Polly

They were in the dining room, the whole family, sitting round the table with the remains of a macaroni cheese and one of Mrs Talbot’s fruit tarts.

Everyone spoke at once until Mr Talbot said hush and introduced the Professor. ‘You were in church,’ said Mrs Talbot instantly, and then: ‘You’d like some supper? Coffee?’ She put an arm round Polly. ‘You look pinched, darling. Is Sir Ronald very ill?’

‘He died this evening,’ said the Professor quietly. ‘Polly has been most helpful. I should think she needs her supper and a chance to talk.’ He smiled across the table at her, looking quite different; kind and friendly…

‘I’m sorry. We all liked him. I’ll get some coffee at least, while you’re talking. Sit down, Polly, you shall have your supper. Cora, Marian, get a tray ready will you?’

Neither of them needed a second bidding. They rolled expressive eyes at Polly and flew into the kitchen, and a reluctant Ben having been sent to bed, Polly and her mother sat down together. ‘Now tell me all about it,’ demanded Mrs Talbot. ‘We guessed Sir Ronald was very poorly the first time you phoned. Poor man! I’m glad you were able to help.’ She cut a generous slice of tart and put it on Polly’s plate. ‘Why does this Professor want to talk to your father?’

‘Well,’ began Polly, ‘it’s like this…’ She explained carefully and then waited to see what her mother would say.

‘A very sensible idea,’ commented that lady. ‘Professor what’s-his-name seems to know what he’s going to do.’ She added reassuringly, ‘And his sister lives with him. More tart, love? He’s quite youngish, isn’t he? Early thirties, I should think. Easy to get on with?’ Her voice was casual.

‘No,’ said Polly forthrightly. ‘We don’t like each other, but I do see that it’s important to get the book published, and I don’t have to see him often, you know. Just show him each chapter as it’s done, just as I’ve been doing with Sir Ronald.’

‘And where does he live, darling?’

‘I don’t know.’ Polly filled her mouth with tart. ‘It can’t be very far away,’ she said in a crumby voice, ‘because he said on the phone he’d be about an hour, and he was—rather less, I think.’

Her mother started to clear the table. ‘Well, darling, you’ve had a rotten day, now you’re going straight to bed. There’s plenty of hot water and I’ll put a bottle in your bed.’

‘Oughtn’t I to say goodnight?’ asked Polly.

‘I don’t see that it matters,’ observed Mrs Talbot cheerfully, ‘if you don’t like each other…’

CHAPTER TWO

PROFESSOR GERVIS fetched Polly the next morning, coldly polite and nothing else. He didn’t mention Sir Ronald, merely drove her to the house, deposited her at the door, rang the bell and stalked back to his car. She didn’t see him for the rest of the day, although Briggs brought her coffee, while she worked and her usual lunch tray. The house was quiet, and determinedly putting everything out of her head other than her work, she typed steadily. At five o’clock she put the completed pages on the desk in the study and went home.

Two more days went by in the same manner, although Sir Ronald’s daughter and son were in the house now. But they made no attempt to see her, and save for Briggs she spoke to no one. And the next day was the funeral.

Her mother and father would go, of course, but even if she had had any idea of going herself, they were scotched by the note left on her desk.

‘Be good enough to remain here after your day’s work. I wish to speak to you.’ It was signed S. G.

Polly read it well twice, tore it into little pieces and put them tidily in the waste paper basket, and when it was five o’clock and there was no sign of him, she covered her typewriter and strolled into the garden.

There had been a good deal of coming and going during the day, but the garden was quiet; cars had been leaving for the last hour or so and she supposed the last one had gone. She sat quietly in the last of the sun, deliberately shutting out speculations as to her future. She had promised she would finish the book, so she would do that, but only because Sir Ronald had wanted it so badly. There was nothing about the Professor, she decided, that would encourage her to do anything for him at all.

He came round the corner of the house, unhurriedly, just as though, she thought indignantly, she had the entire evening to waste waiting for him.

‘I’ve kept you waiting.’ There was no hint of apology in his voice. ‘Is the chapter finished?’

‘No.’

He sat down beside her, sitting sideways so that he could watch her.

‘Am I rushing you if I suggest that you might be ready to leave tomorrow morning?’

‘Yes—you’ve told me almost nothing, Professor Gervis. Where do you live? How long am I to be at your house, how am I to get there…?’

‘I live at Elmley Castle, a few miles from Evesham. You will be at my house until the typescript is finished, and I shall drive you there.’ He added in a patient voice which made her grit her teeth: ‘When you are ready to go, of course.’

‘Thank you. Will you be here tomorrow?’ And when he nodded: ‘I’ll let you know then. Of course you want to get back to your own home.’

‘Naturally.’ He drove her back without another word and to her surprise got out of the car when they arrived. ‘I should like to speak to your father,’ he explained with the cool politeness she had come to expect when he wasn’t being tiresomely arrogant.

She took him along to her father’s study and repaired to the kitchen. Her sisters were out, but Ben was at the table doing his homework and her mother was making rhubarb jam. She looked round as Polly went in and smiled. ‘There you are, darling. You’re late. Did I hear a car?’

Polly cut a slice of the cake left on the old-fashioned dresser. ‘Professor Gervis brought me back. He wanted to see Father. He wants me to go back with him tomorrow, but of course I can’t.’

‘Why not, dear?’ Her mother turned a thoughtful gaze upon her. ‘He’s anxious to get this book finished, isn’t he? I suppose he’s got something to do with publishing?’

