by Betty Neels
She took a long time getting ready for bed, and once there, picked up a book from the night table, sure that she would never sleep at once. She did, of course, the book slipping from her nerveless hands within five minutes.
CHAPTER THREE
POLLY, much refreshed by a sound night’s sleep and tea and biscuits, was at her desk by eight o’clock the next morning. She would work for half an hour or more, she had decided, and then go out into the garden or even stroll down the lane at the end of the drive. Luckily the next chapter was a comparison between Greek and Roman weights and measures and money, something she had studied with her father during the winter evenings. She was well away when the door opened and the Professor walked in. She paused in her typing, put a finger on the page to mark where she was and said good morning.
His own ‘good morning’ was without warmth. He looked put out, she thought, as he stalked across the little room and planted himself in front of the desk, obscuring her view with the size of him. ‘I asked you to type Sir Ronald’s manuscript as quickly as possible; I didn’t say you were to make a slave of yourself in doing so.’ He made a kind of growling noise which she took to be indicative of his annoyance. ‘I distinctly remember suggesting nine till five o’clock, but here you are at barely eight o’clock in the morning with your nose on the typewriter!’ His voice had a nasty edge to it. ‘And another thing—what in the name of heaven do you mean by working until all hours at night? Padding around my house in that deplorable garment, and last night…’
He paused, glaring down his splendid nose at her, but before he could speak again: ‘Candlewick is awfully bulky,’ explained Polly chattily. ‘If I’d thought I was going to bump into you, or anyone, I’d have borrowed one of Cora’s dressing gowns. And last night,’ she went on in a reasonable voice, ‘it was something to do—I’d seen the film on TV and I didn’t like to take a book without asking you. I should have liked to have taken the dogs for a walk, but I don’t suppose you’d have liked that. I always take Shylock out in the evenings…’
‘Shylock?’ asked the Professor, almost unwillingly.
‘He likes his pound of flesh. And I start work now because I have breakfast with Diana at nine o’clock, which evens things up.’ She smiled kindly at him. ‘So you have no need to be annoyed.’
He was still frowning. ‘Did you go out at all yesterday?’
‘Well, no. I was going to ask you, do you mind if I go into the garden sometimes?’
‘You may do so whenever you wish, Polly, and it would be a good idea if you took some time off for a walk during the day—or you can use one of the bikes in the shed by the garage.’
‘Oh, good!’ She smiled at him once more, and he added as though the words were being wrung out of him:
‘I hope you’ll be happy while you are here.’
She looked surprised. ‘I can’t think why not.’ She added matter-of-factly: ‘It’s a job, isn’t it? And I can go home each weekend—besides, it won’t last all that while.’ She gave him a friendly nod. ‘Now I’m going to get on, and I expect you’ve got things to do too…’
The Professor said nothing; the expression on his face was blandly polite, but his eyes gleamed. Polly, her neat head already bent over Sir Ronald’s spiky writing, didn’t see that.
Over breakfast Diana gave her an account of the dinner party.
‘It was foul,’ she observed succinctly. ‘Deirdre’s mother and father are the utter end, they call Sam “dear boy” and I can almost hear him snarling when they do—I can’t think why he puts up with it!’
‘If he loves Deirdre I suppose he’d put up with anything,’ said Polly.
Diana turned her large eyes on to Polly. ‘Never in this world would Sam be pushed into anything, but the thing is, he’s getting on, you know, and I daresay he thinks it’s time he settled down and had a family, and since he hasn’t found his dream girl I suppose he’ll settle for anyone suitable.’
‘How very coldblooded,’ said Polly severely, ‘and he must have met heaps of girls.’
‘Of course he has, but none of them lasted. I just wish the right one would come along,’ Diana sighed as she buttered toast. ‘He’d make a good husband—he’s a super brother.’
Polly murmured in a noncommittal fashion. She had her reservations about that, but she could hardly say so.
Presently she went back to the little room and buried herself in Sir Ronald’s rolling periods.
