As Polly listened in on their conversations, she found herself at times feeling very jealous. For as they chattered away, she would overhear them discussing their fencing and pony riding lessons, their Cordon Bleu cookery, and their deportment classes. Oh, how Polly longed to be able to walk with great poise, balancing a book on her head while repeating French verse fluently and at the same time cooking confit de canard, carre d’agneau, or crepes suzette with Grand Marnier. Of course, she had absolutely no clue as to what these French dishes were or what they looked like, but they did sound so romantic as she listened in on the girls’ idle chitchat about which dish they had just created in their cookery class.
Polly did have the pleasure of cookery lessons at school, but her teacher, Mrs. Greaseball, never gave her the opportunity to try her hand at making any of the delightfully exotic dishes that all the other girls got to prepare and take home at the end of the school day. The reason behind this was that Polly simply could never afford the expensive ingredients. She sadly grew tired of Mrs. Greaseball drawing attention to this unpleasant fact whenever she addressed the class. “Right, girls, pay attention, for tomorrow we will be cooking chicken chasseur. However, Polly, as usual, you will be making bread, as we simply cannot allow you to sit around twiddling your thumbs, can we?”
There had also been numerous occasions when Mrs. Greaseball, upon discovering they were clean out of flour, had most happily resorted to handing Polly a bucket of soapy water and instructing her to spend the lesson cleaning out the shower room instead. Polly wished with all her heart that she could go to a finishing school and learn to become a real lady. Instead, she had to settle for being a low-life kid from an orphanage, written off at school as someone with no academic ability whatsoever and forced to make bread until even the word bread made her want to scream. When she finally left school she could look forward to an exciting career as a public convenience cleaner or a shelf stacker at a grocery store or perhaps, if she was really lucky, a baker’s assistant! So Polly hated school as much as she hated most of her lessons.
The blustering winds and showers of spring came and went. Then the hazy and warm days of summer passed by, and all too soon it was time for school to begin again. Polly was very relieved, for she had spent most of the summer holidays on R.O.P.E. Now it was the start of a new school year and, hopefully, new beginnings. At least that was what Polly wished.
As she stood in the morning assembly, Polly could not help but note that her two most beloved teachers were absent from the line of tutors that were sitting on stage alongside the headmaster, Mr. Edwood Batty. Polly began to panic and could only hope there was a simple explanation for their absence.
“Maybe they’ve just missed the bus; or maybe both of them are sick; or maybe they even just simply forgot that today was the start of a new term. Yes, it will be something like that,” she thought in her desperate bid to feel reassured and calm her racing heart. At the end of the assembly, everyone sang the hymn On England’s Green and Pleasant Land. The pupils were ordered to sit down, for it was now time for Mr. Batty to make his usual new-term address. Polly sat down along with all the other children in her row.
The headmaster cleared the nervous tickle in his throat before welcoming all the pupils to a new year, hoping they all had a pleasant, if not wonderful, summer holiday and were ready and fuelled up to give this term their best efforts. He then spoke for quite some time about all the school’s achievements in the past year before expressing his hopes for the year to come. Finally, after much paper shuffling, he turned to all his staff that were comfortably seated on the stage and introduced each of them to the pupils. This was done for the benefit of all the new children, and it gave all the older pupils the perfect opportunity to hand around the chewing gum or begin the much-needed whispering concerning any newsworthy gossip.
After all the introductions were over, he called the school to attention, and then, lowering his voice, he announced. “Finally, it is with the deepest regret that I must inform everyone that Mrs. Bailey and Mr. Beloski are no longer with us. I am unable at present to give you any further information as to their sudden departure from this school. But I can say without any fear of contradiction that both of these wonderful teachers will be sorely missed by staff and pupils alike.”
On hearing this terrible piece of information, Polly’s face instantaneously went ashen as her blood seemed to drain down toward her toes. Mr. Batty paused briefly to reshuffle his papers before going on to tell his attentive audience of pupils which teachers would be standing in for them until suitable replacements could be found. Polly had no interest in any of this. Her head was spinning, and her heart pounded loudly. All she wanted to do was escape.
Sorely missed! Those trite words rang like cathedral bells through her head. Polly wanted to scream and keep screaming until the walls of the assembly hall collapsed on top of her head and finished her off for good. Her two most wonderful teachers in the world were gone forever! And one tiny sentence from the headmaster was all it had taken to bring her whole world crashing down. The only lights shining in her dark, dreary prison of a life had, like a candle, been snuffed out, leaving her absolutely distraught and with little idea as to where to go from here.
She jumped up from where she was sitting and almost passed out. Her rib cage felt as though it was caving in, threatening to crush her lungs to a pulp. She gasped for air as she stumbled blindly towards the teacher who was sitting by and guarding the main exit. Polly blurted out her urgent need for some fresh air, for she felt very faint and nauseous. The teacher noticed how pale she looked and without any further hesitation opened the hall door to allow her to leave the assembly. Polly then raced along the highly polished corridors, not stopping until she found an empty classroom in which to hide.
