The Trouble with Polly Brown (19 page)

Polly was pushed aside as the older children jumped the queue in their haste to get their breakfast first. None of the younger children ever dared complain at the unfairness of this ritual, for they knew better than that. Yes, they knew to do so would be most unwise, unless of course they did not mind a few heavy blows to their chest or a thick lip later in the day to remind them of the unspoken pecking order that at all times prevailed.

Upon opening the door, Boritz also very wisely moved to one side, managing to avoid being trampled to the ground as child fought child on their way into the kitchen. Without further adieu, he turned and headed back down the long corridor toward his private sitting room with Pitstop still faithfully at his side.

Polly, having finally made it through the door, raced directly over to the kitchen sink. As her eyes frantically scanned the drainer, it quickly became obvious to her that her precious ring was nowhere in sight. Polly felt panicky as she once more tried to retrace her steps in her desperate and futile bid to locate the lost ring. She upturned all the pots and pans that lay piled up high on the drainer. Nothing. She even tried to stick her smallest fingers down the plughole, but still she had no joy. She bent down to open the cupboard under the sink and then began furiously emptying the contents out onto the floor, trying all the while to remain as focused as possible in her sad and futile attempt to find her prized possession. Pretty soon she realized that she was fast running out of time, and so she raced up to the tables, begging all the latecomers to breakfast to assist her in finding the ring. But none among them were the remotest bit interested in helping her out, for they were all far too busy extracting the usual wriggly silverfish that regularly took early morning swimming lessons in their piled-up bowls of stale cornflakes.

She then noted that James had just finished his breakfast and was about to leave the table to take his empty bowl to the sink to be washed up. “James. Thank goodness you've finished. Please, I really need your help, for I've lost my precious ring, and—”

“Go away, Polly. Don't even think of asking for my help. Just leave me alone,” James quietly sniffed as he abandoned the table, at the same time deliberately avoiding all eye contact with her as he hastily headed toward the sink to place his bowl down. He then turned and made his way toward the kitchen door in order to leave the house and catch the school bus.

Polly felt hurt and frustrated that James was not only unprepared to offer his help in her search but was now no longer speaking to her. She realized that once again she had let him down, and as a result he had quite understandably taken great offense. But what made it harder to bear was the sad realization that instead of standing together to face the many storms in their lives, their relationship was rapidly and very tragically deteriorating. She felt hopelessly incapable of finding the solution required to make things right between them.

It was not to long after James left for the bus stop that Polly was forced to abandon her search for the ring, as she needed to leave forthwith if she were to have any hope of making it to the bus stop in time to catch the bus. Grabbing hold of her schoolbag, she made her way to the front door, only to suddenly remember she still had one last port of call, and this was to go to the larder and collect the provisions that the night before she had carefully put to one side for today's cookery class. Today of all days was very important, for she had been moved up a class. Instead of having to please Mrs. Greaseball, she now had the new challenge of winning over Miss Strickneene, who not only took over any class that was a teacher down due to sickness, but she just happened to also be the deputy headmistress.

As she went to pick up the brown paper bag, a hand suddenly shot in front of her face and grabbed hold of the bag. Polly swung round, her eyes following after the bag. “Gailey, give it back,” she gulped. “Please don't do this to me, for I was up extremely late last night weighing out all the ingredients,” she wailed.

“Tough!” retorted Gailey with a wicked smirk. “You'll just have to weigh out some more, won't you, fish face? This 'ere bag now belongs to me. See you in class, Polyester Fester.”

“I can't go to school without the ingredients. Uncle Boritz has the keys to the food cupboard, and I have no idea where to find him. So please, I beg of you, give me back my bag.”

“Take a jump of a high cliff, Fester,” Gailey smirked as she headed for the door. “Oh, and if you even dare to split on me by telling the teacher, then I swear I'll stuff your stinkin' head right down the bog till ye drown,” she sneered.

On hearing this latest unpleasant threat, Polly realized she was wasting her breath. There was no way Gailey would ever consider doing the decent thing by rightfully returning the bag, as she too required them for today's cookery lesson.

