Forgive and Forget by Margaret Dickinson Page A

when she’d discarded withering outer leaves on the cabbages, cut out the squashy pieces on the potatoes and the brown spots from apples that had been stored since the previous autumn and dealt with all the other items in the sack, there was still a lot she could use.
    She grinned up at Eddie. ‘Things is looking up, Eddie.’
    On the following Monday morning, Polly opened the front door to find the foreman from the glue factory standing there.
    ‘Oh, Mr Spicer – come in, please.’
    ‘I – er – won’t if you don’t mind, Polly. I – um . . .’
    The man was ill at ease, twisting his cap between nervous fingers.
    ‘Of course,’ Polly said, understanding at once. No one – except perhaps the doctors and nurses – understood just how the disease spread and no one wanted to take unnecessary risks.
    ‘I just came to ask if you’d be coming back to work, Polly. I’ve managed to keep your job open for you so far, but – but Mr Wainwright’s pressing me . . .’ His voice trailed away.
    Mr Wainwright was the manager of the glue factory and Roland Spicer’s boss. A strict, dour man with no sense of humour, Mr Wainwright had little kindness or understanding in his soul.
    ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t think I’ll be able to come back at all. I’ve got the little ones to look after now that me mam – me mam . . .’ Her voice broke and she dipped her head.
    Roland bit his lip. He ran his hand nervously through his mousy hair and his hazel eyes were full of sympathy. ‘I’m so sorry to come like this, Polly, but Mr Wainwright insisted.’
    Polly looked up again and brushed a stray tear away with an impatient gesture. Most of the time, she was coping well, but just now and again, when someone showed concern, the loss of the woman who had been at the heart of their home hit her hard.
    ‘An’ me dad’s in the hospital – well, the Drill Hall. He’s getting better, but I don’t know when he’ll be home.’
    ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know that.’
    Polly’s voice trembled as she said, ‘But you’d better tell Mr Wainwright I won’t be coming back.’
    ‘I’m sorry, real sorry. You’re a good little worker and – ’ he smiled shyly – ‘I’ll miss your cheery smile. We – we all will.’
    ‘That’s nice of you, Mr Spicer.’
    ‘Oh please – call me Roland. And if there’s anything I can do to help, you will let me know, won’t you? And if you find you can come back, then you come and see me. Promise?’
    Polly nodded and smiled, but as she closed the door after him, she was thoughtful.
    Call him Roland, she thought. Now what was all that about?

Nine
     
    ‘Where did you get that, Violet?’
    ‘What?’
    ‘That pink ribbon in your hair. Where did you get it?’
    Violet faced her sister insolently. ‘I bought it.’
    ‘ Bought it? What with?’
    ‘Money, stupid. What d’you usually buy things with?’
    ‘And where, might I ask, did you get the money from to spend on fripperies when I’ve scarcely enough to buy food for us all?’
    Now Violet was avoiding Polly’s stern gaze. The older girl was standing with her arms folded, her eyes blazing. ‘Where, Violet?’
    Violet shrugged. ‘Eddie gave me threepence from his wages for me birthday next week.’
    ‘No, he didn’t. He’s giving everything to me. At least Eddie’s trying to help.’
    ‘Oh yes?’ Violet laughed sarcastically. ‘Nicking half Mr Wilmott’s stuff. That’s really trying, that is.’
    ‘He’s not nicking anything. On a Saturday night Mr Wilmott always sells stuff off cheap – fruit and veg that won’t be fresh enough to sell by Monday morning. You know he does. Mam often used to go down late on a Saturday to the shops and the market just to pick up cheaper food. And he only gives Eddie what he couldn’t sell.’
    ‘You really think,’ Violet persisted, ‘that Mr Wilmott gives him all that?’
    Polly blinked. ‘Maybe it’s instead of money.’
    ‘Huh!’
    Violet was deflecting the questions from