Having found a secret sanctuary, she closed the classroom door and headed for one of the corners of the room, whereupon she sank down onto her knees in complete despair. There she stayed and just sobbed and sobbed, feeling utterly desolate and inconsolable. She had no idea how to face another minute of school life. In her mind both Mrs. Bailey and Mr. Beloski had really been angels parading as teachers, and now they might just as well be dead, for they were gone forever and she was now utterly alone.
“They did not even say good-bye,” she moaned out loud. “How could they leave without telling me?”
She repeated this over and over to herself, shaking her head from side to side as if willing herself to wake up from this hideous nightmare. Did they not know that she would miss them more than any of the other pupils or staff? She wanted the world to stop there and then so that she could jump off. Eventually, she heaved herself up from the floor and, after washing her face in the girls’ room, she headed down the corridor and into her first lesson of the day.
That most terrible school day was, for all other pupils, filled with the buzz that a new term brings. All the girls and boys caught up on the summer holiday gossip. For Polly, though, the rest of the day passed in a haze of deep misery. As the last bell rang, she picked up her schoolbag and, dragging it on the ground behind her, she headed for the school gates. As she passed through the gates with her head hung low she failed to notice that she was on a collision course with Mrs. Trouillet, the part-time French teacher. Polly bumped into her, knocking a large stack of papers out of her hands. As the papers flew everywhere, Polly tried to catch them, shouting out an apology as she continued to race after them.
“Why, eef eet eesn’t Polly Brown!” she said somewhat surprised as Polly handed back all the papers she had collected.
“Hello, Mrs. Trouillet,” said Polly rather breathlessly. “I’m terribly sorry. I was not looking where I was going, but I think I’ve caught all your papers,” she said, forcing a faint smile. The French teacher smiled back.
“Polly, I am so glad to ’ave boomped into you today,” she said in delightfully broken English, “for I was geeven this letter to geeve to you by Mr. Beloski when I ’elped him clear out hees classr
oom during thee school ’oleedays.”
Polly stopped in her tracks. “A letter for me?” she spluttered, turning the deepest shade of crimson. “Yes, for you, my dear,” Mrs. Trouillet handed Polly the envelope. Polly grabbed it out of her hand and stuffed it in her blazer pocket.
“Thank you so much, Mrs. Trouillet,” she said, feeling the deepest sense of gratitude as she fought back fresh tears. “You have no idea how much this means to me.”
She then excused herself, mumbling something along the lines that she had forgotten her homework. She turned in her tracks and raced back toward the main school building to find somewhere private to open the sealed letter.
Finding an empty classroom, she then made her way over to a corner so that she could hide away and be well out of sight of any snooping pupils or staff. As soon as she was sure that nobody else was around, she tore open Mr. Beloski’s personal letter to her and started to read.
Dear Polly,
By now you will have discovered that I have left the school. I have since heard that Mrs. Bailey has likewise moved on. This must seem like a terrible blow to you. I can only say I am so sorry that I did not have the opportunity to personally see you to say good-bye. Of all the pupils I have taught over the years, I have to say you are the most promising. I know you will find this hard to believe, but I assure you this is the truth. At this moment in time as you read my letter, I feel certain you will be angry with me, but I also know you have an immense capacity to forgive. How do I know this? Well, it is because over the years that I have come to know you, I have on more than one occasion observed you choose to make the difficult, and often seemingly impossible, choice to forgive other pupils when they treat you badly. I want you to promise me that you will never give up on yourself. You have an amazing ability to touch people’s lives. You certainly touched mine. I cannot finish this letter without one final thought. It is a quote given by a famous American lady, Eleanor Roosevelt, and I cannot think of anyone who needs to hear it more than you do. “The future belongs to those who believe in the beauty of their dreams.” You are a bright young girl with a big heart and big dreams. I pray you will see each and every one of them fulfilled. Trust your heart, Polly, and believe that God above will help you bring them to pass. Until we meet again, sweet dreams.
Yours Truly,
Polly read and reread the precious letter before slowly folding it up and returning it to its envelope. Then, with the greatest of care, she placed it in the inside pocket of her school blazer before cupping her face between her hands to weep. She wept for Mrs. Bailey and Mr. Beloski, and she also wept because no one had ever reached into her heart with such touching words of hope.
Polly must have been there for some time, for eventually she was disturbed. The handle of the classroom door turned and Stanley Horlicks, the school cleaner, poked his head around the door. He was an old man in his late sixties whose hair had said good-bye to his scalp many years previous, but he had a gentle face and kind, crinkly eyes. Polly knew that Stanley suffered from some crippling back condition that meant he moved very slowly as he went about his cleaning tasks, and this made Polly feel very sorry that Stanley had to work at all. She could see his face was often etched with great pain as he shuffled about, but still he always managed a little smile.
