Polly. Betty Neels
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politeness was icy now. ‘I should be obliged if you would spare me your observations on rural communications. I realise that living in these—er—rustic conditions, time is not of paramount importance to you, but it is to me. Wells Court, if you would be so good…’
Polly gave him a pitying look. Poor man, in a rage about nothing, and in such a hurry, too. ‘You need a rest and a cup of coffee,’ she said kindly. ‘I daresay you’ve come a long way. Turn left at the bottom of this lane, cross the village square and into the lane beside the church. Wells Court is a mile along the road—you can’t miss it.’ She added a friendly goodbye.
His own goodbye held more than a hint of mockery, but she didn’t see that.
She forgot all about him in the small bustle of preparation for the new job, and when Monday morning came she set out on her bike, very neat in her navy pleated skirt, one of Cora’s blouses, a little too big but very suitable with its prim round collar and silky bow under her chin, and her own cardigan would do very nicely, as she wouldn’t need to wear it in the house.
She parked the bike beside the imposing front door and rang the bell. She knew the man who opened it by sight, for he went to church and sat in the pew reserved for Wells Court, but if he recognised her, he gave no sign. His, ‘Miss Talbot? You are expected,’ was uttered in a voice devoid of expression, although he frowned slightly at the sight of the bicycle. ‘I will ask the gardener’s boy to put your bicycle in the shed at the side, miss,’ he told her austerely, and stood aside for her to go in.
She had been in the house on one or two occasions; when it had been opened to the general public in aid of some charity or other, but never further than the entrance hall and the big reception rooms on either side. Now she followed the man along a passage at the back of the hall and waited while he tapped on a door at the end of it.
Sir Ronald’s rather fruity voice bade them enter and Polly did so, slipping neatly past her guide, who shut the door behind her, leaving her to cross a broad expanse of polished floor to the desk at the far end of the room where Sir Ronald was seated.
‘Ah, good morning, young lady. What’s your name? Talbot?’
‘Yes, Sir Ronald. Polly Talbot.’
‘Yes, yes, of course. I’ve met your father somewhere—clever chap.’ He glanced up at her, standing composedly in front of the desk. ‘Got a couple of pretty sisters, haven’t you?’ He chuckled. ‘But you’ve got the brains, eh?’
She wondered if this was a compliment. She said calmly: ‘It’s just that I like Greek and Latin. Sir Ronald, I’m not clever at anything else.’ She almost added: ‘And not pretty either,’ but decided against it.
‘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,’