Diana would be out for lunch. She popped her head round the door after an hour or so, remarked that coffee was on its way and would Polly like to have lunch at the usual time. ‘And I’ll be back for tea—we’ll have it together.’
She was gone, leaving an impression of an elegant outfit, delicious scent and perfect make-up behind her. Polly sat idle for a few minutes; when she had finished this job, she would really buy a super outfit, have her hair done and get Cora or Marian to show her how to make up properly. And hard on these resolutions came a faint idea that she was no longer willing to stay at home, waiting for authors to ask her to type their manuscripts. She wanted to do something—something useful; meet other people, fill her days… It wasn’t that she didn’t love her home any more; it was a deep-down feeling of restlessness. She dismissed it for the moment; time enough to make plans when she had finished her work on Sir Ronald’s book.
After lunch she went into the garden and found it was a great deal larger than she had thought it to be. At the back of the house the formal flower beds and lawns melted into a partly wild garden which in its turn joined a small copse, reached by a bridge over a narrow stream and a rustic gate. Polly was charmed; it was exactly the kind of garden she liked most, and on her way back, still exploring, she discovered a good-sized swimming pool tucked away behind a beech hedge. Not yet in use, she guessed, although there was a charming little hut beside it, used for changing, she supposed. It would be heaven to swim in the early mornings in the summer and then go back to the house and eat one of Bessy’s magnificent breakfasts.
She got a good deal of work done before Diana returned home, and once they had had tea, she went back to her desk, despite Diana’s protests. The chapter was a long one and she intended having at least half of it done, ready for the Professor to check in the morning.
All the same, mindful of his remarks earlier that day, she put the cover on the typewriter as the clock struck six and went up to her room. She was uncertain what to wear, but she certainly couldn’t go down to dinner in a blouse and skirt. She showered and got into a brushed cotton dress, an off-the-peg model from a multiple store and, despite its cheapness, pretty. And then, since it was still barely seven o’clock, she slipped on a cardigan and went quietly downstairs and out into the garden.
It was a beautiful evening, but cool. She walked through the wilder end and crossed the bridge and went into the copse. It was very quiet there; she stood still and listened to the birds and then wandered on. The Professor was lucky to have such peace so near his home, although probably he had neither the time nor the inclination to enjoy it.
She was mistaken. Halfway along the path, well and truly into the trees, Mustard and Toby came tearing towards her, barking wildly, and strolling behind them, the Professor.
He stopped in front of her with a polite: ‘Good evening, Polly,’ then turned about to walk beside her. ‘Pleasant after a hard day’s work, isn’t it?’ he observed blandly, and Polly, not sure if he meant a hard day’s work for her or for him, agreed.
‘I see you’re getting on well with the typing,’ he remarked. ‘Let me see, how many more chapters have we to do?’
She rather took exception to the ‘we’, but since he was disposed to be so friendly she said merely: ‘Six, and the glossary.’
‘Which will take considerably longer than a chapter. Three weeks’ work, do you suppose?’
‘I’ll do my best—perhaps I can do it in less.’
‘Naturally you want to get finished as quickly as possible. Have you any plans for the fu
ture?’
He asked the question in so casual a manner that she answered at once. ‘No—at least, I intend to do something, but I’m not sure what.’
They had reached a fork in the path and he took her arm for a moment and guided her to the left. ‘There’s a small stream at the end,’ he explained. ‘We can walk along the bank and return down the other side.’
The stream was clear and shallow and fast-flowing, and as they stood by it they could hear the gentle plop! as the water-rats and voles slipped into it from their holes. ‘There’s a kingfisher here,’ observed the Professor quietly, ‘but you have to come early in the morning to see it.’ He glanced down at her intent face. ‘We should be getting back, I think.’
Dinner was a pleasant meal with conversation which gave Polly no clue as to the Professor’s life or work. True, Deirdre was mentioned once or twice, but in such general terms that she learned nothing more than she already knew. It was at the end of the meal, as they were crossing the hall to the drawing room to have their coffee, that the Professor said: ‘I have to go to Wells Court this weekend, Polly. I’ll give you a lift. Would early, and I mean early—Saturday morning—suit you? I had intended going down on Friday evening, but I’d forgotten that Deirdre had asked me to take her to see some friends.’
