The Trouble with Polly Brown (24 page)

“Leave it alone, Polly. I'll clear it up later. Let's just get out of here while we can,” Will ordered as he firmly grabbed hold of her elbow and pulled her to her feet. “Come on. It's time to go,” he gently urged, pushing her out of the room before anything else untoward could happen.

As soon as they were back out on the landing and alone, Will invited Polly to ascend a further set of stairs. Polly held back.

“Will, I think I should go home, for my being here has caused enough upset to last a lifetime, don't you think?” she said, a very weary and forlorn look written all over her face.

“Nonsense. I just want you to come with me for a moment,” he said as he held out his hand for her to take. “Come on, Polly. Trust me.”

After they had climbed the next set of stairs, Will ushered her down another small corridor before opening a door that led into another large room. Polly stood with her mouth open wide, for in the corner of the room was the biggest and most elegant grand piano she had ever set eyes on.

“It's a Bechstein,” Will hurriedly informed her in manner that might suggest that the name would mean something to her. Of course, it didn't, but that still didn't stop Polly from making further excitable sounds as she timidly stepped up to it.

“Can
you
play this?” she asked as she casually brushed the tips of her fingers over the keys.

“Why, of course,” he swiftly replied. “Would you like to hear me play?”

“What, now?”

“Well, I think now might be considered the perfect moment, as I'm standing right on front of it. That is, unless you have some special concert in mind that as of yet I know nothing of,” Will goodhumoredly replied.

Polly smiled and then raced into the middle of the room to give a twirl. “Play on, dear maestro!” she shouted, as she overdramatically gestured for him to take his seat and begin.

Will stretched and wiggled his long fingers, doing some rather outlandish form of hand exercises that Polly presumed only experienced concert musicians would even care to do. Finally he allowed his long fingers to caress the keys before shouting out, “Prontissimo.” He then began to play with much enthusiasm and energy as, lost in the music, he climbed into a higher stratosphere that most mere mortals know little of. How long he played is neither here nor there. What can be categorically stated is that this moment in time was the most magical event that Polly had ever been blessed with experiencing outside of her visit to Piadora. As Will continued to play whatever music his young heart dictated, an equally heady Polly danced around with the gay abandonment of a wind-up ballerina from a musical box that continues to twirl long after all music has stopped. Polly laughed and danced, then danced some more as her friend Will entranced and captivated her heart with his exceptional playing.

It did not come to a halt until Polly finally collapsed breathlessly to the floor. “Will, you really are the best!” she jubilantly cried.

Will broke into a smile as he got up from the piano to come over and join her. “Right, Polly, I think it's about time we got down to doing a bit of homework, don't you? So come on. Get out your books, and let me take a look,” he gently ordered.

Polly responded by pulling a rather long and extremely childish face. “Oh, must we? I have been enjoying myself so much. It's a shame to spoil it all now by doing stupid, horrid homework,” she sniffed rather churlishly.

“Yes, now! And allow me to tell you bluntly, homework is not—I repeat, not—stupid. Stupid is for those who fail to realize how important homework, and therefore an education, is. It's good to have fun, but we must also work; otherwise, your life will go nowhere, and that's a mathematical certainty!”

“You're beginning to sound as boring as many of my teachers,” she moaned.

“Well, I'm glad to hear it! Sorry, Polly, but I'm not going to change my mind on this one. I've seen too many of my brother's friends who messed around in school and treated homework as something other lesser mortals did. And now they are paying for their sheer stupidity, for they are all struggling to find work that has any meaning or fulfillment, as they left school without any decent qualifications. So if all this means you consider me to be nothing short of a wet rag, then so be it.”

“Sorry. I didn't mean to offend you,” Polly mournfully sniffed.

“No offense taken. But Polly, please take the time to ask yourself this: Let's say you own a restaurant, and two students came for an interview. The first has completed school, and even though his or her grades are not straight As, all the reports talk of the student trying hard, being punctual, and always giving his best. The second student, however, has impressive grades, but if you read between the lines he or she put no effort into anything. Which of the two would you choose?”

