Polly Brown

by Tricia Bennett

  He brushed the crumbs from off his long, threadbare coat before plunging his hand deep into his pocket and producing a brown paper package, which he placed in Polly’s hand.

  “Another present?” asked Polly.

  “Yes, sort of,” Hodgekiss replied.

  “Please, not another book,” Polly begged. Before Hodgekiss could answer, she decided to confess that she hadn’t liked the last one very much.

  “I know,” said Hodgekiss. “Ralph told me.”

  “Is there anything Ralph doesn’t tell you, Hodgekiss?” Polly asked, somewhat annoyed that nothing in her young life stayed a secret. Hodgekiss smiled before taking hold of her hand to say good-bye.

  “Enjoy the book, Polly,” he firmly ordered. He then turned and started to limp back down the path.

  “Don’t be too long before you return, Hodgekiss!” she shouted after him. “Thomas really is sick, so I am relying on you and your Hubber Blubber tree.”

  Hodgekiss turned and smiled. As he did so, he could see both Aunt Mildred and Uncle Boritz at the door, shouting at Polly to get back to her chores. He watched as Aunt Mildred roughly grabbed Polly by the arm, pulling her through the front door before slamming it shut.

  “It is better to have a millstone tied around your neck than harm just one, yes, just one of My little ones,” he thought to himself, shaking his head sadly as he disappeared off into the sunset.

  Later that night, when only the sound of snoring echoed down the corridors of the castle, Polly took out her flashlight and, with her head tucked under the bedclothes, she opened the little brown package. Yes, it was another book. She read the title. It was called The Princess and the Pea.

  “Oh, not another ridiculous fairy tale,” she groaned.

  With that thought sadly expressed, she switched off the torch, flung the book on the floor, and turned over to cuddle her two friends Eton and Langdon. She held them very tightly in her arms to find comfort and much-needed warmth. Finally, in the early hours of the next morning, her heavy eyelids closed and deep sleep as well as inexplicable peace descended upon her.

  Chapter 7

  SCHOOL, GLORIOUS SCHOOL

  AS THE DAYS rolled into weeks, nothing much changed in Polly’s sad and difficult life. When she was not at school, she spent most of her leisure time on R.O.P.E. doing mountains of chores. “At least it’s not the school holidays,” Polly thought in her desperate attempt to cheer up and look on the bright side. For attending school meant a break from the hard work, to which she was expected to fully apply herself every waking hour of the day. Not that she liked school very much, for being a child in care—one of the kids from the orphanage—meant she was considered to be a nothing. Even the school’s headmaster, Mr. Edwood Batty, said Polly was not worth investing in.

  Polly had only one friend in the school, and her name was Letticia Pizani. She had lived in Italy before coming to the school, and at every break she would meet up with Polly and let her have a go on her recorder. Before Letticia came to the school, Polly had felt quite alone and wandered the playground every break, desperately wishing to join in the fun with the other children. The truth was she was too scared to ask, for she feared they would tell her to go away just like everyone else did.

  Polly struggled with most of her subjects. She had to admit to loving music, and she had the deepest desire to be able to play a musical instrument, such as the violin or saxophone. But she had never been given the opportunity to borrow one of the violins that the school lent out to pupils because the waiting list was so long. When instruments became available, they were given to those who showed the most potential. So Polly had to settle for playtimes with Letticia and her recorder.

  As for most of the subjects on the school curriculum, she was at the bottom of her class, for she simply found it hard to concentrate. The teachers read this to be a distinct lack of cooperation on Polly’s part, but the real truth went much deeper. Polly was always worried about what lay in store for her every evening when she arrived back home. She had every reason to be anxious, for hardly a day went by without some form of trouble on her return. She was also desperately concerned for her older brother Thomas, who suffered worse treatment at the castle than she did. For as well as the cruelty meted out to him by their guardians, the other children would also never leave him alone, and he appeared to be getting very ill, something nobody other than Polly seemed the slightest bit concerned about. She felt so powerless to help him. He was never far from her thoughts as she struggled through each day at school.

