Polly Put the Kettle On

by Hilary Bailey

  ‘Is that really why Bec’s suing him? Just because he’s trying to legalize pot and stuff?’

  ‘What do you think?’ Burns said, speeding carelessly through a scout troop. ‘Please be quiet, I’m depressed.’

  ‘You want to clobber him, Poll’, Clancy said.

  Polly sighed and despaired. She had the magazine now, a campaign to get under way, a husband in prison facing trials on two different counts, three children, no money and a lover she loved but was uncertain of. Clancy’s hand crept into hers.

  ‘I’ll help you, Poll’, he said. ‘Everyone will rally round. I’ll pay for an au pair for you. There’s a girl I met in the bin.’

  ‘First I’ve heard of you having any money’, Polly said suspiciously.

  ‘I’ve got two hundred pounds. I’ll pay the au pair and the electric bill and that’s the lot. You’ll have to go to the Social Security for the rest.’

  Max sat, staring doubtfully, at the passing countryside. None of this was what he’d imagined when night after night, he had dreamed of having a real mum and dad. Another long-standing, and associated, idea came to him.

  ‘Can I,’ he said, ‘have a dog?’

  ‘Yes, Max,’ said Clancy, ‘you can have a dog!’

  Relieved, but with a remaining core of distrust and unease Max put his arm round little Sue, who sat on his lap, and said, ‘Hear that, Sue? We can have a dog.’

  ‘That doggie will bite me’, the little girl said, bursting into tears.

  ‘Can you keep her quiet, Poll?’ asked Burns. ‘I’m still depressed.’

  ‘Oh, that’s too bad for you’, murmured Polly in a resentful undertone. ‘We’re laughing ourselves sick here.’

  If the trip out had been fun, the journey back made up for it amply by being horrible.

  In bed again, feeling the disgraceful sog of rolled-up sheet under her, the evidence of oh so many hours of conscienceless fucking while Alexander mouldered in jail, Polly thought, surely it doesn’t matter if Alexander is a hero or a villain, surely it doesn’t? She had already checked that all the band would be there next day for the recording. She was working on the statement of aims for the campaign to legalize pot and the hallucinogens LSD and mescalin. Wasn’t that enough? she asked herself.

  Next day she would go to the recording studio, and go on to see Lord Bec in the afternoon to try to get him to drop the case. Could any more be asked of her? The damp sheets, sleeping Clancy, answered yes. No, she shouted, no, no, no.

  In the old house Pam and Sue slept, dreaming of the landscapes between London and Southampton. Max, who had woken up, was eating the secret Mars Bar from under his pillow and studying the wagtail family in his bird book. Where, he wondered, were they going to send him to school? Perhaps he should mention it. If he didn’t, would they forget about it completely—this was obviously a household where anything, within a certain range, could happen. It would be safer to go out tomorrow morning and ask the librarian at the public library where the local primary schools were, visit them and make his own choice. Then, when the question arose, he could tell them where he was going. That might be a pied wagtail he had seen coming out from under the guttering this morning when they left. There wasn’t any bread for breakfast: perhaps he should get some before he went to the library. He hadn’t, he realized, got a real mum and dad at all, more like an older brother and sister—the truth was, Mum, Grandma that is, was his real mum, Polly was really his older sister. Gwen, the cat next door, didn’t recognize her own son when she saw him. It made you think. That wagtail must be nesting. He didn’t think he’d be going back to Brixton next day.

  Tracy and Toddy, on their cushions, slept heavily. The new au pair, Julia, tossed and dreamed Valium dreams. The addict under the piano stared up, imagining the keyboard.

  Mrs Traill lay awake, working out that Alexander was in prison and Polly broke, determining not to pay the rent on Friday. She decided to get up and make herself a nice cup of tea, but fell asleep to dream of a crucifixion, of hellfire, of the way her sister Cynthia’s dead baby had looked.

