Polly's Pride by Freda Lightfoot Page A

in realistic plans, which appeared to be in jeopardy.
    In addition to settling his long-held grievance against his brother, he meant to find a way to succeed in his political ambitions. If this was not to be through a union then he’d find some other way, whatever the cost, and whoever he needed to step on in order to do so. He’d not shrink from doing whatever was necessary to achieve his own ends.

    ‘Can I go to the Palmy Picture-drome, Mam?’
    Polly stood at the sink, hands deep in sudsy water as she rubbed a pair of socks together and considered her son’s bright face. ‘How much would that be?’
    ‘It’s only sixpence if you sit on the benches at the front. Or ninepence for a proper seat at the back.’
    ‘Is that all?’ She wiped her hands, took a purse from out of her pocket and opened it to show him. It was empty, as she had known it would be. ‘And here’s me without a penny for a pinch of tea.’ She gave him a rueful smile, ‘Mebbe next week, love, eh?’
    Benny’s birthday had been two days ago, during early September, and his mother had given him a glass bobber for his marble collection. It was so big, he was sure it would win him many more. She’d also given him a lollipop to suck after his tea. Oh, it’d been a grand birthday but he knew, deep down, that marbles and lollipops were for children, and he was growing up. Benny longed to branch out and see how much more he could achieve on his own. ‘Now I’m nine, couldn’t I get a bit of a job? Earn a bit of pocket money?’
    ‘Ach, Benny. I promise, I’ll find sixpence for you next week.’  
    ‘I was thinking I could be an errand boy, or happen get a job at London Road Station as a nipper, carrying people’s bags, unloading carts and such? He couldn’t disguise the eagerness in his voice. It was his dearest wish to work on the railway.
    Polly looked at her son with a sadness in her eyes, knowing how sought after such jobs were these days, and how rare. ‘I reckon they might think you a touch young, m’cushla. In a year or two mebbe, when you reach twelve or thirteen. Won’t that be grand then for you to get a fine job at the station? And patting her son’s tousled head, she told him to go and play in the street and be a good boy. ‘Don’t be late home now, the nights are drawing in. And keep away from those big lads.’
    He nodded, the lump that suddenly blocked his throat preventing any further attempt at persuasion. He walked stoically out of the house before his mother could catch sight of the tears he feared might show in his eyes. It was vital he get sixpence for the flicks. It was a Buster Keaton film and he was desperate to see it. All his mates were going, or most of them anyway. He didn’t want to be left out.
    More importantly, he was even more desperate to join the newly formed Dove Street Gang. He’d asked them again this morning if he could become a member and they’d laughed, telling him he was still too young, that you had to have money in your pocket to prove you were a man. He was already sick of being nine. It was scarcely any better than being eight.
    And it seemed so unfair for he knew that once they let him in, he’d learn all the gang’s secret passwords and the codes they used to send messages to each other, and also gain some protection from the other marauding gangs like Georgie Eastwood’s lot who continued to pester him. He might even learn where the good part-time jobs were to be found, who to see to get one and what to say, which he really needed to know. They’d teach him other things too, of course, about girls and something called sex, but Benny wasn’t interested in girls. Girlfriends were for cissies. He wasn’t ever going to get married, not if he could help it - except perhaps to Mary Alice Ferguson who could swim and dive amongst the rubbish in Rochdale canal as well as any lad. Not that they were supposed to swim in the canal and his dad would leather him if he ever found out. They