So with no food in her stomach and no ingredients in her schoolbag, Polly made haste to race toward the bus stop to catch the bus that then dropped them off at the train station to make the last part of their journey to the school. To her utter horror, as she turned the last corner she could only watch helplessly as her school bus drove straight past with Gailey keenly parading the bag of ingredients up to the window, a fat, cheesy grin on her face as from her seat on the bus she waved good-bye to Polly.

Polly groaned deeply and dropped her schoolbag to the ground, feeling greatly discouraged by all the events of the morning. Already the black clouds that hung around just waiting for her appearance were making it their personal duty, as always, to haunt her, and it was only seven forty in the morning!

Eventually she picked up her bag and began the long, tedious walk to the train station, for the next bus was not due at the stop for another forty-five minutes and so would guarantee her a visit to the headmaster's office, for it would get her into school much too late.

As she walked the long distance to the train station with her head hung low and a heavy heart, she barely noticed a brand-new red bus pass by her before pulling up a few yards farther down the road. The bus driver then made several extremely loud honking noises as he attempted but failed to capture her attention. The loud honks continued, and eventually a couple of the children stuck their heads out of an open window and called out to her. Finally she looked up and realized they were calling her by name. She still made no effort to walk faster, preferring to watch on as the rear door of the bus opened and out popped a very familiar head.

“Polly, dear, is that you?” a very familiar and friendly Irish voice shouted out.

“Huh? I cannot believe it,” a deliriously happy Polly cried out.

Polly immediately found her feet and began racing toward the vehicle as fast as her young legs could carry her, all the while excitedly yelling, “Mrs. O'Brien! Mrs. O'Brien! Mrs. O'Brien, I can't believe it's you. How wonderful and unexpected this is,” Polly croaked as she struggled to catch her breath and smile at the same time. “I thought your school must have closed down, as I have not seen you or any of the girls from your school on the bus,” she stuttered, suddenly feeling overwhelmed by such strong emotions of great joy and happiness that she immediately began to break down and cry.

Mrs. O'Brien grabbed hold of Polly's hand and pulled her toward her. “Close down! Heaven forbid that such a thing would ever happen, for the French would immediately shut down the ports and throw themselves a week-long party, and that, dear Polly, would never do.”

Polly used her sleeve to wipe away the fresh tears that were now unashamedly racing down her cheeks.

“I'm so sorry, Mrs. O'Brien. I feel so ridiculous—in fact, a real idiot—to be acting in such a foolish manner, but I can't help myself, for I am so overwhelmed with happiness to see you again,” Polly cried.

“Well, don't just stand on the steps fly-catching, dear. Hop on our new private bus. There's a good girl. Otherwise we'll all be jolly late for school and so find ourselves being sent to the headmaster's office. Come on, come on,” she beckoned.

Polly hurriedly clambered up the steps, and then with gay abandon she flung herself into the arms of her adorable teacher to give her a long, hard embrace.

“Feel free to cry as much as you like Polly, my dear, but it won't get you to school any faster,” Mrs. O'Brien stated as she returned the hug before wiping away a few of Polly's tears with a gentle sweep of her hand. “Well, Polly dear, if nothing else, you'll surely start this day with a nice, clean face. Now come along, dear, and find a seat, and then we can set off once more.”

Polly obeyed and released her tense grip of Mrs. O'Brien as she then walked down the aisle of the bus, anxiously looking for a spare seat.

“Our school close down! No more cookery lessons? Oh, deary me! I cannot think that such a travesty should ever be allowed to take place, Polly dear. No, it must remain well beyond the realm of possibilities, for just imagine our dear French neighbors not only thinking but actually believing that they alone produce the world's most gastronomic victuals, as well as the most famous cooks,” she pouted before overdramatically raising her eyes into her head to further emphasis her utter horror.

Polly stood for a while in the aisle, all the while drinking in all her teacher's amusing anecdotes.

“No, no, Polly dearest. Forget what I just said. Don't even begin to imagine it,” she mumbled in her rich Irish brogue, shaking her head as if to make such terrible imaginations flee her thoughts immediately.

