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Authors: Margaret Dickinson
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half.’ Nelly had laughed loudly. ‘An’ that’s insulting cows!’
And Bertha Halliday had agreed with her when Polly had confided in her. ‘Pretty young lass like you working at the glue factory? Stands to reason they’re envious. The sooner you get out of that place the better. In the meantime, you stick with Nelly. She’s a good sort even if she is a bit rough round the edges.’
Well, Polly was out of the factory now, but not of her own choice.
And here was Roland Spicer still concerned about her. She smiled ruefully at him. ‘I shouldn’t be telling you all this. I’m sorry.’
‘Of course you should.’ Suddenly, she found her hand being clasped in his slightly sweaty one. ‘Polly – I want to help you. You can trust me, you know. Whatever you tell me will go no further.’
‘You’re very kind,’ she murmured, pulling her hand away. ‘Please, come and talk to Dad. I – I’m sure he’ll be pleased to see you.’
Roland sat down in the chair on the opposite side of the range. ‘There’s a bit of good news,’ he began cheerfully. As she moved about the kitchen and scullery, Polly listened in.
‘They’ve started a water train running daily from a well at Willoughby. It’ll bring in thousands of gallons, so they say, and they’ve promised to do it completely free of charge for at least three months.’
‘That’s good,’ was all William could muster.
‘That’s wonderful,’ Polly added, trying to make up for William’s lack of enthusiasm.
‘Are you getting water all right, Polly?’ Roland turned to ask.
She forced a smile and pushed aside her other worries. ‘Yes, thank you, Roland. Me or Eddie fetch it from the station. T’aint far.’
‘Yes, me too,’ he nodded. ‘Though with only mother and me, it’s no hardship. If you ever want any help, Polly, you’ve only to say.’
‘It tastes horrible, though, doesn’t it? But I suppose we’re lucky to get any.’
‘I think they’re putting something in the water to purify it,’ Roland explained. ‘We’ve certainly a lot to be grateful to the people of Newark for. And now Willoughby too.’
‘Did you bring me a newspaper, Mr Spicer?’ William asked suddenly.
‘Er – no. I’m sorry.’ Roland gave a wry laugh. ‘But you don’t want to be reading them at the moment. All full of doom and gloom, I’m afraid.’
‘They were saying in the hospital – just before I left – that the death column is getting longer and longer every day.’ William paused, as if waiting for confirmation of his statement.
‘Er – well, to tell you the truth, Mr Longden, they say the epidemic is widespread now, but surely,’ Roland added hastily, trying to instil some optimism into this sad household, ‘things will get better very soon.’
‘Or worse,’ William muttered morosely. He seemed determined to wallow in gloom and self-pity. Though still feeling the loss of her mother keenly, Polly was fast losing patience with her father; he should be thinking about the living, especially his children. There were hundreds of folks throughout their poor, beleaguered city who were grieving just like the Longdens. Their family wasn’t the only one suffering.
Polly turned away and busied herself in the scullery, cutting out the eyes in the potatoes that Eddie had brought home last night and peeling speckled apples. They’d already managed a Sunday dinner of a kind and there was enough left to make a meal tomorrow, though rather a strange one. She sighed as she sorted out one or two good leaves from a rotting cabbage. Perhaps she could make soup . . .
She could still hear Roland’s voice from the other room, rising and falling as he tried to steer the conversation onto happier topics. He stayed all afternoon and even when it began to grow dusk, he still sat there.
At last he rose and said with the kind of firmness in his tone that Polly had only heard him use at work, ‘Now, Mr Longden, how about you and me take a little walk whilst
And Bertha Halliday had agreed with her when Polly had confided in her. ‘Pretty young lass like you working at the glue factory? Stands to reason they’re envious. The sooner you get out of that place the better. In the meantime, you stick with Nelly. She’s a good sort even if she is a bit rough round the edges.’
Well, Polly was out of the factory now, but not of her own choice.
And here was Roland Spicer still concerned about her. She smiled ruefully at him. ‘I shouldn’t be telling you all this. I’m sorry.’
‘Of course you should.’ Suddenly, she found her hand being clasped in his slightly sweaty one. ‘Polly – I want to help you. You can trust me, you know. Whatever you tell me will go no further.’
‘You’re very kind,’ she murmured, pulling her hand away. ‘Please, come and talk to Dad. I – I’m sure he’ll be pleased to see you.’
Roland sat down in the chair on the opposite side of the range. ‘There’s a bit of good news,’ he began cheerfully. As she moved about the kitchen and scullery, Polly listened in.
‘They’ve started a water train running daily from a well at Willoughby. It’ll bring in thousands of gallons, so they say, and they’ve promised to do it completely free of charge for at least three months.’
‘That’s good,’ was all William could muster.
‘That’s wonderful,’ Polly added, trying to make up for William’s lack of enthusiasm.
‘Are you getting water all right, Polly?’ Roland turned to ask.
She forced a smile and pushed aside her other worries. ‘Yes, thank you, Roland. Me or Eddie fetch it from the station. T’aint far.’
‘Yes, me too,’ he nodded. ‘Though with only mother and me, it’s no hardship. If you ever want any help, Polly, you’ve only to say.’
‘It tastes horrible, though, doesn’t it? But I suppose we’re lucky to get any.’
‘I think they’re putting something in the water to purify it,’ Roland explained. ‘We’ve certainly a lot to be grateful to the people of Newark for. And now Willoughby too.’
‘Did you bring me a newspaper, Mr Spicer?’ William asked suddenly.
‘Er – no. I’m sorry.’ Roland gave a wry laugh. ‘But you don’t want to be reading them at the moment. All full of doom and gloom, I’m afraid.’
‘They were saying in the hospital – just before I left – that the death column is getting longer and longer every day.’ William paused, as if waiting for confirmation of his statement.
‘Er – well, to tell you the truth, Mr Longden, they say the epidemic is widespread now, but surely,’ Roland added hastily, trying to instil some optimism into this sad household, ‘things will get better very soon.’
‘Or worse,’ William muttered morosely. He seemed determined to wallow in gloom and self-pity. Though still feeling the loss of her mother keenly, Polly was fast losing patience with her father; he should be thinking about the living, especially his children. There were hundreds of folks throughout their poor, beleaguered city who were grieving just like the Longdens. Their family wasn’t the only one suffering.
Polly turned away and busied herself in the scullery, cutting out the eyes in the potatoes that Eddie had brought home last night and peeling speckled apples. They’d already managed a Sunday dinner of a kind and there was enough left to make a meal tomorrow, though rather a strange one. She sighed as she sorted out one or two good leaves from a rotting cabbage. Perhaps she could make soup . . .
She could still hear Roland’s voice from the other room, rising and falling as he tried to steer the conversation onto happier topics. He stayed all afternoon and even when it began to grow dusk, he still sat there.
At last he rose and said with the kind of firmness in his tone that Polly had only heard him use at work, ‘Now, Mr Longden, how about you and me take a little walk whilst
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