‘Well, thank you, that would be super. What time is early?’
‘Seven o’clock, before breakfast.’
‘Oh, well, yes—that’s fine.’ She drank her coffee and got to her feet. ‘I’ll say goodnight. I usually go to bed quite early.’
He opened the door for her. ‘Of course I’ll bring you back on Sunday evening,’ he told her as she went past him.
She didn’t see him again until quite late on Friday afternoon, driving up to the house just as she was gathering together the last of another chapter. She waited a few minutes until she heard him go upstairs, followed by the dogs, then she went along to the study, laid the sheets on his desk and went back again to the little room she now considered hers. There was time to glance through the next chapter, the eras of Greek and Roman literature, and set everything for Monday morning. It was going to be a long one, starting well before 400 BC and then, under headings, ending at around 150 AD. It was stuffed with names, too, which would slow her down at typing. And there were four more chapters after that one. She resolved to work a little longer each day. The Professor was anxious for her to finish. She was perhaps tiresome to have in the house, even though he was away all day, and besides, she told herself firmly, she wanted to be finished too—as quickly as possible. It was almost eight o’clock by the time she had read all she wanted; she would have barely ten minutes in which to shower and change her dress. She raced upstairs, to bump into Professor Gervis coming down, very elegant in his dinner jacket. She paused just long enough to say: ‘I’m late—so sorry, I was reading…the rest of the chapter’s on your desk.’
He put out a long arm and caught her lightly. ‘I did say that you were to work from nine to five o’clock?’ he queried gently.
‘Yes—yes, you did, and I do mostly.’ She smiled at him. ‘I hope you have a pleasant evening.’
He let her go. ‘I hope so too,’ he muttered.
She was in the hall on the stroke of seven o’clock the next morning but he was there before her. And at her quick: ‘I’m late…’ reassured her with: ‘No, I took the dogs for a run.’
It was a bright May morning and Polly, in a jersey shirt-waister, not high fashion but suiting her well enough, settled back into the luxury of the Bentley. The Professor, she could see, was disposed to be friendly, and somehow in a sweater and slacks he looked quite approachable. They talked when they felt like it in an easy fashion, and it wasn’t until they were in the front of her house that Polly realised that he hadn’t said one word about himself. She wasn’t by nature a curious girl, but now she felt the strongest urge to discover as much as possible about him—perhaps it was that which prompted her to invite him in for breakfast. ‘But only if you want to,’ she added carefully.
‘There’s nothing I should like better,’ he told her, then stood quietly by when the door opened and Polly flung herself at her mother.
The whole family sat round the table, all talking at once while they ate the bacon and eggs and toast and marmalade which Mrs Talbot produced. They drank the enormous teapot dry too, and Polly, remembering the elegant silver coffee pot on the breakfast table and the calm of the Professor’s house, wondered if he was really enjoying himself as much as he appeared to be. Certainly he was making himself quite at home, and once the meal was finished, he went off to Mr Talbot’s study to look at some book or other they had been discussing. Polly, drying cups and saucers, expressed her surprise to her mother. ‘You’d think he’d want to get to Wells Court as soon as possible,’ she said in a puzzled voice.
Mrs Talbot said, ‘Um,’ thoughtfully, then asked: ‘He mentioned his fiancée—why isn’t she here too?’
‘I’ve no idea—perhaps it was a bit early in the morning.’
Mrs Talbot rinsed a plate carefully. ‘Time doesn’t matter when you’re in love, darling.’
‘Yes, but Deirdre—his fiancée—isn’t like that, Mother. She’s quite perfect, and far too thin. I don’t like her.’
‘Well, no, my dear, I hardly expect you to.’ An obscure remark which Polly only half heard, for the Professor and her father were in the hall and a moment later in the kitchen.
