Polly

‘Well, there’s plenty of work for you, Polly. I’ve finished the glossary and it needs careful checking as you go along.’ He leaned back in his chair and rather belatedly invited her to sit down. ‘Greek and Latin,’ he told her with some smugness, ‘a comparison, if I may so describe it—as far as I know, there’s been precious little written about the subject since Beeton’s Classical Dictionary, although my work is no dictionary.’ He turned to nod over one shoulder. ‘There’s a desk and typewriter and all you may need through there. You can start as soon as you wish.’

Polly got to her feet. ‘Is there a time limit?’ she asked.

‘What? The publishers want it as soon as possible. You had better let me know how you’re getting on at the end of the week. Now…’ He fussed with some papers on his desk, and she prudently went through the door he had indicated and shut it quietly behind her.

The room was small and little used, she judged, but there was a fair-sized desk in it with a comfortable chair, a typewriter and a stack of paper and carbons, and of course the manuscript. She sat down and began to read it slowly. The first chapter was written in English and merely detailed the contents of the book. Without looking further, she typed it out; it took her most of the day with a break for coffee and then lunch, which were brought to her there on a tray. A friendly maid led her through a door back into the hall and showed her a downstairs cloakroom, and she lingered a while, glad of a chance to move around a little. The house was very quiet as she strolled round the hall, wishing she dared to go outside for ten minutes; tomorrow she would ask…

She finished the chapter by four o’clock, and since there was still an hour to go, she began to study the second chapter. A very different kettle of fish, she was soon to discover. Sir Ronald had plunged deeply into his subject, and although she was confident that she could type it correctly she had very little idea of what he was getting at. A tray of tea was a welcome relief, and presently, her day’s work done, she laid her work on the desk in the study, and went into the hall. Someone would have to be told she was leaving; she was wondering who when the maid came through the service door at the back.

‘I’m going home now,’ said Polly. ‘My bike’s been put in a shed…can I get it?’

‘You wait there, miss, it’ll be fetched for you.’ The girl went away again and Polly sat down in one of the massive chairs ranged against the wall. A cold unlived-in house, she decided, looking around her, probably because Sir Ronald was a widower with grown-up children living away from him. It was nice to get out into the garden again, jump on her bike and cycle home through the quiet lane.

Going in through the kitchen door presently, she could smell hot buttered toast and the wood fire in the sitting room and gave a contented sigh. Never mind the shabby furniture and the threadbare carpet in the hall—this was home, warm and welcoming. She washed her hands at the kitchen sink and hurried to the sitting room where the family were gathered round the fire having tea.

Her mother looked up as she went in. ‘Darling—just in time, how nice. Did you have a good day?’

Polly took a great bite of buttery toast. ‘I think so. The first bit’s easy; I just had time to look at the next chapter and that’s going to be a bit tricky, but I like it.’

She answered a string of questions, helped clear the tea things and offered to take Shylock for his walk. Cora and Marian were both going out that evening and Ben had a pile of homework, so, as so often happened, Polly took the dog out far more often than anyone else; her sisters went out a good deal in the evening and could never find the time. And Shylock was a large unwieldy dog who needed a good deal of exercise. The pair of them went off happily, walking briskly in the chill of the spring evening, Shylock’s large woolly head full of the pleasure of rabbit hunting, Polly’s happily occupied with the delights of having money to spend.

But before that she had to work for it, and work hard. She was not unfamiliar with the Greek and the Latin so that she was able to keep at a fair speed—all the same, it took her three days to type the second chapter. She laid it before Sir Ronald halfway through the morning and sighed with relief when he glanced through it with evident satisfaction.

‘Very nice, very nice, Polly. I shall go through it carefully later today. You have started the next chapter?’ Without waiting for her to reply he added: ‘You have all you want, I hope? Your meals and so on?’

‘Yes, thank you, Sir Ronald. Would you mind if I went into the garden for a few minutes during my lunch break?’ She hesitated. ‘It will take me longer to type the rest of the book, Sir Ronald; I have to study each page…’

He nodded. ‘Of course. Just so long as it’s well done. There’s no time limit, Polly.’ He added to contradict himself: ‘As soon as possible, you understand?’

