Whenever Polly McGillvray looked back on the weeks that followed her sister Ellie’s death, she wondered how she had found the strength to go on during that awful time. In those weeks she came to know a despair that was quite new to her. There were moments when the woman who had always seen herself as easy going and optimistic was shocked to find that she would be only too grateful to join her sister under a mound of flowers.
It was not that Polly expected life to be easy or without grief. From her earliest years she had been well acquainted with both hard work and sudden losses. As the eldest girl in a family of six, with a mother often disabled by illness, she bore much of the burden of running the household. She rose early to light the stove, carried water from the well before she went to school and came home to sweep and scrub the stone floor of the big kitchen where the day to day life of the family went on. In the month of her ninth birthday, her own much-loved grandmother died and later that same summer, her playmate, Dolly, from the farm just down the hill was drowned in a flax hole. Two years later, her baby brother died suddenly when only a few days old to the great distress of her mother who continued to lament for years because he had not even been baptised.
The Scott family were not poor for her father, Robert, was a skilled craftsman. Although there were several other blacksmiths within a few miles distance, he was never short of work and he willingly toiled all hours for the sake of his young family, but until Ellie and Mary and little Florence were able to help in the house, the burden of keeping the place clean and making sure the younger children were presentable for school was often a full time job for Polly.
Bob and Johnny, her two brothers had an even greater talent than most small boys for tearing their trousers, scraping their boots and arriving home marked with the results of their activities. Long before Polly left school at fourteen to be apprenticed to a dressmaker in Armagh, she was an expert on mending.
In the cramped back premises of the shop in Thomas Street, Polly worked six days a week. The hours were long and wearisome, the pay during her apprenticeship almost non-existent. But Polly always had the capacity to make the best of any situation. It was she who made the other girls laugh when they were presented with yet one more batch of sleeves to make up, a job they all hated, and it was she who suggested dances and parties and picnics on their rare days off.
But any hardship there might have been in her early years was completely forgotten when Polly met Jimmy at a dance in Belfast while she was staying with her aunt on the Lisburn Road.
Jimmy, who was some years older, wanted to go off to Canada and make his fortune and he made it quite clear that he wanted Polly to go with him. At nineteen, she was delighted with the prospect. Polly, who had never been further from home than her annual visit to Belfast, organised her wedding and set out for Canada a few weeks later as if she were going to the Isle of Man for her holidays. She simply assumed she would come home regularly to visit her family as so many Canadians and Americans appeared to do.
Life in Canada in the 1920s was not as easy or as luxurious as the letters of emigrants often made out. Two years after the local band had played to her and Jimmy for the two miles to Armagh station and ranged themselves to play Will Ye No Come Back Again on the platform where her family and friends were to say their goodbyes, life in Canada was not as rosy as the picture Polly had painted for herself.
With two babies and a husband who could not always find work despite his skills, the prospect of coming home to visit her parents had receded into the far distance. She was homesick and often short of money, but only the most perceptive of her new friends would have guessed at either. Polly always managed to stay cheerful and she had the gift of spending a very small amount to create a treat, or some small outing for her family however bad things were. She began sewing at home and the moment Eddie went to school she found a job in a dress shop.
It was only months after they had bought their first modest home on the outskirts of Toronto that the prospect of the coming war forced a difficult decision upon them. They had been in Canada for fourteen years and had never made the return journey to Ulster. Both sets of parents were ageing and Jimmy’s mother was dying of cancer. If they crossed the Atlantic that summer they might not be able to get back again. But if they didn’t go now, with war in sight, they might never see their parents again.
Finally, they decided they would return home. They arrived back in Belfast in August 1939. A month later they opened the newspaper to find that the ship on which they had travelled back had been torpedoed as it made the return journey to Canada.
There was no problem with Jimmy finding work. As a skilled mechanic he was taken on at Shorts immediately. Within days he was assembling parts of the fuselage of the Sunderland flying boats which were to patrol the western approaches. Finding a house was another matter. Houses were in very short supply in the city and Polly found that living with her McGillvray in-laws was even worse than being homesick. Davy and Eddie were resentful and unsettled and complained continually about the absence of candy and ice-cream parlours. They compared everything in Belfast with what they had left behind in Canada and hadn’t a good word to say for anything.
When the Blitz began it was poor Ronnie who was terrified. Always the quietest and most thoughtful of the three, he became anxious when the first barrage balloons appeared in the sky. Although Polly tried to explain they were there to protect them, Ronnie was oppressed by the great, grey shapes and remained even more anxious about them than about the planes that were soon making raids on the docks, shipyards and aircraft factories.
