Polly's Angel by Katie Flynn Page A

evenin’ whiles the fire’s hot and I’m not too tired. Then mebbe tomorrer I’ll do some bakin’.’
    â€˜Sure I will,’ Tad said, making for the door. ‘Liam an’ Kevin will be in soon, I ’spect. I wonder what they’ll bring home wit’ them?’

Chapter Three
    Polly, having despatched her letters, waited in vain for a reply from Tad, and this both surprised and annoyed her. Sure, Tad usually took ages and ages to answer a letter, but she had told him that, in view of her daddy’s illness, she expected a reply by return, and had added her customary threat about never writing to him again if he failed her in this matter. And to be fair to Tad, he was a kind-hearted boy and, though he hated writing letters and was a poor hand at it, would, she was sure, have done his best to comfort her in her affliction.
    For Daddy’s illness was an affliction indeed. Mammy was always off up at the hospital, where children were not allowed to go save with special permission on a Saturday afternoon, and Martin was grumpy.
    â€˜Anyone would t’ink he’d enjoyed havin’ us to stay and didn’t want us to move out to Titchfield Street,’ Polly grumbled to Ivan, after an uncomfortable evening during which she and Ivan had done their eckers and then played a game of Snap and tried to ignore the fact that Martin sat in his chair staring at nothing and wouldn’t answer when you spoke. ‘When you t’ink how his old wife has grumbled and moaned and stopped us havin’ meals wit’ them and said we eat them out of house and home when Mammy pays for our food and not her or Martin . . . well, he can’t want us to stay,’ she ended.
    The two children were in the cramped little spare room, getting ready for bed. Polly, already clean and nightgowned, was watching Ivan as he dabbed at his face with a wet flannel and then hastily rubbed himself dry on the towel which hung beside the washstand. When she saw that he had finished with the water she turned towards the tiny dressing table with its small square of mirror on top and picked up her hairbrush.
    â€˜Mebbe he doesn’t fancy the t’ought of bein’ alone wit’ Monica again, when he’s had us for her to grumble at,’ Ivan said with surprising shrewdness. ‘When we’re here, she can nag about us. What’s she got to nag about when we ain’t here but him, eh?’
    â€˜They’re married, so it’s different,’ Polly pointed out. She began to brush the tangles out of her curls, wincing and squeaking whenever the brush got stuck, which happened frequently. ‘Mart’s her husband, so he is, and husbands have to get used to bein’ nagged at.’
    â€˜Don’t call him Mart, he’s got a decent Christian name and I like to hear all of it, please,’ Ivan squeaked, in a very fair imitation of his sister-in-law’s mincing vowels. ‘Oh, jeez, Polly, I don’t care what Martin wants, I want get to our new house this very minute if it means that Monica will keep whinin’ at us.’
    â€˜And I’ve not heard a word from Tad, would you believe?’ Polly said, as though her small brother had not spoken. She had got rid of most of the tangles in her hair and now began to brush steadily, counting beneath her breath as she did so. ‘Forty-five, forty-six, forty-seven . . . and I telled him special to write back at once. Forty-nine, fifty . . .’
    â€˜He’ll write,’ Ivan said comfortably. ‘Sure and doesn’t he always, in the end?’
    â€˜Ye-es, he does,’ Polly admitted. ‘Ouch! Fifty-three, fifty-four . . . I ’spect he’s busy, wit’ Christmas comin’ up, and them wit’out their daddy to help save up for presents an’ that.’
    â€˜Their daddy spended all the money, I’ve heared you say so,’ Ivan reminded