  Lord Bee lived in a flat in a tree-lined street of high red buildings in St James’s. Polly, hurrying through the warm gusts, holding Tracy’s purple umbrella aloft, stared up at the ground-floor win dows as she passed, checking the curtains—brocade and chintz—standard lamps, paintings on the walls—ancestral portraits or landscapes. A well-heeled lot of tenants, as might be expected. There was a carpeted hall, a commissionaire, a civil enquiry about her destination, a watchfulness as she went into the lift. Was she about to plant a bomb on the mistress of the Minister of the Interior, perhaps, or spray paint slogans on the fourth floor landing, or try to sell insurance or indulge in untoward political canvassing? There was, she decided, something smelling of conclaves, manoeuvrings, civil service secret government, the corridors of power, hanging about the building. From its higher windows the people going past might easily look like cannon fodder, like crowds round the factory gate looking for work, like rioters. She pressed the doorbell in a partisan frame of mind.

  It was opened by a tall, handsome man in his fifties, black hair tinged with grey, square horn-rimmed spectacles, keen brown eyes, a defined nose.

  ‘Lord Peck?’ Polly said in confusion, having associated him with the film star in some of his later roles.

  He looked puzzled, but agreed.

  ‘You must be Mrs Kops. Do come in.’ He was wearing, she noticed, some natty navy trousers, a green shirt and matching Marks and Spencer’s sweater. And yellow espadrilles. The hall was pale, with a Picasso, the room into which he led her was carpeted in pale green, done out in swishy cream leathers and glass. There was not a chintz, not a book, not a television in sight. The blinds were drawn. A pipe and brandy glass stood on a low table with a copy of Nova.

  ‘I should have taken your coat. Never mind.’ He put it on the sofa. ‘What about a drink?’ Polly asked for whisky.

  ‘Well,’ he said then, ‘are you warm enough? Let’s put this on.’ He put on a fan heater which stood in the fireplace. ‘I don’t feel the cold myself.’ He looked at Polly in her skinny sweater and skirt.

  ‘Well’, she said, wanting to show initiative. ‘Here we are.’

  ‘Yes, indeed’, he said, seeming pleased. ‘Do you work much with your husband?’

  ‘Not a lot. I have two children and I write children’s books.’

  ‘Ah, I see.’

  ‘On the other hand,’ she continued, ‘I shall have to take a hand now, since he’s in prison facing drugs charges.’

  ‘I’ve heard about that’, he said. ‘You’ll know I’m not in favour of drugs.’

  ‘Yes, I do know. I’m also in charge of getting Alexander’s campaign going.’

  He smiled. ‘Quite a lot for you to do, then?’

  ‘Too much’, she said. She had declared her enmity, countered any suggestion that the drinks, the fire, the comfortable sofa were going to make her friendly, compromising or a mere paper enemy.

  He looked at her again, appraisingly. Come on, my proud filly. Oh, Sir Jasper, oh.

  ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘Just off Portobello Road’, she said.

  ‘An interesting area.’

  ‘Very interesting. Now—frankly—I wondered if you would agree to drop your case if I printed a full apology in Gorilla? I honestly can’t face two cases against Alexander—nor, of course, can he. I realize he should never have said those things about you when they weren’t true. I can’t apologize personally on his behalf since I didn’t know what he was doing, but I certainly think it’s only just to print an apology—’

  ‘Oh, no,’ Lord Bec said, ‘I can’t agree to that.’

  He poured her another whisky. As he gave it to her she said, ‘But, Lord Bec, surely you don’t want the damages, even if Alexander could pay them, which I assure you he can’t. No one reads Gorilla, you must realize that. A handful of students—my God, you’d have been more libelled if what he said about you had been chalked up on
a wall in Cockfosters tube station. More people would have read it, anyway. So if it’s a question of clearing your name—’

  He was standing near her. ‘I don’t imagine my name, good or otherwise, has been much affected by what your husband printed about me. It’s simply that he is beginning a campaign to legalize certain drugs—a campaign, an idea, to which I’m very much opposed. I’m sorry to say the campaign is being supported in certain quarters. Now, your husband’s first move was to try and discredit me personally—since he knows I’ll lead the opposition in the House of Lords and now as it happens in the Cabinet. I don’t suppose you’ve heard the news today?’

  Polly who had spent her morning and half the afternoon in the recording studio having her ears blasted out, said she had not. She began to feel tired and wish she was at home.

  ‘The Prime Minister has just announced I’m to be appointed Home Secretary.’

  ‘Congratulations’, said Polly, staring rabbit-like at this powerful man of affairs.

  ‘Thank you’, he said.

  Polly sighed. ‘I would have thought,’ she said, ‘with all that power you wouldn’t have felt the need to reach out and crush Alexander for his little bit of spite in an unread magazine. Aren’t you going to win anyway?’