Night after night Polly lay awake listening, for when Jimmy worked a double shift, he would be at work when the raiders came. She learnt, as everyone in Britain learnt, to fear moonlight, those beautiful clear nights when the raiders could find their targets more easily. But the worst night of all, the one that would remain forever in the minds of those who lived through it, Jimmy was at home, asleep by her side in the new house they had finally acquired.
In the morning they smelt the smoke and the taint of rubber in the air. When they listened to the radio at six o’clock, before the boys were awake and heard the toll of dead and missing, they kissed each other and shed a few tears. Hours later the phone rang and a neighbour of Jimmy’s parents told him that his brother was missing. The police had called on his father and suggested that someone should go down to St George’s Market to see if he was there. That was where the bodies were being laid out for identification.
Jimmy had found his brother’s body, undamaged and unmarked, a victim of blast. By a strange chance he lay beside three of his old school friends whose battered remains had been dug from the rubble of the back-to-back houses down by the docks where Jimmy and his brother had begun their lives. He was looking down at them unable to grasp how four of the five wee lads who kicked a tin can round the street together, should be together once again, when the mother of one of them appeared, bent over and leaning on a stick. Jimmy had stood and wept and the bereaved mother had comforted him.
Although she worried about her family, the war years were not as hard on Polly as they were on many other women. She was practical and cheerful, coped with shortages and rationing better than most and although she seldom got up to Armagh to see her family, she drew such comfort from knowing that they were there, that they were safe and that she was no longer thousands of miles away.
Disasters it seemed, always struck unexpectedly. One night when Jimmy was cycling to work he was caught by a sudden raid. Before he could find an air-raid shelter, he was knocked out by a lump of flying wood. Lying in the road, lit only by the flickers from burning buildings, a fire engine just managed to avoid his unconscious body at the last minute. That night he escaped death and suffered only a bad headache the next day. He was not so fortunate at the beginning of 1945.
It was with peace already in sight that Jimmy had his accident, as he worked on a plane that might never be needed. No one ever worked out exactly what happened. Jimmy remembered only that his feet went from under him and the next thing he knew he was in hospital. It was likely that engine grease had been the cause of his fall. There shouldn’t have been engine grease on that scaffolding, but if it was there and Jimmy was concentrating on the job as he moved slowly along the fuselage, he certainly wouldn’t have seen it. There was a long argument about compensation which was never resolved. Jimmy was on his back for two months at Musgrave Park Hospital and in too much pain to join in the Victory celebrations. The doctors admitted that he would seldom be without pain for the rest of his life.
That, Polly decided later, was the beginning of her own bad time. After Jimmy’s accident, life had been understandably harder and Polly felt it more than all the other hard times she had endured. But when Ellie died, it seemed as if this was the final blow. She felt that the loss of the one bright star that had always shone in her sky, even if she seldom had the opportunity to go out and look at it, was the one thing too many. The rest she could bear. She could struggle with dirt and poverty, hard times and fractious children, sudden grief, illness and the misery of pain and weariness, but for Ellie to be taken away was for the light to be shut off. She had no wish whatever to live in the darkness that followed.
Ellie had been the pretty one in the family and she had a sweetness of nature that matched her soft looks. Polly had loved her younger sister more than either of her other sisters or her two brothers. From the moment the news of her death came, it never occurred to her to do anything other than to make a home for Clare, for Clare was dear Ellie’s child and had something about her of her mother, though she was a far more robust and lively child than Ellie had ever been.
She was anxious about separating the two children, but she had guessed that the Hamilton’s would feel it their duty to care for their grandson and she was grateful when her brother-in-law had told her of their decision. She had always found William a difficult child to love, and while she could imagine being able to treat Clare as her own child, she was honest enough to admit that she was unlikely to manage it with William.
The death of her favourite sister would have been disaster enough for Polly, but that heartbreak came at the end of a long series of other sad and unhappy events in her life. In May of that year, 1946, Jimmy, who had held down the job at the Bakery since the Christmas of 1945, had been listed for an early morning shift. He had protested that there were no buses on his route at that hour, but when his protests were ignored, he’d got out his ancient bicycle and cycled to work. It was only a couple of days before his back played up. The doctor had given him a sick note and the Bakery had given him his cards.
Polly’s relief when Davy got a new and better-paid job only a week later was short-lived. When he brought home his first pay packet, he said he could only afford two pounds a week for his keep because he was now saving up to get married. When Eddie heard that Davy was paying only two pounds a week he wanted to know why he should pay more. He was saving up for a bicycle so that he could look for the better jobs out on the new industrial estate where there were no buses at all yet.
Only Ronnie, who seemed to take after the more kindly-natured Scotts and not the generally hard-headed McGillvray’s, came to her with his five shillings a week from his paper round and asked if he could give her a hand with anything.