  However, there were two teachers she loved. Their names were Mrs. Bailey, who taught needlework and art and often covered for another teacher for English lessons; and Mr. Beloski, who taught history and science. Both of these teachers saw Polly for who she was rather than for who she wasn’t.

  Mrs. Bailey was small with short, dark hair and freckles on her rosy cheeks. Her brown eyes appeared to dance when she engaged in any form of conversation, and she had an unusual accent when she spoke. Polly was not certain where she had originally come from, not that it mattered to Polly, for it was enough to just hear her kind voice. Sometimes she broke out into a giggle over something a child had said that tickled her pink. Speaking of pink, Polly knew for certain it was her teacher’s favorite color. She wore pink every day—a pink blouse or a pink cardigan or smart pink trousers with matching pink shoes. All this went to match her rosy cheeks. So Polly absolutely adored her, especially as her favorite color was also pink. Polly decided that Mrs. Bailey’s house was almost certain to be painted pink with pink carpets and curtains and a pink bathroom suite with shelves filled with bottles of pink bubble bath. She would have loved to visit her house, just to see if she was right.

  Mrs. Bailey could often be seen kneeling or squatting when she spoke to a child. Polly would watch, feeling touched by how much this teacher seemed to care. She never hesitated to wipe away a tumbling tear or give a word of encouragement to even the most difficult child, and that included Polly at times.

  At the start of every week Mrs. Bailey would make all the children stand up and, after giving each and every child some word of praise, she would then produce her tape measure from out of her pink bag and proceed to measure each of them in turn. As she noted their varying heights, she would smile before declaring, “I do believe you have grown another inch this week, Lavender Bloomingdale.”

  Nobody, however naughty the child was reputed to be, was ever left out from either the praise or the measuring tape! And it was well known around the school that the children in Mrs. Bailey’s class were indeed taller for their age and happier than in any of the other classes! They were also better behaved, for Mrs. Bailey had learned a deep truth, and she applied it with such generosity of heart. No troublesome child ever wanted to make her feel sad and upset. So all the children did their very best and worked hard with all they had within them to please dear, sweet Mrs. Bailey. Therefore, Polly loved her with all her heart, and she secretly wished Mrs. Bailey would adopt her. Then she could come and live in her pink house, and they would live happily ever after, just like they did in fairy tales.

  Polly found it hard when other children turned up in the classroom bearing small gifts such as sweets or a crunchy golden apple for Mrs. Bailey, for she had nothing to give to show just how special Polly thought she was. This saddened her, although it served to make her even more determined to produce excellent stories for her dear teacher to read. Her hard work did not go unrewarded, for she always got top marks, and this only served to make her love Mrs. Bailey even more. Often she would arrive home, happily clutching her work, and go in search of her guardians to proudly show the latest piece to them. It often had the words “Excellent piece, Polly. Keep up the good work” scrawled in red ink at the bottom. Not once did she ever hear one tiny word of praise from the mouths of Uncle Boritz or Aunt Mildred. All she ever received were sour words like, “You really think you’re something, girl, when the truth is you are a nothing who will never be anything or g
o anywhere in this life. You probably cheated anyway to get such a high mark. Look how badly you are doing in nearly all your other subjects.”

  Still Polly kept on trying, hoping that someday they might actually say something nice or encouraging. But sadly it was never to be.

  In her art classes Polly did not fare as well. She got very frustrated when what she produced on paper did not match the picture in her head. On these occasions she would ball her work up into a tiny ball and head for the wastebasket. Mrs. Bailey never once got angry with her, for it was as though she secretly understood Polly’s deep frustration. So instead of shouting at her, she would take the time to come alongside Polly with some kind word of encouragement.

  “Oh Polly, Polly,” she would say with her big beautiful smile. “I really like your painting, and it seems to me that all it needs is a little bit more red here or a splash of blue there.”

  And then she would guide the paintbrush in Polly’s hand, muttering, “Excellent, I knew you could do it,” as she helped by splashing on some extra color.

