The Perfect Solution

by Catherine George

  'I'm listening,' said Joanna, who had regretted her outburst almost the moment it was made.

  'Do you have a solicitor?' he asked.

  'I generally leave money matters to Jim Fowler, Paul's financial adviser. He's an old friend.'

  Marc nodded. 'I've already been in contact with him over the will. Would he agree to a meeting between the three of us? In the role of Polly's trustee I'd like some kind of contract drawn up and ratified, with your role—and mine—clearly defined where my niece is concerned.'

  'I'll arrange it,' said Joanna promptly. 'If he can get down here this evening perhaps the three of us can thrash it out over dinner.'

  'Are you asking me to break bread with you, Mrs Clifford?' he asked drily. 'I thought personal contact was to be minimal.'

  Joanna's chin lifted. 'Mr Anstey, I'm sorry I was so outspoken the other day. My—my emotions were still pretty raw right then. I've had time to think since, and I realise that it would be very bad for Polly if you and I remain hostile to each other.'

  'You were hostile, Mrs Clifford, not me.'

  Joanna fought down her resentment. 'And I'm trying hard not to be now,' she said tightly. 'What I'm saying is, shall we start again? If not as friends, at least as two people prepared to make the best of a difficult situation.'

  'I'll go for that.' Marc Anstey gave her a faint smile which metamorphosed almost at once into a mammoth yawn.

  'You look tired,' commented Joanna.

  'Polly wakes up in the night crying for her mother.' He shot a sombre look at her. 'Will you be able to cope with that?'

  Joanna ignored a sudden rush of panic. 'I'll do my utmost to cope, I promise. I know none of it will be easy, Mr Anstey ‑'

  'It might be just a bit easier if you call me Marc.'

  'All right. You know I'm Joanna.'

  'Yes. I know.'

  There was a pause while each took stock of the other. Then Marc gave her a twisted smile. 'A shame we had to meet under such bloody awful circumstances.'

  'Amen to that,' agreed Joanna bleakly. 'Shall we get Polly out of the car?'

  After her nap Polly was sleepy and irritable until she realised she was back in the house with the orchard. The discovery smoothed over the initial stages as the child ran through the house and out into the garden to play there for a while before lunch.

  'Does this mean I'm bidden to two meals today?' enquired Marc suavely, eyeing the three places laid at the kitchen table.

  Joanna turned away to take hot rolls from the oven. 'I haven't contacted Jim yet. Dinner tonight depends on him.'

  Lunch was a difficult meal. Polly, deeply disappointed because Doris was missing, refused to eat more than a spoonful or two of the vegetable soup, which she pronounced different from the soup Mamma made.

  'Will Mamma make soup in heaven?' she asked Marc, who looked as though he'd been kicked in the stomach.

  'Of course she will, cara,' he said gruffly. A pulse throbbed at the corner of his mouth as he fed her a morsel of hot buttered roll. 'The angels will love Mamma's soup. Not,' he added hastily, 'that Joanna's soup isn't delicious.'

  Joanna smiled brightly. 'Just different,' she agreed. 'You wouldn't have any recipes, I suppose?'

  'Don't worry. It might be best to do your own thing right from the start.'

  After lunch the moment Joanna had been dreading came all too soon. Marc, obviously ready to drop, said goodbye to Polly before departing for a rest in his room at the Lamb and Rag. The little girl stared at him incredulously, tears welling up in her dark eyes.

  'Want to come too!' she clamoured hoarsely, clinging to his hand like grim death. 'Marco ‑'

  'No, Polly,' he said coaxingly. 'You stay herewith Joanna. I'll see you later. I promise.'

  The ensuing scene was every bit as bad as Joanna had feared. Worse, she thought in desperation, as she hung on to a hysterical little girl once Marc Anstey had torn himself away, his face pale and drawn as he gunned his car down the drive.

  Joanna managed to get the screaming, kicking child indoors, then struggled upstairs with her to a small bedroom at the back of the house. She sat down on the bed with the distraught child in her arms, rocking Polly back and forth, murmuring soothing, wordless noises of comfort for a very long time before the exhausted child lapsed into normal tears. Her head burrowed against Joanna's shoulder at last as she wept, the small body shaken by the occasional hiccup as the storm of weeping gradually died away. Joanna, utterly shattered, smoothed a trembling hand over the tangled black curls, her other arm holding Polly close. At last she turned the swollen, forlorn face up to hers and smiled tenderly.

