Polly Brown

by Tricia Bennett

  “Well, hello there,” she said somberly. “And what can I do to help you?” Polly stood up straight and returned the greeting before taking a deep breath. “My name is Polly Brown, and I am looking for my brother Thomas Brown.”

  “Well you won’t find him in here, dear!” replied the receptionist.

  “Oh dear,” responded Polly rather glumly, feeling very defeated by the news.

  “I’m sorry, my dear, but this place is for those who have departed to go on to higher things,” she said, her eyes looking upwards as she spoke.

  Polly joined her in looking up at the ceiling before shaking her head.

  “Look, I don’t think you quite understand. My brother has departed, and I need your help to give him something.”

  “Well, if he has, as you say, departed,” she said lowering her voice to little more than a whisper, “then he certainly won’t be wanting anything, dear,” she responded in an all-knowing manner. “Well, nothing except your prayers to ask that he makes it to the right place,” she said rather sanctimoniously, again turning her eyes upwards then downward towards the floor.

  Feeling slightly puzzled and confused, Polly followed her eyes, wondering quite what she meant.

  “Oh, I don’t think he will be going down there,” she winced, momentarily feeling quite insulted, “for he was a wonderful and very kind brother.”

  “That’s what they all say once a relative has departed this earth,” said the woman airily.

  Polly refused to listen any further, preferring to delve into her schoolbag in search of Eton. “Please, please help me, for I have no one else I can turn to,” she pleaded.

  The lady with the red nails could see how upset Polly was and felt quite sorry for her. She shook her hands in front of her face before blowing on each individual nail to dry them further. She then picked up a large black book from the desk and, after blowing the filing dust from its hard-backed cover, she opened it up and finally began to address Polly’s pressing situation.

  “Right. Let me see,” she said tartly as she proceeded to thumb through the black book. “Ah, yes. We do have a Thomas Brown booked in after all,” she brightly announced as she thumbed down the pages. “Yes, he is due for burial on Tuesday at two o’clock at St. Winifreds Church. And I have to say it is a beautiful church as far as churches go. It’s sixteenth century, I’ll have you know, so it has quite a history.” She then did another quick blow on her nails to encourage the red paint to dry as she moved away from her desk and came to stand in front of Polly. “Come to think of it, I do remember Thomas being brought here, and I also remember his guardians,” she said, pulling a long face before moving closer and stooping down until she was eye to eye with Polly. “Oh yes, his guardians,” she said, lowering her tone to almost a whisper and pursing her bright red lips. “Yes, I remember them all right! Not only did they decline to have any flowers for the funeral, the mean things, but they also ordered the cheapest coffin possible. Then they had the cheek to complain that this was more than they wished to pay! I won’t tell you what I thought about that, for it is much too naughty for tender little ears as yours to hear.”

  Polly smiled, for as young as she was, she had some idea of what the receptionist might well have thought. The lady graciously held out her hand for Polly to take hold of and allow herself to be led down a long, narrow passageway and then down some steep steps into a basement room.

  “Wait here a minute!” commanded the lady with the red nail polish that still had not finished drying.

  Polly obeyed and stayed put. The lady then opened the door that was in front of them and shouted, “Here, Bert. I hope you haven’t sealed up the coffin of that little boy. What’s his name?” she said, quickly turning back to face Polly.

  “Thomas,” Polly interjected.

  “Yes, his name’s Thomas, Thomas Brown, and there’s a young girl here who wishes to see him.”

  “Nope. The good news is that the coffin is still open, me darlin’, as I haven’t got round to closing it up yet,” came the cheery but muffled reply from inside the room.

  “That’s great news,” said the receptionist. “For this young lady wants you to put her teddy bear into his coffin. Something to do with helping him not to feel lonely anymore! So can you come and take the teddy from her? Understand it’s more than my job’s worth to allow her to enter the room?” she called out loudly.

  Suddenly Bert appeared through the door, most anxious to be of assistance.

  “Thank you so much,” whispered Polly, her eyes moist with fresh tears. “And please, can you make sure that the little note in his waistcoat does not fall out,” she pleaded.

  “I will see to it that it doesn’t, miss,” said Bert, flashing Polly a compassionate smile that revealed more than a few missing teeth. Polly smiled back before trustingly handing Eton over to Bert. He then closed the door firmly behind him as he needed to get back to his busy work schedule.

  She was just about to turn and leave when she heard a sudden commotion from behind the now firmly shut door. They were noises that suggested all was not well. Suddenly, and without warning, the door sprang open and out jumped Bert, covered from head to toe in white feathers. He struggled to speak. The lady with the long nails reeled back in horror.

  “Bert, look at you! You look a right mess. What on earth is going on?” she demanded to know.