  She would also look Polly straight in the eye and openly declare, “That talent is in there somewhere, Polly Brown, and all we’ve got to do is find it! So arise from within this girl and come forth.”

  All this was said in deep somber tones of voice, which were not really stern at all! She would then catch Polly’s eye and break into a smile. It was never too long before Polly was smiling too, and sure enough, it always did the trick. Polly found it so much easier to create whatever she wanted. For as pure contentment filled Polly’s heart and mind, it appeared to transform her artwork as well. Mrs. Bailey was a most wonderful teacher.

  The same could be said of Mr. Beloski, for he was young, tall, and extremely good-looking; and this was without question the unanimous verdict of all the girls at school. “He is really a Grecian god,” they would whisper to each other as they huddled together outside his classroom. They also passed notes on scrappy bits of paper around the classroom, asking each other what they thought of a particular shirt he might be wearing and whether they thought his tie matched the rest of his outfit. Polly would have none of it. She did not care what he wore on the outside, she just knew with a certainty that inside he had a heart of pure gold.

  This tall man had sandy brown hair swept to one side and blue eyes. His teeth were quite large, and they seemed to permanently be on show, because he always appeared to be smiling. Polly observed he had only one teeny imperfection—a small brown mole on his cheek, which moved further up his face when he broke out into a smile. Polly could easily forgive him this tiny flaw, for she had to secretly admit to herself that he would, just as the other girls constantly said, make an excellent movie star. She therefore agreed wholeheartedly with the other girls that they could never allow him to leave the school for the sake of becoming a mere film star. He was too much needed as a history and science teacher. They would kidnap him before they allowed anyone to steal him away from their school and their hearts.

  As he strode past them in the corridor, all the girls who huddled in groups gossiping would stop all silly conversation and shout down the corridor, “Good morning, Mr. Beloski,” before breaking into fits of giggles, something they always did when he walked by. And much to their delight, he never failed to stop and smile before saying good morning back to them in his very polite manner. He seemed quite unaware that his very presence created such a stir or that he was the heartthrob of each and every one of the young, lovesick girls! As Polly was not part of the crowd, she would walk quickly down the corridor with her head down so as not to draw attention to herself. She was therefore very touched whenever Mr. Beloski stopped her in her tracks to say with a bright smile, “Well, good morning to you, Polly Brown. Isn’t the weather simply glorious? I’d rather be mowing my lawn than sitting in a hot, stuffy classroom. Never mind, eh. I hope I see you in my class today.”

  Polly always blushed as she stuttered a greeting back to him. She would happily mow Mr. Beloski’s overgrown lawn for him all day and every day and from dawn to dusk if necessary! The truth was, she was very touched that he even noticed her, and even more touched that he considered her worthy of any greeting at all. Such kindness never went unnoticed by Polly, for she never took anything for granted.

  Often Mr. Beloski would bring the class to a halt early and finish the lesson by reading a book to them as a small treat. He would read stories such as The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. By the end of the story sessions, which Polly wished would go on forever, her spirits were lifted. In fact, they were positively soaring, and for the length of that most special moment in time, life really did seem worth living.

  She would never forget the day when, after a history lesson, he called her to one side.

  “Polly,” he said with a puzzled look on his face. “You are so different from the other children in the orphanage. Why do you think that is?”

  Polly felt too tongue-tied to reply, for in truth, she did not know what to say. He then went on to say that she didn’t swear or behave badly and she was not rude. “No, you are indeed very different from the other children in the orphanage,” he said slowly, as though deep in thought.

  Mr. Beloski would never have known that Polly sang and skipped all the way home on that most special day. Her spirit had just taken a giant leap into the realm of hope and happiness, albeit temporarily. Someone had at last recognized that there was something good—something worthwhile—about Polly. She was not just another kid in care.