She refused to take his money, knowing full well he needed it to buy the books the school couldn’t afford to provide, but his generous act made it even harder to bear the selfishness of his brothers. For the first time, she saw that the way she had gone on caring for them as they grew up meant that they now simply expected her to do as she had always done. They left a trail of things lying around wherever they went, never did a hand’s turn for themselves and, worst of all, never even thought of doing anything for anyone else.
And Jimmy, for all his good-nature, had dropped into bad habits. There was so much he couldn’t do because of his back that he often didn’t do anything at all. He never even seemed to notice when she was tired or harassed as he’d once done. He’d taken to sitting by the fire in the small back living room reading his newspaper and looking out the window at the abandoned garden which once had been his pride and joy. As often as not Eddie was there too, a pile of magazines by his chair. She had never yet seen him bend to pick them up when she came into the room to pull the table out for a meal. He never even moved to help her when she opened up the settee at night and tramped back upstairs to carry down the heavy pile of bedding which had to be stored in a corner of Ronnie’s room during the day.
The hardest part for Polly was that she knew it was her own fault. Long ago, in the letters she had written so faithfully to her, week by week, when she was in Canada, Ellie had said that she did too much for the boys. Ellie had been right. It was one thing doing your best for your family but she should have made them do more for themselves and more to help her, especially when she was working as well. Now Davy and Eddie would be looking for a wife who would do just what she had done and wait on them hand and foot.
With no help from anyone except Ronnie, the struggle to keep the place decent was a daily battle and now, on top of everything, she began to suffer hot flushes both day and night. Often she got little sleep. Weary of lying in the dark trying not to twist and turn and wake Jimmy, she’d get up and clean the kitchen or do the ironing. Sometimes she would even go upstairs to the tiny third bedroom that overlooked the road and hand finish a hem by the light of the lamp built-in to her electric sewing machine.
With her husband and sons asleep all around her, she often felt quite desolate. Those were the times she always sought comfort by thinking of Ellie, wondering when they could manage to see each other again, making some plan to save a few shillings each week so she could afford the train fare to Armagh.
Sometimes Ellie rang her from the phone booth in the Post Office.
‘It’s me, your little sister,’ she would say, laughing. ‘How are you, Polly? I’ve only got four pence worth. Tell me quick.’
Ellie could only ever afford three minutes, but the sound of her laughter would brighten Polly’s life for days. Her laughter, like her sweet smile, made you feel the world was a wonderful place to live in.
Whether it was the hardship of the war, or the cheerlessness of the months that followed, Polly didn’t know, but it seemed that her customers too were all through themselves. Certainly they had never been so hard to please. However much work she put in, however quickly she had a garment ready for fitting, they were never satisfied. They complained about the prices she charged though they were unexceptional. They insisted they wanted their item ready tomorrow. Some of them came so early for fittings that she had to keep the sitting room permanently tidy. That way there was somewhere for them to wait while she dealt with the client left standing in Ronnie’s room in front of the wardrobe with the full length mirror.
Some customers didn’t show up at all. Then they rang and wanted to come when she was already booked up. Some even arrived when she was out shopping and rang later to complain. Where was she, they had come and she was out. How did she expect to keep customers if she was never there?
There were days when the phone never stopped ringing and she was up and down stairs all day. She could come no speed with anything. Whatever she started to work on in the morning was still on the ironing board at the end of the day, ready to sew, when it should have been hanging up, ready to fit. Even when Jimmy was reading his newspaper with nothing else to do, she still had to come down to the phone because these days he felt too uneasy to answer it and take a message.
But all these distresses and frustrations were as nothing when three days after Clare’s arrival, Polly heard a small voice outside her door.
‘Please, Auntie Polly, I know you are very busy, but could I have a word with you? It’s most important.’
‘Of course you can, sweetheart,’ she said, jumping up so quickly she nearly tripped over the flex of her machine. ‘Are you fed up with that jigsaw? I’m sorry, I wanted to take ye to the park this afternoon but this big fat lady is coming tomorra and I hafta finish her dress. Come inta Ronnie’s room, we can sit on his bed.’
She gave her a hug as they sat down together in the small, tidy room that seemed even smaller because of the huge wardrobe that had come from McGillvray’s after Jimmy’s mother died and his father went to live with his eldest daughter.
‘Auntie Polly,’ she began, taking a deep breath. ‘It’s very kind of you and Uncle Jimmy to have me to stay with you, but I don’t want to impose on your kindness. Mummy always says that families shouldn’t impose just because they are family. So I’ve come to tell you that I’d like to go to the orphanage as soon as you have time to take me. Perhaps, if you are very busy, Ronnie could take me, when he comes back from camp tomorrow.’