  ‘Are you a gardener, Mrs Kops?’

  ‘No’, she said helplessly. He seemed twenty feet tall, like a huge bronze statue, standing there.

  ‘All right. You are, presumably, a housewife. What I’m trying to say is that in gardening a spray here, a nip in the bud there, keep matters easily under control. It’s the same with housekeeping—a stitch in time saves nine, all that. I am busy. I shall be more busy. My aim is to stop your husband from getting his campaign under way before he starts. Of course it now seems that he will be stopped anyway. Even so I shall proceed.’ He fixed her with his eyes. Polly felt tiny, sitting there in her skimpy yellow jumper, like a child. She pulled herself together and stood up. At the same time he took a pace forward so that they stood nearly nose to nose.

  ‘I suppose I’d better go,’ she told him, ‘there seems little more to be said.’

  ‘Not so fast’, he said. ‘Mrs Kops—what’s your first name?’

  ‘Polly.’ He took her in his arms, removed his glasses with one practised swoop, put them on the low glass table and kissed her. A lean, hard body came against hers, a firm hand grasped one buttock. He pulled her against him, his long tongue pushed into her mouth.

  She struggled and freed her mouth. ‘No, Lord Bec’, she said. He tightened both hands on her buttocks and pushed his pelvis in hers. She could feel his cock. She stared at him in astonishment, feeling a warm tide beginning to flow through her. And perhaps she could gain a reprieve for Alexander. He kissed her again, ground against her. She felt her skirt rise up and her tights coming down. Cold air flooded her from waist to knee. She was now trapped by the tights and there came a moment of decision—to remove the tights or suddenly break free, seize them and haul them back into their proper position. But Bec was on his knees, kissing her between the legs, thrusting his tongue into her cunt, and, simultaneously, drawing the tights down to her ankles. She could now fall over him, catch him off balance, slip sideways on to the floor, jump up quickly—Bec pulled her sideways and was on top of her, unzipping his fly. With her back on the ground, her shoulder-blades biting the carpet, Polly trapped at the ankles by the tights, skirt round her waist, felt chilled and bullied. She twisted. ‘No’, she said. He had her by the shoulders.

  ‘No?’ he said threateningly. He smiled. ‘Polly,’ he said winningly, ‘I could help you.’ As she hesitated, he put his cock in and began to surge. Torn between horror and lust with intermittent pictures rising before her of herself, skirt up, tights down still with her shoes on, and Lord Bec, with his pants and trousers at his knees humping away on the floor, Polly either submitted or co-operated, second by second, at one moment trying to get up and being pushed down again by her partner, at another moving with him.

  Somehow it was over, and Polly, with the semen chilling on her thighs, stared up at him.

  He kissed her on the mouth and said, ‘You’re so sweet—pretty as a picture.’

  She shut her mouth and said in a low voice, ‘I don’t know quite how that happened.’

  ‘Ah—these things do, though, don’t they?’ he said in a friendly voice. ‘And isn’t life the better for them? Now, let’s get up off this hard floor and I’ll get you a glass of champagne—to celebrate, let’s say.’

  And he was gone. Polly rose slowly and pulled up her tights, pulled down her skirt, shook her hair about, and sat down weakly. He was back, two champagne glasses in one hand held deftly between his fingers, a bottle of Bollinger in the other and a napkin over his shoulder. The glasses he put down.

  ‘Aha’, he said with satisfaction. As the cork popped out, he pulled the napkin smartly off his shoulder and trapped the liquid foaming from the neck of the bottle.

  ‘Neatly done’, observed Polly in a flat voice as he handed her the glass.

  ‘The product of years of practice’, he said. ‘Well,’ and he clinked his glass on hers, ‘here’s to crime.’

  Polly drank silently and then set her glass down. ‘I think I’ll go now’, she said.

  ‘Of course. If you feel you must. It’s been a great pleasure.’

  ‘Congratulations on your appointment’, she said in a monotone. ‘Goodbye.’

  ‘I hope we meet again’, he said, with a twinkle in his eye.

  ‘At the trial’, she said.

  ‘Oh—the trial’, he said negligently. ‘Anyway, now I have your phone number.’

  ‘It’ll be nice to hear from you’, she said and walked out, he following.