  'Polly. I want you to listen to me.'

  She felt the little body tense.

  'I used to know your Mamma quite well,' Joanna began with care. 'So before Mamma had to go to heaven, she asked your Uncle Marc ‑'

  'Marco,' corrected Polly hoarsely.

  Joanna bit her lip. 'Right. Marco. She asked him to give you to me to look after.'

  A quiver ran through the small body. 'Why?' demanded Polly.

  'Because I don't have a little girl, you see. Your Mamma knew I wanted one. So she gave you to me. Won't you stay with me so I won't be lonely any more?'

  'Marco too?' asked Polly hopefully.

  Joanna blinked. 'Your uncle's job means he has to be in America a lot, so he can't live here. But he can come and see you whenever he wants, I promise. Look. Cross my heart!'

  Polly's forehead creased in a frown while her dazed little mind grappled with the new idea. Joanna waited, tense, then at long last the curly black head nodded slowly, one small shoulder lifting in exact imitation of her uncle.

  'Suppose so,' said Polly listlessly, then brightened. 'Doris? Will I see Doris if I live with you?'

  'Most days,' Joanna promised. 'She helps me with the house.'

  Polly sat up, beginning to take in her surroundings. Her eyes went from the pictures of Winnie-the-Pooh on the wall, to the row of battered teddy bears sitting on a shelf, then opened saucer-wide as they saw the doll's house in the corner. 'Does a little girl live here?'

  Joanna let Polly get down to explore. 'Not now. This used to be my room when I was a little girl like you.'

  Polly looked surprised. 'Yours?'

  'Yes. If you open that chest over there you'll find more toys. They used to be mine, but you can have them now. If you like,' added Joanna casually.

  But Polly wasn't listening. Her attention was riveted on the large Victorian doll's house filled from kitchen to attic with miniature nineteenth-century furniture. She turned to Joanna in wonder. 'Yours, too?'

  'Yes. My daddy made it for me.'

  Polly looked wistful. 'I haven't got a daddy.'

  Joanna's heart stood still. 'Haven't you, darling?'

  'No. Only Marco—and Uncle Paul.'

  Joanna swallowed. 'Uncle Paul?'

  Polly nodded absently, her attention on the wonders of the doll's house. 'He came to our house a lot. But he's gone to heaven now too.'

  Deciding it was dangerous to continue the conversation without advice from Marc Anstey, Joanna showed Polly how to unfasten the wall of the doll's house to reveal the rooms inside. 'Would you like to play up here for a minute while I make a telephone call?'

  'Can I take out the dollies?' entreated Polly.

  'Yes, of course. Only they like to go back in their places afterwards. When I come back I'll tell you their names, if you like.'

  The child nodded fervently, then turned back to the house, her small hands reverent as she lifted the baby doll out of the cradle.

  Joanna flew to her bedroom and whisked her wedding photograph into a drawer. Then she went systematically through the entire house, removing what few traces of Paul she could find. Her relationship with Polly was likely to be so fragile and difficult for a while that she had no intention of allowing Paul to make life any more difficult than he had already, for Polly's sake as well as her own.

  Afterwards Joanna rang Jim Fowler to ask him to dinner.
He promised to be with her by eight after he'd been to visit his wife in the hospital.

  'What's up, Jo?' he asked uneasily. 'Anstey kicking up rough?'

  'No. He just wants everything on a legal footing. I think it's a good idea,' she added firmly. 'See you tonight, Jim.'

  She rang the Lamb and Flag, left a message to the effect that the appointment Mr Anstey required had been made, then went back to Polly to suggest they unpack Polly's belongings and put them away.

  'Tell you what,' said Joanna. 'Once we've done that I'll take the doll's house down to the kitchen and put it on the table there if you like. I've got a friend coming to dinner, your uncle too, so I've got to get busy.'

  Polly assented rapturously, trotting back and forth industriously as they put her clothes away. Joanna's heart contracted as she hung up little dresses exquisitely smocked and embroidered by a loving hand that could only have belonged to Rosa. When everything was put away and a long-maned lion lay on the bed guarding Polly's pyjamas, Joanna took the little girl on a tour of the upper floor, ending with one of the bathrooms, where Polly needed only a little assistance before they went back to collect the doll's house.

