Polly's Angel Read Online Free

you silly young wan, nor Ivan’s Sunday suit. Just something nice – your dark brown skirt wit’ the pink blouse. And Ivan’s grey shorts and blue shirt will do perfectly well. It isn’t as if we’re having the Queen to tea,’ she finished.
    Polly heaved a sigh and took Ivan’s hand. ‘Well, there’s gratitude, when I put on our bestest t’ings special,’ she said as they headed across the kitchen once more. ‘I’m sure I don’t know why I try so hard, when nothin’ I do is ever right.’
    â€˜Nor me,’ Ivan said in a lugubrious tone. ‘You won’t have to wash me lugs again, will you, Poll? I does hope not!’
    Deirdre waited until they were out of hearing before she and Bevin caught each other’s eye and began to laugh. After a moment, however, Bevin heard the eggs boil over and ran to take them half off the fire, and soon enough it was time to drop them into a bowl of cold water, then to crack the shells and peel them off, and to arrange them, each one cut in half on a plate, and to put it down on the big table in the parlour, between the bowls of tomatoes – grown by Peader, in the little lean-to greenhouse against the bicycle shed – and fine, floury potatoes, still hot from the pan.
    â€˜I’d best put on a dress,’ Deirdre said resignedly, when all the preparations were finished and she had put the kettle on to boil and stood the china teapot patterned with roses near at hand. ‘I’ll put me pinafore over it, because otherwise I’ll spill something down it, so I shall, but I just know Monica will be wearing something new and smart.’
    Bevin said he would hold the fort for her whilst she changed, so she slipped up the stairs, meeting Polly and Ivan, now sensibly dressed, on their way down.
    â€˜Better, Mammy?’ Polly said, holding out her brown skirt and doing a little bobbing curtsey. ‘Will she find fault wit’ me in this?’
    â€˜Oh, you poor lamb, fancy anyone finding fault wit’ you,’ Deirdre said mockingly, but she pinched her daughter’s rosy cheek consolingly. ‘You and Ivan both look fine, so you do. Tell you what, the train went past a while ago, why don’t you and Ivan take Delly and walk up to the station to meet Daddy and the others? I daresay you’ll enjoy that better than sitting quiet in the parlour until they arrive.’
    â€˜Oh, yes,’ Polly and Ivan chorused at once. They galloped down the rest of the stairs and straight out of the front door, without even thinking about putting on a coat or a hat. Deirdre called after them, but was not surprised to get no reply. Well, it was a warm enough afternoon, they’d come to no harm. And the exercise would mean that they wouldn’t fidget so much during tea, nor be so patently eager to make themselves scarce after it.
    The train clattered into the small station and Martin stood up and pulled on the leather strap to let the window down. The train was still moving, though slowly, and the crisp, late autumn air came into the carriage, reminding him of the harvest fields, autumn woods, and the cropped grass of meadows where mushrooms grew at this time of year, spangling the grass with their neat white caps. Martin sighed. He loved the country, but he could not imagine Monica ever wanting to live anywhere but in – or near – the city. She was too fond of shopping, people and amusements to take kindly to country living, but privately Martin envied his parents and the young ones their rural home.
    â€˜Is anyone waiting? Your da said he might come down and meet us.’ Monica squeezed into the window space beside him and they both looked along the platform. It was empty, save for the stationmaster’s brown and white terrier and a couple of pigeons, pecking between the big, flat paving stones.
    â€˜No one about,’ Martin said, and heard her draw in her breath with a