Polly's Pride Read Online Free PDF Page A

insist that our children be brought up as Catholics. Surely that’s not too much to ask? And we’re happy. What more d’you want?’
    Joshua leaned across his mother to whisper to Polly in sonorous tones, ‘You could attend chapel with your husband, like a good wife should.’
    ‘Aye,’ Big Flo agreed, nodding. ‘Have you done that yet? Have you hecky-thump!’
    ‘Matthew hasn’t asked me to, nor will he.’
    Joshua snorted his disapproval. ‘Which only shows his own lack of faith. You would not be so neglected were you my wife. He places your soul in jeopardy by pandering to your fancies.’
    Polly could barely suppress a shudder as she looked into her brother-in-law’s set face. Thin lips screwed into an unforgiving line, he was a living example of all she hated most: a bigot and a hypocrite. There were some who said Joshua Pride wasn’t quite the good Methodist he claimed to be, that he had a few sins of his own which he kept carefully concealed, including a married woman in Chatham Street whom he visited after chapel. It almost made Polly giggle, the thought of this sour-faced man embarking upon an illicit affair. She knew it was quite impossible to win an argument with him, yet his bigotry irritated her so much she could never keep silent in the face of his jibes.
    ‘I am what I am. Each to their own, that’s what Matt and I agreed when we married. It’s a pity everyone else can’t take the same view.’ And having made her point she lifted her hymn book and began to sing, aware of the blistering glances Joshua sent in her direction but paying them no heed.

    Lucy had every intention of telling her mother about the occurrence at the barracks. She’d never thought of herself as either sensitive or soft; you couldn’t survive in Dove Street if you were either of those things. But the words she had heard still rang in her head, even now, days later. There’d been the breath of evil in them somehow, the stench of something corrupt clinging to every syllable, as if each utterance brought the speaker intense satisfaction.
    The voice had come out of the darkness, after the last candle had been quenched and she’d been making her way back to her parents, stumbling over prone bodies as she recalled with growing trepidation her mother’s warning about getting lost amongst them.
    ‘ Whore! Harlot! ’
    She hadn’t recognised the voice, hissing so low against her ear, but as she’d tried to hurry away and escape it, a hand had gripped her arm, holding her fast while the words were repeated like a litany of vilification in her head.
    She had felt violated, as if in some way they had penetrated the sweet innocence of her childish flirtation. Lucy would never have thought Tom Shackleton capable of such horrible, hurtful words, and the thought that he had directed them at her had at first made her feel used and degraded, upset her so much that she’d quietly sobbed herself to sleep that night.
    Now she was filled with anger. How could he have behaved so dreadfully? She’d only been having fun, fluttering her lashes and teasing him.
    Lucy had liked and admired Tom Shackleton, who was two years older than herself, for weeks, and had hoped he’d notice her. He had lovely warm brown eyes and gentle hands, and didn’t have that sickening stink of poverty about him, or not as badly as some. Nor did he have anything to do with the scuttlers who enjoyed causing mayhem in the streets of Ancoats, whether it be pulling girls’ hair, pinching goods off the back of carts or riding the rails at the goods yard.
    Yet what Tom had done to her by using such words was, in some ways, worse. She’d never known such bitter disappointment.
    Upon reflection, however, Lucy had decided against mentioning the matter to her mother. Wouldn’t she only make too much of it? She’d want to know if he’d touched her where he shouldn’t, maybe accuse her of encouraging his advances, of being no better than she should be, and remind her