He waved a vague hand at her, and she went back to her desk and spent an hour frowning over the next chapter.

Lunch was a welcome break; she ate it quickly and hurried into the garden, to sit on a sheltered seat and feel the midday warmth of the sun on her face, and presently went back to work. It dealt with Greek and Latin proper names with a long explanation of the vowel sounds; she was halfway through this when the door opened and the driver of the Range Rover walked in. He looked at her with surprise. ‘Good God, the rustic chatterbox! I’m looking for Miss Talbot.’

‘Me,’ said Polly, her colour heightened and her voice tart. She was neither rustic nor a chatterbox; he was insufferably rude, whoever he was.

He crossed the little room and leaned against the desk, a large, very tall man. ‘Well, well, as my nanny so often remarked, wonders will never cease. Are you the paragon who’s typing Sir Ronald’s manuscript?’

‘I am not a paragon, nor am I a rustic chatterbox. I’m typing his work, yes. Why do you want to know?’

Polly poised her hands over the keys in the hope that he would take the hint and go away. A friend of Sir Ronald’s, she supposed, indulging in idle curiosity. She thought it unlikely that he would answer her question, and she was right, he ignored it completely, just went on standing there looking at her. ‘You don’t mind if I get on?’ she asked frostily. ‘I daresay someone will find Sir Ronald if you want to see him…’

The gentleman in question came through the door as she spoke, already talking. ‘There you are, Sam. Been having a look at the manuscript, have you? Polly’s doing a good job of the typing. A clever girl, is Polly—it isn’t everyone who can read both Latin and Greek and type them intelligently as well.’ He beamed at her. ‘And that reminds me that your wages are on my desk, collect them as you go, will you?’

He took the other man by the arm. ‘There’s a most interesting book I want you to look at,’ he told him as they walked to the door. ‘I found it in Pulchester of all places, in a poky secondhand shop…’ His voice faded as he went through the door, followed by his companion. Neither of them took any notice of Polly. She hadn’t expected them to do so.

It was at the end of the afternoon, her wages safely stowed in her pocket, wheeling her bicycle away from the house, that Polly encountered the man again. He came out of the shrubbery bordering the long drive just as she was about to pedal away.

‘Going home?’ he asked idly. ‘You live in the village?’

‘Yes,’ she answered politely. ‘Good evening.’

She rode off fast, anxious to get away from him. She wasn’t likely to see him again; the Range Rover had been parked on the sweep before the house, ready for him to leave. She wondered who he was and where he lived and why he was so abrupt in his manner. ‘Downright rude,’ she said out loud, then forgot him in the pleasure of deciding what she would do with the money in her pocket. There was, she estimated, about six weeks’ work ahead of her, perhaps two months. She could save it up, of course, and have an orgy of spending at the end—on the other hand, she needed some new clothes and she could buy Ben the football boots he wanted for his birthday, and give her mother some housekeeping money too. She had made up her mind to that by the time she reached home; she could save something each week, and perhaps visit Aunt Maggie’s in Scotland when she had finished.

Over tea she put these plans forward. Her offer of the boots was received with enthusiasm by her brother, just as the housekeeping money was welcomed in a more restrained manner by her mother. Her sisters, considering these to be unimportant, embarked at once on a deep discussion as to the clothes she should buy. It was soon evident to Polly that if she took their advice she would be penniless in no time at all and the possessor of more clothes than she would ever wear. But she didn’t say so; Cora and Marian were helping her in their own way. She murmured suitably each time they paused to look at her and finally, when they had run out of ideas, suggested that it might be a good idea if she saved a few weeks wages before she went shopping. ‘For I’ll not have time to wear anything much until I’ve finished the job,’ she pointed out reasonably, and was relieved when they reluctantly agreed.