Polly was convinced he was trying to catch her out. “I'm not answering you, Will, just in case you are trying to trick me,” she glibly retorted.

“Polly, I promise that's truly not the case. I am just trying to make you see how important it is to do and give your best at school and why you should try to have a voracious appetite when it comes to learning. I want you to succeed, and if that means appearing hard and boorish, then so be it. So for the moment the fun's over, and now it's time to take a good look at your homework, or else I'll walk you straight home,” he said in a most impressive voice of authority that all of a sudden had Polly feeling very submissive, although she had absolutely no intention whatsoever of showing it. She therefore remained with a downcast expression across her face, looking very glum, if not a little—dare I say it?—moody.

“Look, Polly. I want to help because I truly care. Neither of our home lives could be considered perfect. In truth, we have so many trials to overcome before we even hit the school gates each day. So if we do well at school, then it opens up so many possibilities for our future, for it finally gives us both something called
choice
.”

“Choice? What precisely does that word mean?” Polly ruefully commented tongue in cheek as she thought of Uncle Boritz, the dictator controlling every minute of her life to the point where she felt as though she were nothing but a mere pawn on his private chessboard to be randomly shoved from square to square at his will.

“Right, then. Where is this homework? Let's get started, shall we?”

Polly suddenly felt very awkward and embarrassed.

Will noticed her silence and decided to push a little.

“Polly, I've upset and offended you, haven't I?” he suggested, showing great sensitivity.

“No, Will. Well maybe just a bit. It's just that, well, I'm seen as a bit of a dunce, a no-hoper, and therefore a waste of space by most of the teachers. It is the same with all of us that come from the castle. If I'm to be brutally honest, my brothers as well have always appeared to get the worst treatment, and I don't know why. I have tried to show the teachers that I am different, that I want to learn. Really, I have. But it feels completely hopeless.” Polly felt so safe with Will that in no time at all she found herself sharing some of the most painful events of her life.

“Will, believe me when I tell you, if I ever go home having achieved anything, such as a certificate for poetry, there is never a single word of encouragement. No one is the slightest bit interested. So if I'm honest, I've completely given up, for why should I care when no one else does?”

Will remained silent, occasionally giving her hand a small squeeze to comfort her and let her know that he felt the depth of her pain.

“There are thirty-five of us at the orphanage, not counting their own five children,” Polly informed him.

“I have not come across any pupil who goes by the surname of Scumberry yet,” Will said as he furrowed his brow, an indication of his deep concern.

“No, and you wont. The youngest one, Jeremy, is less than a year old, and the oldest is sixteen. He lives away from home, as he is a boarder at a private school. The other, older children go to different fee-paying schools, and the youngest two are not yet ready for anything other than nursery school. Oh, yes, and in the castle they live their private lives on the other side of the bars from us. Theirs is the posh side.”

“Posh side?”

“Yes, Will. You heard right. They have nice carpets and gas heaters and nice, comfortable furniture and every luxury imaginable, while our side is very sparsely furnished, and it is always freezing cold. No one who visits the castle is ever permitted to come and see our side, so they go on their way believing that we all live the same way. Even the Social Services remain ignorant of the differences, yet inside the castle there are big iron gates that divide their side from ours.”

“What, gates inside the house?”

“Unbelievable as it may seem, there really are iron bars to divide us. We do see their children occasionally, but as they have a live-in granny who helps look after them and cooks for them, we do not see them that often. They often walk past us eating sweets and drinking soda, and so, for the most times it is very hard to bear.” She sniffed as she volunteered information that she knew was strictly forbidden from ever being discussed outside the castle.