  Later, as rain lashed against the kitchen windows, Joanna was conscious of an unexpected feeling of peace as she glanced across at the absorbed child from time to time. As she made her preparations for dinner it occurred to her that fate had given her a child of Paul's after all. But in the last way she would have wished.

  Once the vegetables were done and the pork tenderloin stood absorbing its flavours of garlic and mustard, ready to cook later, Joanna sat down at the kitchen table to tell Polly the names the youthful Joanna had given her dolls. To a child of the nineties some of the names were very funny. When Polly laughed Joanna rejoiced. If Polly could laugh now and then things wouldn't be too bad. Not, she thought, that she had any delusions about being a substitute for Rosa Anstey. Nor had she any intention of trying to take Rosa's place, even if such a thing were possible. It was essential that she create a role of her own where Polly was concerned.

  The first argument arose over the subject of supper. None of Joanna's suggestions appealed to Polly in the slightest.

  'You must eat,' said Joanna briskly. 'You hardly had any lunch.'

  'Not hungry,' Polly said.

  Joanna shrugged. 'OK.'

  Polly, plainly expecting to be coaxed, looked taken aback. Her eyes were baffled as Joanna dropped the subject and helped her put all the dolls back in their places in their house.

  'Bathtime now,' announced Joanna.

  'Don't want a bath,' said Polly, eyeing her.

  Joanna returned the bright black stare serenely. 'You can go without supper if you like, Polly, but in my house you can't go without a bath. Only clean little girls sleep in my beds. OK?'

  Something in Joanna's manner decided Polly not to argue. She sighed gustily. 'OK.'

  Matters improved slightly at bathtime, where a flotilla of battered rubber ducks were produced to liven the proceedings. Afterwards, when the little figure was clean and cosy in pyjamas and dressing-gown, her black curls gleaming, Polly unbent towards Joanna sufficiently to confide that her teddy's name was Benno and her pyjama-case was Leone.

  'Uncle Paul gave him to me,' she announced as they went downstairs, hand in hand.

  Joanna's stomach lurched. 'That's nice. Now, if you don't fancy supper, how about a glass of milk instead?'

  Polly, however, had changed her mind. If she could have scrambled eggs on toast she would have some supper.

  'Done!' said Joanna.

  With delicious smells coming from the oven, the radio playing music softly in the background, the kitchen was a bright, welcoming place as Polly ate her supper with a speed which showed a hunger she'd been determined to hide. She was halfway through a large bowl of ice-cream when her uncle arrived.

  'Good evening.' Marc Anstey's smile was a little crooked as Joanna opened the door, his eyes on the smear of flour on her cheek.

  'You're early,' she said shortly, wishing she'd thought to remove her striped butcher's apron before letting him in.

  'I thought you might need a hand with Polly.' He stopped in the kitchen doorway as a small projectile hurtled across the room and into his arms.

  'Marco, Marco, she's got a doll's house—over there—look! She did scrambled egg for me and she made me have a bath but there were ducks ‑'

  'Steady!' laughed Marc, looking vastly relieved. 'What a time you've had, tesoro. But it's not good manners to say "she" all the time.' He raised an eyebrow in Joanna's direction. 'How would you like Polly to address you?'

  'Joanna?' She smiled a little. 'Or Jo, perhaps. My friends call me that.'

  Marc held Polly away from him a little. 'How about it, Polly Wolly Doodle? Are you Joanna's friend? Will you call her Jo?'

  Polly cast a thoughtful glance in Joanna's direction, then nodded. 'Jo.' She smiled graciously.

  Marc cuddled the curly head against his shoulder, his eyes questioning as he looked at Joanna. 'All right?' he asked softly.

  She nodded. 'I think so. Drink?'

  The scene in the kitchen could have been any one of thousands like it all over the country at that time of night. The child finishing her supper, the lady of the house preparing dinner, the man of the house just returned from his day in the outside world.

  Joanna smiled in secret amusement as she handed Marc a glass of wine.

  His eyebrows rose as he thanked her. 'Our acquaintance is short, I know, but I think that's the first smile you've managed other than the lady-of-the-manor social variety.'