  There was a click, and the front door opened. Polly observed, in her dazed and disconnected state, that a middle-aged woman, tall, thin and erect, appeared in the doorway. She was fair-haired and heavily made up in pink and white. She wore a blue suit in light tweed, wore navy kid gloves and carried a well-polished navy handbag in one hand. In the other she had a cake-box tied up with coloured string. She stared with dislike first at Polly’s hair, then at her Afghan coat.

  ‘Harriet, this is Polly Kops’, said Lord Bec. ‘Mrs Kops—my wife, Harriet. We’ve just been chatting about this trial.’

  ‘How very useful’, said Lady Bec, her Harrods cake in her hand and icy disdain on her face. ‘I hope you came to a satisfactory conclusion. Excuse me, I must go and put this cake in the fridge. Is Mrs Markham back yet?’

  She passed Polly with a rapid step, emitting a chill like that of dry ice.

  ‘Not yet’, Lord Bec said with a wink at Polly.

  He held the door open. ‘Goodbye Mrs Kops. It’s been very nice meeting you.’

  ‘Goodbye—Jo’, Polly said in a rude voice, and left.

  She hailed a taxi, too demoralized to wait for a bus. Sitting there, her body sagging like wet newspaper, she thought: Why bring her there at all? Why have her on the carpet moments before his wife and someone else, probably the housekeeper, came back? Was he mad? It must be megalomania. Perhaps it was kinky—he could only do it on the rug with his wife coming up the stairs. She knew about it, that was for sure. Fancy disliking poor Alexander for his support of a little dope for everyone and then—well, had he or hadn’t he treated her like a call-girl, someone to fuck between meetings? It was incredible. He would suggest more meetings—perhaps everyone was like that. Probably all government ministers were. You had to admire his speed and decisiveness in gaining his ends.

  And so forth. Slowly Polly’s confusion gave way to a chilled, sick feeling. By the time she reached the house she was depressed.

  The children were happy. They had all been to the zoo. The house had been tidied. A light shone over the table, which was laid for supper. The au pair, Julia, Tracy, Toddy, Clancy, Max and the girls were sitting down to a hot, spicy-smelling casserole, French bread, peas, beans, a nice tomato salad and a bottle of wine. There was a vase of daffodils on the table
.

  Polly slunk into her place, true-to-life portrait of the daughter of the house coming home late with her knickers in her pocket.

  ‘Well? How was it?’ Tracy said briskly, ladling out the stew. ‘Is he calling it off?’

  ‘No,’ said Polly, ‘he’s not.’

  Tracy put down the spoon. ‘Then why did he want to see you, for Christ’s sake?’ she asked.

  ‘Don’t ask me’, Polly said. She took a piece of bread.

  Clancy looked at her shrewdly, and said nothing. He poured her a glass of wine. ‘Drink up, eat up, cheer up’, he said. ‘The recording went well. We did two tracks. I was very good. Everybody loved me. Alexander’s songs are nice too.’

  ‘It’ll be a hit’, Toddy said. ‘Number one.’

  ‘That’s something, then’, Polly said. ‘It’ll probably just cover the damages to Lord Bec and Maurice Burns’s fees.’

  ‘Why don’t we go and do him over?’ Toddy said. ‘I like punching up the nobs.’

  Clancy put his head on one side. ‘Is he very strong?’ he asked Polly.

  ‘Oh yes. He’s very strong’, she said.

  ‘I think I’ll go round and punch him in the mouth, then’, Clancy said.

  ‘Leave it a day or two’, said Polly. ‘Perhaps he’ll change his mind about suing Alexander.’

  ‘Who wants a Coke?’ said Tracy. The food was delicious, the children very well behaved. When the dishes were cleared and the coffee on, Clancy produced a Harrods cake. Polly winced at the sight, seeing Lady Bec’s thin gloved hand holding the string. But she ate some, just the same.

  That evening they watched TV. Toddy and Clancy were very tired.

  ‘He conned you, I suppose?’ Clancy said. ‘Lord Bec’, he added.

  ‘Looks like it, doesn’t it?’ Polly said. ‘At one point he said something about it helping.’

  ‘Crafty bugger’, said Clancy.

  ‘You’d expect that, I suppose,’ Polly told him, ‘I mean—he’s a government minister now.’

  And there he was, as large as life, on ITV News, wearing a suit and answering questions. Polly shut her eyes to blot him out.