Polly's Pride Read Online Free PDF Page B

to win support. He would launch a union if it was the last thing he did, and he would somehow persuade his brother to join. Matthew owed him that much at least. From the first moment he’d set eyes on that Irish woman, only seventeen at the time, he’d been besotted by her. Within weeks he’d cast aside a lifetime of worship and worthy endeavours in the chapel and married her, a Roman Catholic. He’d claimed that there was no time to waste with war having broken out, and that he couldn’t live without her. He’d refused to listen to his family, caring nothing for their opinions. He thought only of love and raising a family, and other such sentimental nonsense.
    Flo had been devastated by the shame of her son’s behaviour, but wisely left it to Joshua, as the elder brother, to put forward arguments on the pitfalls of a mixed marriage and to attempt to pressurise him into calling off the wedding. Even at the last moment on the day itself Joshua had attempted to make him see sense by refusing even to attend the register office where the ceremony was to be held. But it had done no good, the marriage had gone ahead with no more than a couple of witnesses present. And look where Matthew’s obstinacy had led.
    He’d promised to watch out for Cecil, the youngest of the three brothers, but only Matthew had come back from war. If he’d not been so obsessed with saving his own skin, for the sake of the wife he’d left back home, Joshua was certain his youngest brother would still be alive today.
    He pushed these memories from his mind, feeling the familiar rage and bitterness eating away at him as they had done for years.  
    It was as he reached Meadow Street that he remembered a certain young widow he’d met at chapel one Sunday. He called to mind her comely figure and pleasing ways; not brash or loudmouthed like some. She’d made a point of asking for his help, since she was at her wit’s end as to how to cope following the death of her young husband. He’d told her that he could do nothing for her, but perhaps he might try after all. The visit might serve to lift his spirits. Joshua liked to make himself useful, particularly to vulnerable young women.
    As he neared her house, instead of stuffing the leaflet through the letter-box he glanced quickly about him, noted only a few children playing with cigarette cards against the wall, and tapped sharply on the door.
    It was opened by a child. Dressed in a filthy jersey and patched trousers, the small boy considered the stranger with lacklustre interest, shuffling his bare feet and wiping a none-too-clean nose on his arm as he did so.
    ‘Is your mother in, lad?
    The boy said nothing, not even a shake or nod of his ragamuffin head, and Joshua felt a stirring of irritation. He must be seven or eight, surely old enough to understand plain English? Then he heard a rattle of clogs on the wooden stairs and the woman herself emerged from the dimness of the house. She wore a grey skirt and a blouse that might once have been white. Joshua made a mental note to fetch her a bar of carbolic soap next time he called. He preferred his women clean but for now would overlook the ragged state of the garment in view of the way it fell open at her throat, and the thrust of her young breasts as they rose and fell with enticing breathlessness beneath the thin fabric.
    ‘Oh, Mr Pride, I didn’t hear you knock. Come in, won’t you? I’ll put t’kettle on. Kevin, you go out and play with your sisters, there’s a good lad. I’ll call you when supper’s ready.’
    Over a cup of weak tea, Joshua lent a sympathetic ear to the young widow’s plight. Kate Hughes was clearly still in deep shock after the loss of her young husband from consumption and, as she said herself, sorely in need of advice. The last thing she wanted was to end up in the workhouse, with her three children taken into care.
    ‘Only too happy to help, Mrs Hughes. I’m sure I can put you in the way of suitable employment. I