‘I’ll fetch you about half past seven on Sunday evening, Polly,’ said the Professor. He spoke pleasantly, but he sounded, and looked remote.
No sooner had he gone than Cora and Marian rushed at her. ‘Lucky you, even if he is going to get married! You’re coming into Pulchester now, this minute, and you’re going to buy some clothes. That thing you’re wearing is at least two years old. Have you got any money?’
Polly said yes, she had, and prudently halved the amount, adding that while she was perfectly willing to buy some clothes, they were to be the kind she could wear every day, and how were they to get to Pulchester anyway?
Cora’s current boy-friend had a car; by lunchtime Polly had spent all the money she had allowed herself and under her sisters’ critical eyes had bought a cotton skirt and blouse in a pleasing shade of pink, a sleeveless dress in cream jersey with a knitted jacket in all colours of the rainbow and a pair of rather frivolous sandals, not at all her usual kind. Her sisters exchanged glances and said nothing, nor did they question her wish to buy a dressing gown, on the plea that the candlewick was too warm. They encouraged her to choose a flimsy trifle the colour of apricots and pooled what they had in their purses to get her matching slippers. Undoubtedly little Polly had woken up to the fact that pretty clothes did make a difference, especially if she was wanting to attract attention to herself. They plied her with discreet questions on their way home, and were disappointed to hear that she rarely saw the Professor and that when she did, they almost always fell out over something or other. ‘That’s why,’ Polly assured them earnestly, ‘I’m trying to get finished just as quickly as I can. It’s lovely being there— I mean, the house is heavenly, and my bedroom is out of this world and the food is super, and I like Diana, but Professor Gervis will be glad when I’ve gone, I’m sure. He looks at me as though I oughtn’t to be there, if you know what I mean.’
Her sisters exchanged another look and began to question her closely about Deirdre. They did it so well that Polly answered all their questions readily enough, even repeating what the horrid creature had said when they had been introduced.
‘Not his type at all,’ observed Cora thoughtfully. ‘I wonder how he got caught?’
‘Caught? You can’t catch someone like the Professor,’ declared Polly.
‘The cleverest of men are quite often fools,’ said Marian.
It was Sunday evening far too soon. Polly packed her new clothes, took Shylock for a long walk after tea, then sat down to wait for the Professor. He arrived exactly at seven o’clock, spent five minutes in a
friendly desultory talk with her family, all of whom he found at home, ushered her into the Bentley, and drove off. Polly waved until they reached the corner and then sat back.
‘You enjoyed your weekend?’ he wanted to know.
‘Oh, yes. Did you enjoy yours?’
‘I had some things to clear up for Sir Ronald.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry; you couldn’t have had much fun, then.’
‘And what do you mean by fun, Polly?’ he asked pleasantly, so that she was emboldened to explain:
‘Well, being happy, taking the dogs out or riding or pottering round talking to people, or just sitting with the Sunday papers.’
‘All on my own?’
She looked at him in some surprise. ‘But there were people there…’
‘Sometimes I would rather be on my own.’
‘I expect you miss your fiancée. She’s very—very…’ Polly paused, seeking the right word.
‘She is acknowledged as the local belle—a word I use for want of a more modern one.’
‘Well, you must be very proud of her.’ She turned to smile at him and met a blank stare which had the effect of putting her immediately in her place, and if that wasn’t enough, he began to question her about her work. They talked about that, off and on, for the rest of the drive.
It was quite a relief to find Diana waiting for them when they arrived, ready to talk for the three of them.
At dinner she told her brother that Deirdre had telephoned that morning. ‘She wants to see you—she didn’t say why, but she sounded cross.’
‘In that case I’d better go over and see what it’s all about.’ There was nothing in his face to show annoyance, but Polly had the idea that he was angry. None of her business, she warned herself, spent half an hour with Diana and went to bed.
She was up early and since it was a lovely morning she went out into the garden, carefully going in the other direction to the dogs bark. She was making her way, circumspectly, to the house when she heard the car drive off.
