’m going down to the office to get some paperwork done.’

  Maureen narrowed her hazel eyes. She was a stocky woman whose liking for rich food had played havoc with her face and figure. There was nothing feminine about her; even her hair, which she had marcel waved twice a week, didn’t look real. ‘You’ll do no such thing! I’ve invited guests and you’ll be here to greet them.’

  ‘You invited them, you greet and entertain them. I’ll have something to eat at the club then go to the office. If I don’t get my work done by ten o’clock I’ll sleep at the office.’

  Maureen looked as though she’d been slapped across the face. ‘You can’t do this to me! What shall I tell our friends?’

  ‘Your friends, Maureen, not mine. And I really don’t care what you tell them. You’re usually very good with words, I’m sure you’ll come up with something.’

  When she saw he was in earnest, his wife’s expression changed. ‘Come along, darling,’ she wheedled. ‘I know how you hate collecting and I understand. You’ll feel better after a hot bath.’