  Joanna turned away to check on the apples simmering on the hob set into the pine counter. 'It just struck me how strange this is. A few days ago the three of us had never laid eyes on each other. Now ‑'

  'Now here we are, the perfect picture of domesticity!'

  'To the casual observer only,' said Joanna tartly.

  Marc took a suddenly sleepy Polly on his knee and held her close, his eyes on Joanna over the dark curls. 'Funny, really, you're not in the least what I expected.'

  'You can't have known much about what to expect, surely!'

  'My sister talked about you a great deal.' He looked away. 'Rosa suffered agonies of guilt where you're concerned.'

  Joanna winced. 'I'd rather not talk about—about that, please.'

  His head swivelled, his eyes holding hers. 'You mean we just shut the past away and pretend she— and your husband—never existed?'

  'Not exactly.' Joanna looked at the now sleeping child closely. 'If the little one wants to talk about her mother we'll talk. As much as she wants. But what do I do about Paul? I'm terrified of putting my foot in it with Polly,' she whispered urgently.

  Marc nodded, comprehending. 'Show me where to put Polly to bed, then we'll sort a few things out before Fowler gets here.'

  The wear and tear on Polly's emotions over the previous few days had finally taken their toll. When Joanna conducted Marc to the small bedroom overlooking the orchard the child was too deeply asleep to stir when he slid her beneath the covers. He tucked Polly's teddy in beside her then stood looking down at the flushed, sleeping face for a moment before following Joanna from the room.

  'If we leave the door ajar we'll hear if she cries,' said Joanna, then paused at the head of the stairs. 'Dinner's well in hand. Would you go down to the drawing-room, help yourself to a drink while I tidy myself up? I shan't be long.'

  While Marc went downstairs Joanna turned back into Polly's room to move the lamp so that its faint glow was away from the child's face. Her throat tightened as she looked down at the sleeping child, and she turned away blindly, hurrying to take a swift shower and change her clothes. Resisting a surprising urge to dress in something eye-catching, she put on the black dress worn for the funeral, knowing Jim would expect a show of mourning. With sudden distaste she pushed aside the jewellery Paul had bought her. Instead she found a silver filigree butterfly her father had given her years before and pinned it to the se
vere dress, then made up her face with care and brushed back her heavy hair, securing it at the nape of her neck with a black velvet ribbon.

  Marc laid down the daily paper and stood up as she entered the softly lit drawing-room, the appreciation in his eyes very gratifying. 'You look very elegant.'

  'Thank you.' Joanna smiled politely. 'I must put my chef's hat on again for a while. Would you care to listen to some music while I put the finishing touches to the meal?'

  'No,' he said flatly. 'I prefer to watch you. Even help, if you like.'

  Joanna had never been offered help in the kitchen, other than Doris's. Not sure she cared for the idea, nor for Marc Anstey's company while she worked, she found herself flustered by the intent dark eyes which followed every move she made as she set to work.

  'Are you sure I can't peel something, or wash dishes?' he asked.

  'All done, thanks,' she said, her back to him. 'I did most of it earlier while Polly played with the doll's house.'

  There was silence for a while.

  'Joanna,' said Marc at last.

  She turned. 'Yes?'

  'Before we get bogged down in facts and figures with Fowler, I want you to know how much I appreciate what you're doing for Polly.' His eyes held hers. 'I know how hard it must be for you—in the circumstances.'

  'It's hard for all of us.' She detached her gaze with effort. 'I just hope it works out well. For Polly, I mean.'

  'Children adapt, even to loss.'

  'I know.'

  'Did you lose someone?'

  'In a way. My mother left my father before I could walk. She drowned in a sailing accident shortly afterwards with her lover. So I suppose you could say I lost her—or she lost me.'

  Marc's eyes softened. 'I see. No wonder you feel sympathy for Polly's situation.'

  Joanna shook her head as she began to roll out some suet crust. 'It's much worse for Polly. Rosa was always there for her. I never really knew my mother. My father was the centre of my little universe.'

  'You still miss him?'

  'Yes, all the time. He'd have been a great help with Polly.' Joanna spooned apple slices carefully on to the crust, wrapped it in a cloth and put it in a steamer on the hob.

  Marc watched, fascinated. 'What on earth is that?'