‘I haven’t the faintest idea.’ Polly stuffed the last of the cake into her mouth. ‘He seems to know a lot about it. He’s a Professor—perhaps he’s a schoolteacher.’

‘I daresay, darling. We’ll see, shall we? There’s not much you have to do, is there? It wouldn’t take a moment to pack a bag…’ Her mother still looked thoughtful. ‘They’d better have coffee, hadn’t they? Be a darling and put the cups on a tray, will you?’

Polly carried the coffee in presently, to be met by her father’s cheerful: ‘We’re just talking about you, Polly. Professor Gervis is kind enough to say that he won’t leave until tomorrow afternoon; that should give you all the time in the world to pack a few clothes and so on.’

She put the tray down on the table beside her father and didn’t look at the Professor. ‘And what about collecting the manuscript, sorting it out and so on?’

Her father beamed at her. ‘Professor Gervis will fetch you tomorrow morning and you can go through the papers together.’ He took a sip of the coffee she had handed him. ‘So you see, everything is very nicely arranged.’

Polly let her mouth open to protest and caught the Professor’s chilly eye. ‘The sooner the manuscript is typed the sooner you will be home again,’ he pointed out with the unnecessary forbearance of a grown-up cajoling a small child.

She asked woodenly: ‘What time will you be here in the morning, Professor?’

‘Ten o’clock. I imagine we can do all that’s necessary in an hour. I’ll bring you back, and perhaps we might leave at three o’clock?’

‘Very well.’ She gave her puzzled father a smile and went back to the kitchen.

Presently, his visitor gone, her father joined her. ‘A very good man, Professor Gervis. How very fortunate that he’s so enthusiastic about getting Sir Ronald’s book published. He seems to think you may be finished in a month—perhaps a little sooner. He suggests that you might like to come home for your weekends; I thought it very civil of him.’

‘Yes, Father,’ said Polly, and went away to look through her clothes, leaving him to enquire of his wife if there was anything the matter. Mrs Talbot returned his questioning look with a limpid one of her own.

‘Why do you ask, dear?’ She wanted to know. ‘It seems to me to be an ideal arrangement.’ She added: ‘Polly’s talents mustn’t be wasted.’

Polly in her bedroom was packing a suitcase with a regrettable lack of care. She was thoroughly put out; she had been got at and in a most unfair way. She promised herself that she would work all hours and get the manuscript finished just as soon as she possibly could; she would take care to see as little as possible of the Professor, and once her work was finished she would never set eyes on him again. She was dwelling on this prospect at some length when her two sisters, all agog, came tearing into the room, firing questions at her, making plans to come and visit her so that they might see more of Professor Gervis and finally unpacking her case and repacking it carefully with everything properly folded, several of her older dresses flung out, and the addition of her one and only evening dress; a rather plain pleated affair, it’s cream background patterned with bronze leaves.

And when she had protested: ‘You never know,’ declared Cora cryptically. They had wrenched her blouse and skirt from her too, declaring they weren’t fit to be seen and guaranteeing that she should have them both back looking like new by the afternoon, so that she had to wear a rather elderly jersey dress in the morning which the Professor studied with obvious dislike. Polly wished him good morning, with her normal calm, got into a Range Rover beside him and was whisked up to Wells Court, with barely a word passing between them, only, once there, she was surprised to find how helpful he was. He had already looked out all the reference books she was likely to need, all that she was left to do was check the manuscript itself and make sure that there was none of it missing. She tied it neatly into its folder, collected the paper and carbon and eraser and would have taken the typewriter too if he hadn’t told her to leave it where it was. ‘There’s the same model at my house,’ he told her. ‘We’ve enough clutter as it is. If you’ve finished Briggs shall bring coffee; I must go and say goodbye to Sir Ronald’s son and daughter.’ He paused at the door. ‘Do you know them? Would you like to meet them?’

She shook her head. ‘No, thank you. There’s really no need, is there?’ And when he had gone and Briggs had brought the coffee she sat down and drank it. Sir Ronald had been a well liked figure in the village; his children, when they were home, had never bothered to get to know any of its inhabitants. Polly hardly thought they would be interested in meeting a mere schoolmaster’s daughter.

The Professor returned much more quickly than she had expected. He swept her out to the Range Rover with a breezy: ‘Good, that’s done,’ and greatly to her surprise, accepted her mother’s offer of a cup of coffee without hesitation, despite her discouraging: ‘Thanks, I’ll see you at three o’clock,’ as he had stopped outside her home. She excused herself at once, saying that she had to wash her hair, an operation she dawdled over until she heard the Range Rover being driven away.

Her sisters had been as good as their word; the blue pleated skirt looked as good as new, her cardigan had been washed and pressed to perfection and there was a small pile of blouses with a little note begging her to borrow what she wanted, ending with the hope that she would find time to buy some new clothes. She smiled as she packed them; Cora and Marian, both so fashion-conscious, had never understood why she hadn’t bothered much with clothes. She supposed it was because she had felt she would be quite unable to compete. To please them she would take them both shopping and allow them to advise her as to a completely new wardrobe. Rather a waste, for no one would notice her, but at least they wouldn’t look at her like the Professor had done that morning…

After lunch she changed into a jersey two-piece, a little old for her but suitable for a typist, she considered. And she combed her mousy hair smooth so that it fell on either side of her face almost to her shoulders. This done, she studied her reflection in the pier-glass in her room; it gave her no satisfaction at all, nor did her father’s remark that she looked very neat do anything to improve her ego, although her mother bolstered it up again by declaring that her make-up was just right and hadn’t she lost weight in the last week or so?