  “I have no idea!” spluttered Bert as he attempted to spit out the feathers that had flown into his mouth. “All I did was remove the lid from the young lad’s coffin, and without warning, thousands of feathers flew out of the box!”

  Polly stood in stunned silence. Lady Lacquernails could only let out a small gasp, then cry, “What did you say, Bert?” for she believed she had not heard correctly.

  Bert repeated himself, saying he had done absolutely nothing except open the box, and the feathers had sprung from nowhere, catching him completely unaware.

  “Stay here, my dear,” the lady with varnished nails crisply ordered as she placed a firm hand on Polly’s shoulder and steered her to one side so that she would not be able to see into the room filled with coffins. Then slowly and tentatively, the lady walked through the open door to where Bert and his coffins resided, for she needed to see for herself just exactly what was going on.

  As she stood peering into the open box, the air surrounding her was thick with white feathers still swirling and fluttering around. Without warning a feather came to rest on one of her fingernails, sticking to a freshly painted bright red nail. Then another one did the same, followed by another. She frantically attempted to pull the feathers off, but they refused to be removed.

  “Some doves or pigeons must have flown in while we weren’t looking,” she anxiously suggested to Bert, her ruby lips quivering as she spoke. For she was beginning to feel quite disconcerted as well claustrophobic and wished to get back to the front desk as quickly as possible.

  “I don’t think so,” answered Bert. “There are no windows down here, and I am very careful to close all the coffins very tightly when they are brought down. Besides, the pigeons around here aren’t normally this white, and these feathers are white as white can be!”

  As they stood for some time feeling exceedingly troubled and perplexed, they were unable to come up with one plausible explanation. For instance, could the pillow have accidentally burst open, spilling its contents? Or perhaps a bird had laid its eggs and now their chicks had hatched inside an open coffin? No, nothing they came up with seemed the slightest bit logical or worthy of another moment’s consideration.

  Suddenly they heard the sound of a car pulling up in the backyard. It was the owner of the funeral home, Mr. Pinecoffin.

  “Quick, Bert, I will help you clear up this awful mess,” said the receptionist. “If Mr. Pinecoffin sees the state of this room, both of us will be out of a job!”

  Between the two of them they hurriedly scooped up handful after handful of the feathers that had come to settle on the floor, quickly throwing them ba
ck in the box. Luckily, Bert suddenly remembered the teddy and quickly placed him into the box, checking first that the little note was still in his waistcoat pocket. It was. After placing the lid firmly back down, he then used the full weight of his body to lean on the box, ensuring that it remained firmly shut. Satisfied, he then pulled out his hammer and some long nails from his deep overall pocket. After a few extremely loud and very hearty bangs, the box was, in his estimation, now thoroughly secured.

  Bert breathed a deep sigh of relief, for now nobody would know anything of what had taken place and therefore his job was no longer on the line. The lady was also very grateful that everything was once again in order. She grabbed Polly’s hand and rushed her back up the steps and towards the front door just as Mr. Pinecoffin was coming in through the back entrance. Giving Polly a quick peck on the cheek, she ushered her quickly out onto the street pavement before racing back into the reception area, for she needed to get back behind the desk as quickly as possible. She straightened her dress and attempted to brush off the last remaining feathers before hastily taking her seat and then pretending to be fully occupied with filing important letters.

  “Good morning, Miss Lushblush,” said Mr. Pinecoffin rather briskly as he popped his head through the doorway to acknowledge her.

  Lady Rednails chose not to look up. Not because she was a rude employee, but because she was desperately trying hard to look busy, and was hiding both hands underneath a pile of old files. However, she did manage a smile in the direction of her boss before putting her head back down as she continued on with the pretense of being hard at work.

  “It’s been a very quiet day so far,” commented Mr. Pinecoffin.

  “Yes, sir, it most certainly has,” replied Miss Lushblush.

  With all perfunctory conversation out of the way, Mr. Pinecoffin hastily turned and went directly to his office to get on with business, for he was most behind with the bills.

  “Whew! We made it,” were the only words that came forth from the ruby red lips of the extremely anxious lady, for quiet was not the word she would have used to describe her unusual morning.

  With her boss well out of sight she dropped the files down onto the desk and then raised both hands into the air to observe her fingernails. The feathers were still firmly attached! After rummaging around in her black bag, she finally produced a bottle of nail polish remover.

  “This had better do the job,” she whispered as she attempted to remove the remaining white feathers that were still fiercely glued to her very long red nails.

  Polly felt happy as she walked up the hill towards home. She knew she would miss Eton so much, but she also felt that the sacrifice was worth it. She had given him to Thomas to save him from being lonely, and that felt good. Her thoughts turned to her little note. She hadn’t really known what to write, but in the end, she felt that what she had written perfectly expressed her heart.

