Polly. Betty Neels
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a large, very tall man. ‘Well, well, as my nanny so often remarked, wonders will never cease. Are you the paragon who’s typing Sir Ronald’s manuscript?’
‘I am not a paragon, nor am I a rustic chatterbox. I’m typing his work, yes. Why do you want to know?’
Polly poised her hands over the keys in the hope that he would take the hint and go away. A friend of Sir Ronald’s, she supposed, indulging in idle curiosity. She thought it unlikely that he would answer her question, and she was right, he ignored it completely, just went on standing there looking at her. ‘You don’t mind if I get on?’ she asked frostily. ‘I daresay someone will find Sir Ronald if you want to see him…’
The gentleman in question came through the door as she spoke, already talking. ‘There you are, Sam. Been having a look at the manuscript, have you? Polly’s doing a good job of the typing. A clever girl, is Polly—it isn’t everyone who can read both Latin and Greek and type them intelligently as well.’ He beamed at her. ‘And that reminds me that your wages are on my desk, collect them as you go, will you?’
He took the other man by the arm. ‘There’s a most interesting book I want you to look at,’ he told him as they walked to the door. ‘I found it in Pulchester of all places, in a poky secondhand shop…’ His voice faded as he went through the door, followed by his companion. Neither of them took any notice of Polly. She hadn’t expected them to do so.
It was at the end of the afternoon, her wages safely stowed in her pocket, wheeling her bicycle away from the house, that Polly encountered the man again. He came out of the shrubbery bordering the long drive just as she was about to pedal away.
‘Going home?’ he asked idly. ‘You live in the village?’
‘Yes,’ she answered politely. ‘Good evening.’
She rode off fast, anxious to get away from him. She wasn’t likely to see him again; the Range Rover had been parked on the sweep before the house, ready for him to leave. She wondered who he was and where he lived and why he was so abrupt in his manner. ‘Downright rude,’ she said out loud, then forgot him in the pleasure of deciding what she would do with the money in her pocket. There was, she estimated, about six weeks’ work ahead of her, perhaps two months. She could save it up, of course, and have an orgy of spending at the end—on the other hand, she needed some new clothes and she could buy Ben the football boots he wanted for his birthday, and give her mother some housekeeping money too. She had made up her mind to that by the time she reached home; she could save something each week, and perhaps visit Aunt Maggie’s in Scotland when she had finished.
Over tea she put these plans forward. Her offer of the boots was received with enthusiasm by her brother, just as the housekeeping money was welcomed in a more restrained manner by her mother. Her sisters, considering these to be unimportant, embarked at once on a deep discussion as to the clothes she should buy. It was soon evident to Polly that if she took their advice she would be penniless in no time at all and the possessor of more clothes than she would ever wear. But she didn’t say so; Cora and Marian were helping her in their own way. She murmured suitably each time they paused to look at her and finally, when they had run out of ideas, suggested that it might be a good idea if she saved a few weeks wages before she went shopping. ‘For I’ll not have time to wear anything much until I’ve finished the job,’ she pointed out reasonably, and was relieved when they reluctantly agreed.
The weekend, with its well tried routine, came and went. A long walk with Shylock, time spent helping Ben with his homework and pottering round the house doing small chores for her mother, a little gardening, a pleasant half hour with her father, discussing Greek mythology. Cora and Marian were out, but they mostly were on Saturdays, driving somewhere or other with whichever boy-friend was in favour. They were out again on Sunday too, but only after they had gone to church with the rest of the family. Mr Talbot, a mild man, was adamant about that. They walked through the quiet village and filled the family pew, exchanging nods and smiles with the familiar faces around them. Polly, her head round the other way while she listened to a friend’s gossip offered in a decorous whisper, almost had her ribs caved in by her sisters each side of her. ‘Polly, who’s that marvellous man, just come in with Sir Ronald? Have you seen him? Is he staying with him? Where does he come from?’
‘I don’t know, and yes, I’ve seen him. I suppose he’s staying at Wells Court. I don’t know where he’s from.’
Two pairs of eyes stared at her in astonishment. ‘You mean to say,’ hissed Cora, ‘that you’ve actually spoken to him and you don’t know anything about him?’ She was prevented from saying more because old Mr Symes, the organist, had stopped his gentle meandering over the keys and had begun the opening hymn as Mr Mortimer and his choir came out of the vestry.
It was at the end of the service, as Sir Ronald and his guest passed the Talbot pew and the former exchanged civil greetings with their father, that Cora and Marian had a chance to get a look at his companion.
A look he returned with some interest, for they were really very pretty and worth more than a glance. The look he gave Polly was quite another thing; it made her feel like yesterday’s left-over cold potatoes.
There was no sign of him when she arrived at Wells Court on Monday morning, and indeed, for the moment she had forgotten him; it was a lovely day and the quiet Gloucestershire countryside was green and alive with the familiar sounds she had grown up with; lambs and sheep, cows lowing over the hedges, tractors going to and fro, the birds… She parked her bike and rang the bell.
The third chapter was to do with Greek and Roman chronology. Polly was typing, very carefully, the data concerning the Greek calendar when Sir Ronald walked in, and his guest with him. Their good mornings were affable as they stood behind her chair, looking over her shoulder at what she had already done. ‘Munychlon’, observed Sir Ronald, ‘so much better sounding than April, don’t you think? You’ve been to Munychia, of course, Sam?’
‘Yes. Does Miss—er—Talbot take an interest in such things, or is she merely a typist?’
Rude! thought Polly, and said with commendable restraint. ‘The festival of Munychia was held in the town of that name, in honour of the goddess Diana.’ She added kindly: ‘I believe that quite ordinary people read about such things, Mr—er…’
Sir Ronald coughed. ‘Professor, my dear. Professor Gervis. He’s famous in his field, you know.’
She raised guileless brown eyes. ‘Indeed? What field?’
The Professor let out a bellow of laughter. ‘I don’t often make mistakes,’ he observed coolly, ‘but with you I certainly did.’ He turned away, suddenly bored. ‘Would it be a good idea if we phoned Rogers this morning—there’s the question of the right type setting…’
Polly was left sitting there; she should have been feeling triumphant, but she felt rather silly. She must have sounded like a little prig; no wonder he’d laughed!
She was sitting in the sun during her lunch break when he appeared suddenly and sat down beside her. He asked without preamble: ‘Have you never been away from the village? Surely with your talents you could have got a place at a university or found a well paid job with a museum or some such thing?’
She turned to look at him. ‘I expect I could, only I haven’t wanted to. I like the country; there’s a lot more to do than just typing Greek and Latin…’
‘You’re not interested in money? It buys pretty clothes and pays for hairdressers and all the other things girls want.’ The faint mockery in his voice annoyed her.
‘Of course I like pretty things—even we rustics dress up occasionally. I daresay if I’d been born and brought up in some big city, I’d feel differently about it.’
‘Those were your sisters in church?’ he wanted to know idly.
‘Yes.’
‘Very pretty girls, and dressed charmingly.’
‘Yes,’ she got up, ‘but as you see they’re, as you