“The only way to help you understand is to ask you to imagine being in a crowd of people. You are all unbearably hungry and thirsty. Along comes a truck, and half of the crowd is given a wonderful meal, lots to drink, new clothes, and comfortable shoes for their feet. The others can do little but watch. The first group is then taken off somewhere wonderful for the day, leaving the others behind with nothing to look forward to. Imagine the tension that would exist between both groups on their return. Now, then. That's exactly how it is for us,” she sighed.

“My brothers and I were the last ones to arrive at the castle, and so we have been hated ever since,” she said, lowering her voice as she expressed something of the deep pain she was feeling. “Thomas never even made it. He felt so alone, so isolated,” she softly said, her voice suddenly cracking with emotion.

“Who was Thomas?” Will gently dared to ask.

“He was my dear older brother, but sadly he has passed away,” she stated in little more than a whisper. “They killed his spirit and soul first, and then he became ill. Will, I miss him so much,” she confessed, tears hurtling unabashed down her cheeks as she felt the full impact of her deep and sad loss.

Will squeezed her hand even tighter. “Polly, I'm so sorry, really I am, and I feel honored that you feel safe enough to share these private and very painful things with me. I want you to know that I am and always will be a true friend,” he mumbled as he let go of her hand to place a comforting arm around her shoulder. “And what's more, I have the broadest shoulders you'll ever get to see, so if you ever need a shoulder to cry on, then I'm your man,” he commiserated. “But as time is marching on, we need to put all distractions aside and address this latest piece of homework.”

Polly nodded her head in full agreement.

“Tell you what. Let's arrange to meet later in the week, and then we can talk longer about the things that are causing you such heartache,” he suggested as he reached over with his free hand to wipe away a stray tear that was rolling down her cheek.

“You're so right, Will. I really need to get this piece of homework under my belt, so help me out if you can,” she pleaded as she stuffed a book that had seen better days into his hands.

“Wow, Shakespeare's
Romeo and Juliet
. How come they are giving you such hard stuff at such a young age?”

“Oh, they are only wishing to give us an introduction to it in the vain hope that later we might even learn to love and appreciate such famous writers. They are at present organizing a school trip to take the class to visit his birthplace, which I believe is in Stratford-upon-Avon.”

“Hey, that will be great,” Will enthused.

“Yes, it would be wonderful, but I expect that I will be staying behind as usual, as I never have the money the school requires for any educational trips,” she said wistfully.

“Hmm, that's so sad and unfair,” Will dared to comment.

“Everything is unfair, Will. They are also hoping to take the class to the theater to see it live on stage. Again, I don't think I will be given that opportunity either,” she mournfully stated as she reached out to grab her book back from out of his hand. “Oh, I wish I came from a rich family, and then I'd have none of these stupid troubles.”

“Oh, Polly, don't be daft. Rich people still have their own trials and sorrows.”

“Right, just like Uncle Boritz's snooty guests when he throws his lavish evening soirees. ‘Oh dear. shall I opt for the duck confite, the lobster thermidore, or perhaps the filet mignon? This is so terribly trying, for I do believe the choice of sumptuous food to be simply overwhelming.'”

“Polly, please stop right now! I hate to hear you sounding so bitter and cynical, for you are too special a person to have such things brewing away like an overworked teapot from within you.”

“Be fair, Will. Being a broke kid in care is no fun whatsoever. Let's face it. Wouldn't you like to be well off so you could live in a really plush house and buy whatsoever your heart desired?”

“Well, Polly, as you ask, my family was for many years considerably rich, but did this make us happy? The answer has to be a resounding no. Therefore, I would trade all the money in the world for a warm and loving home life, and that's the honest truth.”

Polly couldn't argue this undeniable truth, no, not even for one moment, as she felt exactly the same.

“Also, you surely must realize that having money will not banish your problems. In fact, sometimes being disgustingly rich will only add to them,” he said as he paused to take a breath.

Polly used this opportunity to pull a face to imply that she was not that easily blinkered, and therefore she was not entirely convinced.