The weekend, with its well tried routine, came and went. A long walk with Shylock, time spent helping Ben with his homework and pottering round the house doing small chores for her mother, a little gardening, a pleasant half hour with her father, discussing Greek mythology. Cora and Marian were out, but they mostly were on Saturdays, driving somewhere or other with whichever boy-friend was in favour. They were out again on Sunday too, but only after they had gone to church with the rest of the family. Mr Talbot, a mild man, was adamant about that. They walked through the quiet village and filled the family pew, exchanging nods and smiles with the familiar faces around them. Polly, her head round the other way while she listened to a friend’s gossip offered in a decorous whisper, almost had her ribs caved in by her sisters each side of her. ‘Polly, who’s that marvellous man, just come in with Sir Ronald? Have you seen him? Is he staying with him? Where does he come from?’

‘I don’t know, and yes, I’ve seen him. I suppose he’s staying at Wells Court. I don’t know where he’s from.’

Two pairs of eyes stared at her in astonishment. ‘You mean to say,’ hissed Cora, ‘that you’ve actually spoken to him and you don’t know anything about him?’ She was prevented from saying more because old Mr Symes, the organist, had stopped his gentle meandering over the keys and had begun the opening hymn as Mr Mortimer and his choir came out of the vestry.

It was at the end of the service, as Sir Ronald and his guest passed the Talbot pew and the former exchanged civil greetings with their father, that Cora and Marian had a chance to get a look at his companion.

A look he returned with some interest, for they were really very pretty and worth more than a glance. The look he gave Polly was quite another thing; it made her feel like yesterday’s left-over cold potatoes.

There was no sign of him when she arrived at Wells Court on Monday morning, and indeed, for the moment she had forgotten him; it was a lovely day and the quiet Gloucestershire countryside was green and alive with the familiar sounds she had grown up with; lambs and sheep, cows lowing over the hedges, tractors going to and fro, the birds… She parked her bike and rang the bell.

The third chapter was to do with Greek and Roman chronology. Polly was typing, very carefully, the data concerning the Greek calendar when Sir Ronald walked in, and his guest with him. Their good mornings were affable as they stood behind her chair, looking over her shoulder at what she had already done. ‘Munychlon’, observed Sir Ronald, ‘so much better sounding than April, don’t you think? You’ve been to Munychia, of course, Sam?’

‘Yes. Does Miss—er—Talbot take an interest in such things, or is she merely a typist?’

Rude! thought Polly, and said with commendable restraint. ‘The festival of Munychia was held in the town of that name, in honour of the goddess Diana.’ She added kindly: ‘I believe that quite ordinary people read about such things, Mr—er…’

Sir Ronald coughed. ‘Professor, my dear. Professor Gervis. He’s famous in his field, you know.’

She raised guileless brown eyes. ‘Indeed? What field?’

The Professor let out a bellow of laughter. ‘I don’t often make mistakes,’ he observed coolly, ‘but with you I certainly did.’ He turned away, suddenly bored. ‘Would it be a good idea if we phoned Rogers this morning—there’s the question of the right type setting…’

Polly was left sitting there; she should have been feeling triumphant, but she felt rather silly. She must have sounded like a little prig; no wonder he’d laughed!

She was sitting in the sun during her lunch break when he appeared suddenly and sat down beside her. He asked without preamble: ‘Have you never been away from the village? Surely with your talents you could have got a place at a university or found a well paid job with a museum or some such thing?’

She turned to look at him. ‘I expect I could, only I haven’t wanted to. I like the country; there’s a lot more to do than just typing Greek and Latin…’

‘You’re not interested in money? It buys pretty clothes and pays for hairdressers and all the other things girls want.’ The faint mockery in his voice annoyed her.

‘Of course I like pretty things—even we rustics dress up occasionally. I daresay if I’d been born and brought up in some big city, I’d feel differently about it.’

‘Those were your sisters in church?’ he wanted to know idly.

‘Yes.’

‘Very pretty girls, and dressed charmingly.’

‘Yes,’ she got up, ‘but as you see they’re, as you say, very pretty girls. It’s time I was back working. Goodbye.’

He went with her most annoyingly into the house. As he stood aside for her to go through the garden door he said: ‘You know, you intrigue me.’