Polly's eyes continued to fill with tears, as just listening to Mrs. O'Brien and her delightfully playful intonations inexplicably reached deep into her broken, wounded heart, instantly ridding her of all despair as it replaced all doom and gloom with vibrant cheer and fresh optimism.

“Right then, Polly. You can't remain standing up in the aisle, so go and sit next to dear, sweet miss Vivienne Levine. I'll have you know this lass has just joined us from over the pond.”

“Uhh,” was all Polly managed to murmur as she moved slowly toward the vacant seat. Even after taking her seat, she still managed to have a ridiculously stupid grin plastered over her face as she continued to savor every amusing word and gesture that Mrs. O'Brien cared to conjure up and then deliver.

“America. Dearest America,” she stated as she came behind their seats and gave the pretty young American girl a friendly pat on the back. “Yes, and she will be spending the next year learning how awfully well-groomed English ladies spend their days usefully. Now won't that be a lot of fun?” Mrs. O'Brien said with a giggle as she moved over to give young Polly a little dig in the ribs to wake her up from her dreamlike state.

“And I have to tell you, Polly, this young American sweetheart is already giving the girls a run for their money. I do believe her spectacularly unusual desserts, as well as other interesting and varied creations, will in the years to come win her many an award and accolade as they find their way into a number of splendid cookery books. So make her acquaintance quickly before you get off this bus. There's a dear.”

Polly happily did as she was told, and after introducing herself to the lovely Miss Levine she sat back, feeling thankful that the bus had stopped and saved her from much trouble.

Sadly for her, in no time at all the bus pulled up outside the train station. Polly stood up from her seat with the full intention of quickly disembarking, as she knew she could not afford to miss the next train, but as she turned to say a quick good-bye to Vivienne and the other girls, Mrs. O'Brien suddenly reached out and grabbed her by the hand.

“Polly, dear, you must understand me when I say you must never, ever forget Piadora.”

“Yes, Mrs. O'Brien. I will try to remember.”

“Oh, Polly, the word
try
is not good enough. You, my dear one, must seek to nurture and build on everything you learned there. Do you truly understand?” she said as her grip tightened in her bid to stress the point. “For whether you do or do not fully comprehend everything, your hidden strengths, Polly, are indeed the most potent weapons against all—I repeat,
all
—the forces of darkness that are now more determined than ever to pull you down and bring your spirit to its chasm of destruction.”

Polly nodded once more, but Mrs. O'Brien had not yet finished.

“Polly, dear, are you really listening to me? For hell has no particular preference as to whom it slowly and surreptitiously sucks into its bowels. Oh, no. It just lies in wait, seeking to pounce most unmercifully on any available and unwitting victim. But
you
, my precious one, have a glorious future, so promise me here right now you will never compromise but will continue to fight the good fight. You must prevail to ensure that such a terrible thing will never happen.”

Polly nodded her head as though she were in perfect agreement with Mrs. O'Brien, but deep inside she could already feel herself timidly fending off the first rumbles of very unwelcome murmurings that were mischievously seeking to re-invade her mind and emotions with their obsequious and sickeningly spiteful methods. They were, after all, expert strategists in the art of psychological warfare. These dark and subliminal forces thought nothing of continuously and viciously bombarding her mind with hideous, soul-destroying thoughts such as, “Nothing ever changes. I'm just a useless, festering, ugly blob. I'll never amount to anything. Nobody could ever love me. Everything in my life is just too painful. There's nowhere left to run. Nobody cares if I live or die. Life is unfair, and best of all, Polly Brown, you're a complete idiot if you believe your life will ever improve or get better. So do us all a favor and give up now, and then we can get back to the way things used to be. Yes, and this way you'll soon be feeling back to your good, old, very remorseful self. We, for our part, hereby promise to leave off all punishments usually meted out to those traitors who think they can abandon their lowly post, having the nerve to even consider that they can achieve great things, even believing they might one day become inspiring pioneers of one kind or another.”