Polly looked at the small, pale face and felt as if her heart would break. What could she say? What could she do? She could see the child was unhappy and was doing her best not to show it. How could she be anything else, shut up in this unfamiliar house with these noisy young men and nowhere to play except the sitting room and only when there was no one waiting.
She’d had words with both Davy and Eddie about their behaviour towards their little cousin but beyond the odd hello neither of them could be bothered to talk to her and the idea that they might play card games or read stories with her had fallen on deaf ears. She’d even pointed out to Davy that if he was going to get married maybe he should find out a bit about children and their needs. But he hadn’t paid a bit of heed to what she’d said. It was just water off the duck’s back.
‘Clare, lovey, I don’t think you’d like it very much in an orphanage. They do their best and they’re very kind, but you really need people of yer own who know all about ye and all about your dear Mummy and Daddy. I’m sorry I’ve been so busy and Uncle Jimmy had to go to see his father. Did you get lonely? Ronnie’ll be so glad to see you whin he comes home. Would ye not give it a wee bit longer?’
Clare looked up and found to her surprise that her aunt was near to tears. She was such a very kind aunt but that wasn’t the problem. She didn’t know what the problem was, but she felt as if she was shut up inside a box and couldn’t get out. If it wasn’t for Auntie Polly she’d just run away into the forest and live with the animals until someone came and found her and she could live happily ever after.
‘Clare dear, are you worried about goin’ to school on Monday? Is that it?’
Clare shook her head and looked down at her fingers. That was only a little bit of it.
‘Has anyone said anythin’ to upset you?’
‘Oh no,’ she replied promptly. ‘Davy’s always out and Eddie never says anything at all. Uncle Jimmy has always been quiet, hasn’t he?’
‘Yes, love, he has, but he’s even quieter since he lost his job.’
‘Mummy says pain is very wearing and Uncle Jimmy must get very tired.’
The thought of Ellie talking to her child and explaining Jimmy’s problem was too much for Polly. She could see Ellie’s fair head bent towards Clare’s dark one and Clare listening with that intent look she always wore when she was taking in every word. But Ellie was gone, her child was without a mother, and she, Polly, couldn’t even give her the time she needed, never mind a room, or a place to play, or even a few toys to replace all those she had lost.
Polly wept.
‘Don’t cry, Auntie Polly. I’ll stay if you want me to,’ said Clare quickly, as she threw her arms round the sobbing figure. ‘I could help you hem the dress for the fat lady and when Ronnie comes back he’ll show me where everything goes and we can both tidy up for you. And I can answer the phone if you tell me what to say.’
Polly hugged her tightly, lost for any words to speak and for any way to resolve the conflict in her mind. This dear child had brought her something she thought she had lost forever when Ellie died. While she was near, Ellie would not be gone from her. But even as the thought came to her, she saw that she couldn’t begin to give the child what she needed to so she could begin to heal her own loss.
‘Don’t cry, Auntie Polly. Mummy would hate to see you cry.’
‘You’re quite right, Clare. I’m a silly old auntie,’ Polly replied, sniffing and wiping her eyes.
‘No, you’re not. You’ve been so kind. You’re a lovely auntie and Mummy always said I was lucky to have you. Would you like a cup of tea? I know how to put the kettle on, I saw Uncle Jimmy doing it.’
‘But that’s Polly’s job,’ her aunt replied, managing a weak smile.
Clare laughed and jumped up from the edge of the bed. She began to sing ‘Polly put the kettle on, Polly put the kettle on, Polly put the kettle on, and let’s have tea.’
It was one of the first nursery rhymes Mummy had taught her and every time they read it or sang it she would remind her that her Auntie Polly was really called Margaret, but because when they were all little she was always putting the kettle on she’d got nicknamed Polly and now no one ever called her anything else.
They made tea together and sat drinking it in the quiet sitting room. For an hour or more no one called, the telephone didn’t ring and neither Uncle Jimmy, nor Davy, nor Eddy arrived back. Polly and Clare talked about many things, Polly’s childhood, her sisters, especially Ellie, about going off to Canada with Uncle Jimmy in a big ship, so big you could go for a walk, or go shopping just as if you were on dry land.
Clare’s eyes rounded in delight as Polly described her first winter in Canada, driving in a sleigh with real jingling bells, just like the song, and rugs to wrap yourself in and the swish of the runners over the snow. She took it all in and asked question after question, wanting to know every little detail of Polly’s Christmas treats, the presents she had and the decorations she put up in their tiny apartment.
For a little space of time for both the child and the woman, the pain of loss and loneliness was comforted and eased. But it was not healed.