Stanley observed Polly sitting on the floor in a crumpled heap, so he was as quiet as a mouse as he tiptoed across the room. He slowly crouched down beside her, and his bones made cracking noises that caused him to wince from the excruciating pain.
“Excuse me, miss,” Stanley said most softly and sensitively. “I’m so sorry to disturb you. Are you all right?”
Polly nodded, feeling more than a little embarrassed. She knew she looked a mess because of her red eyes that were sore from crying.
Stanley, being a most gracious and humble man, pretended not to notice.
“I will have to ask you to leave and finish your homework somewhere else, miss, for I have to clean this room before the school caretaker comes in ten minutes to lock up,” he said apologetically, giving her a deep look of sympathy as he spoke.
He hovered over her for a minute before getting up and stretching to ease the aches and pains that come with old age and arthritis. He then made the decision to leave the room just for a minute to allow Polly the breathing space necessary to compose herself. For he knew without a shadow of doubt that homework was the last thing that this rather sad young lady had been doing.
“God bless her little cotton socks,” Stanley Horlicks quietly muttered under his breath. “School wasn’t much better in my days!”
Polly went back to the girls’ room to wash her face and compose herself before leaving the building to head for the train station and go home. The platform was almost deserted, for all the children were long gone, presumably all safely home and now enjoying a delicious, hot meal as they chatted to their families about the first day of the new term and other interesting school events.
The last place Polly wanted to go was home to a castle filled with hatred and pain; home to congealed beans on cold, burned toast—that’s if she was lucky and there was any left for her. The guard blew his whistle, and the train chugged slowly out of the station. As it gathered speed, Polly leaned back on the headrest and closed her eyes, allowing herself the luxury of thinking back to past times and her already sorely-missed teachers as she wondered where to go from here.
For Polly, the next few weeks at school were little more than a blur. She sat in all the lessons and did nothing more than what was required of her. The new art and English teacher was quite nice, and the substitute history and science teacher could not be faulted. But nobody could or would ever fill the shoes of her much-loved teachers who had abandoned her. The pain of their absence was almost physical, and that pain would not go away.
Chapter 8
THE PEA PROBLEM
THE WEEKS TURNED into months, and with them came the season to be jolly, although Polly could find no earthly reason whatsoever to be jolly. For others, December meant Christmas trees with shimmering baubles, soft white snow, Christmas carols, mince pies, and steaming hot cocoa by a roaring fire. Instead of being able to enjoy these things, Polly had extra chores daily piled upon her, many of which were outside in the freezing cold. And, as a result of the extra chores, Polly forgot that she even had Hodgekiss’s latest book in her possession.
One night, upon finding that she had finished her chores earlier than usual, she took herself off to bed to have an early night and hopefully catch up on some much-needed sleep. However, after many hours of tossing and turning from feeling chilled to the bones, she finally acknowledged that sleep was the last thing that was going to come to her.
She rummaged around under the bed until she found her flashlight. After switching it on, she reluctantly got out of her bed to search through her locker for something to read. She shone the light up and down in her seemingly futile search for something new and inspirational to read among the pile of frayed novels that belonged to the school library, many of which were long overdue.
“Now, let me see. I’ve read that one several times, and no, I didn’t particularly get on with that one,” she whispered as she discarded each book onto the bedroom floor and continued her search through the mountainous pile of books squeezed into the small locker space.
She was about to give up when her eyes hit on the latest book that Hodgekiss had given her.
“I suppose as a last resort I could give Hodgekiss’s latest book offering a try,” she mumbled to herself. She then climbed back into bed, taking the book under her covers to read under the glow of her flashlight.
“Once upon a time, high up on a hill, stood a castle,” she read.
“So far so good,” thought Polly. As she read on, she quickly learned that this book was all about a young prince who yearned to get married. This particular prince lived alone with his mother.
“No wonder he wants to tie the knot,” Polly sympathized. “For this poor man is i
ndeed very lonely. He has only his golden oldie mother to talk to.” She felt certain that he must have been pretty fed up, as most men were not the least bit interested in talking about the price of vegetables or the latest knitting pattern. The poor prince was probably screaming inside for new and socially acceptable companions. Anyway, he scoured the kingdom in search of a suitable bride.
Many women of noble birth came and presented themselves before the prince, hoping to be the lucky one to become the royal bride. They were all drop-dead gorgeous with beautifully clear skin and pearly white teeth. The prince, however, was not entirely satisfied that he had found the perfect one.
“Men are always so fussy,” Polly quietly moaned to herself.
Then one day a poor, bedraggled young urchin turned up at the castle soaking wet. There had been the most dreadful downpour. The prince handed her a royal towel to dry herself off before making her a nice cup of tea. He was, after all, a very thoughtful prince. Within minutes of chatting with her he knew, without a shadow of doubt, that she was the perfect one for him. Wedding bells began to ring loudly in his royal ears. He was thoroughly smitten. “Hmm. How nice, love at first sight,” thought Polly.
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