  On her school reports many teachers had unwittingly penned, “Polly seems at odds with the world.” At odds! Yes, of course she was at odds. So would they have been if they had to endure the home life Polly was daily subjected to and felt so utterly powerless to change. Apart from the kindness shown by Mrs. Bailey and Mr. Beloski, there was no other teacher who had ever taken the time to sit her down and find out one personal thing about Polly and her life in the orphanage. It was as though she did not exist, and if she did, she was nothing more than a number in a long list of numbers. All this served to deepen Polly’s wounds. No teacher had even observed that at dinnertime she ate everybody’s leftovers and had gained herself the nickname “the garbage truck” among her fellow pupils. So her school life just went to further convince her that there truly was nobody out there who could really help her. She was a hopeless case to be shunned by a school that cared more about results than helping troubled children who had overwhelming mountains to climb in their everyday life. Most classes found Polly standing at the back of the class facing the wall. Oh! How familiar she was with every brick in every wall at that school, for she had spent endless hours counting each and every one. All this made Mr. Beloski’s little chat something of a miracle, and she was in very short supply of much-needed miracles. Oh, how she loved Mr. Beloski and, of course, dear Mrs. Bailey.

  Polly often dreamed of going to a finishing school for young ladies, for she had many books on the subject that she had borrowed and failed to return to the school library. She devoured these books with such relish and was convinced that she could be really happy if only she attended one of these very special schools. They had the power to turn her into a real young lady. Having read endless books on the subject, she discerned that all teachers and students alike were always so polite and gracious, and all swearing was strictly forbidden. But she knew only too well that the girls who got to go to these schools were very rich. The incredibly expensive tuition fees are sky high, so the chances of her ever fulfilling that dream were less than zilch. But even this stark reality never stopped her dreaming.

  Many times when she was on a bus journey she would find herself staring at a group of girls from Snobitts Public School as they boarded the bus.

  The school was a preparatory boarding school for girls, and Mrs. O’Brien was the deputy headmistress in charge of all school outings. Polly would watch fascinated as the very smart young ladies laughed and chattered as they headed towards vacant seats on the bus. She admired their smart uniform, w
hich consisted of a navy pleated pinafore dress and a pristine white blouse underneath. The school tie was red and white stripes, and the whole uniform was finished off with a delightful round navy hat that sported a band of red ribbon. They all wore black shiny shoes and white knee-length socks, and a brown leather satchel hung from the shoulder of every girl.

  Polly thought they all looked so well-turned-out compared to her in her stained, frayed uniform that should have been thrown out a long time ago. Polly heard other children making fun of the girls, as well as the name of the school, but Polly never joined in. She decided that the letters stood for School for the Noble and Outstandingly Bright.

  She found it hard to understand why this private school, like many other private schools, was referred to as a public school when it was anything but open to the public. The local library was a public library, and its doors were open to everyone. The same could be said for the local public swimming pools. Yet these very exclusive schools that cost an absolute fortune to attend called themselves public schools. “Surely someone needs to put them right by pointing out this rather glaring contradiction,” Polly often thought to herself.

  Polly found herself fascinated by Mrs. O’Brien, believing her to be a very posh woman of high intelligence and moral values. She was slim and always immaculately turned out. She had porcelain white skin, thin red smiling lips, and wispy brown hair that was always neatly brushed up in a little bun with absolutely no strays. Her eyes appeared to dance when she spoke, and there was a hint of an accent that betrayed her true Irish heritage.

  Polly thought Mrs. O’Brien was not only very attractive, but she also knew in her heart that she would flourish under the tuition of such an inspiring teacher, who also had the keenest wit she had ever known a teacher to possess. She would find herself having a giggle when she heard Mrs. O’Brien addressing one of the girls. “Rowena dearest, kindly remove that chewing gum from out of your mouth, for young ladies should not look or sound like washing machines. What would your mother have to say if she saw you eating in such a disgraceful manner? And Lucinda dear, kindly refrain from dropping your h’s, for I do believe you mean to say, ‘Antonia, come and sit down here,’ not ‘ere.’ Do you agree? If the good Lord had intended for the letter h to be dropped from the alphabet, then I do believe He would have left it out altogether!” She would say this loudly as she pursed her lips and shook her head, pretending to be filled with utter dismay. The girls never failed to giggle as they automatically chorused a “Yes, miss,” before following through with her order.