  Dear Thomas,

  I never got to say good-bye to you, and now you are gone. Oh, how I already miss you. I hope that you will be happier in heaven, for it is supposed to be a very nice place. If you find yourself getting bored, don’t hesitate to ask God for some paper, paint, and brushes, because I am quite certain He will be as impressed with your pictures as I have always been, and I have heard He can be quite generous. While we’re on the subject of generosity, could you give Him a little nudge and remind Him that He needs to pay a lot more attention to the starving children in Africa and India. Oh, and I mustn’t forget Brazil, for they could really do with His help at the moment! And please could you emphasize that many will die of hunger and awful diseases if He does not act fast. Also speaking of food or, in this case, lack of it, please could you very casually slip into the conversation that all the children in the castle are struggling with hunger issues as well. You really must stress the urgency of this fact, Thomas, for He really does need to take His hands out of His pockets and tackle these serious problems A.S.A.P. By the way, Thomas, if God gets upset by you telling Him all this, please feel totally free to point the blame in my direction. I think that’s only fair.

  I promise to keep a beady eye on James, but also to never ever forget you. We will meet again, only next time we will be free from all the pain and heartache we have become so used to. When this happens I will sing songs and you can inspire me to write a lot of crazy poems. Of course, that’s when we’re not doing loads of cartwheels in fields filled with wild poppies. Remember the poppy field, Thomas? James will be with us, and we will then be reunited as a family. I wonder what James would like to do to pass the time away in heaven? I know! He can make loads of model airplanes and ships while you paint me even more of your lovely pictures of mountains and rivers. Until that day, remember that I will always love you. God bless, my most wonderful brother. P. S. I have left Eton with you so that you will not be lonely or cold. He has promised me that he will do all he can to keep you warm and snug at night, just the same as he did for me.

  Oodles of Love,

  Polly felt much lighter inside as she headed for home, feeling very pleased with her letter. She believed that for the first time in her life she had actually managed to write a letter that went straight to the heart of the matter. Hopefully it would make Thomas laugh when he read it, and maybe, just maybe, God also might smile as He took time out to read it! Polly hoped that might happen, especially as this letter was nowhere near as long as most of her writings.

  Polly knew she had very little problem articulating herself. But she also knew that she had always struggled to keep specifically to a point. She always somehow managed to go around the houses, and it was always quite by accident. At school, when she was asked to write an essay, she was ready with her pen long before all the other children had even unzipped their pencil cases, and once she put pen to paper she was unstoppable. She would feel the flow and write till either her hand ached or she was ordered to stop. Even then, she was very reluctant to obey the command and put her pen down.

  Polly cared little for grammar or correct punctuation. Her main ambition was to just get the story down on paper. Besides, she had always struggled with the whole concept of grammar and punctuation and felt truly incapable of understanding why it was necessary. She despaired of ever being able to master it. Mrs. O’Bleak, one of the part-time English teachers, likewise despaired of Polly’s lack of grammar and at times became very cross with her, ordering her to take back the piece of work and sort it.

  On one occasion she thought she had come up with the perfect solution to her little problem. No such luck! Mrs. O’Bleak had completely rejected her plan, declaring it to be most unacceptable. Her solution was to place a full stop after every ten words and systematically do the same thing over and over until she came to the end of her piece of work. Polly was as pleased as punch with her new method, and she was therefore very surprised that Mrs. O’Bleak did not feel likewise. Polly was forced to do it all again. According to Mrs. O’Bleak, her writing now made little or no sense at all. Polly had felt most disappointed, for she really had done her very best. She would have to try harder, for she hated upsetting anyone, including straight-laced Mrs. O’Bleak. If she was given a poem or story and asked to give a short summary to show she understood the piece, she found this just as impossible. She always ended up with her summary being at least ten times longer than the original story or poem, for she found she had so much to say.

  However, there was one English lesson where she would look as blank as her white sheet of paper and spend the whole lesson unable to write a thing. This happened every first day of a new term when Mrs. O’Bleak would stand at her desk and say, “Now, children, I would like you all to write me an essay describing all the exciting things you have done during your school holidays. The child who writes the best story will, of course, collect another gold star.”

  Polly knew for certain that she could attain no gold star, for her story was simply that she never did much in the holidays. All she seemed to do was cook, clean, and scrub floors
. When she wasn’t doing these chores, she would walk for miles around the town through hills and fields. Apart from all the times she pressed her nose up to the window of the Copper Kettle, enviously watching on as families sat and ate together discussing their plans to tour the castle, there was little else to write about.

  Polly knew it was quite out of the question to write the truth, because she had always been drilled to do otherwise by Uncle Boritz. “What happens in the castle stays in the castle.” Therefore she was at a complete loss as to what precisely she was allowed to write. Polly would stare at the blank sheet of paper, feeling equally blank, for with no inspiration coursing through her mind and no poetic words flowing forth from her pen, she felt well-and-truly stuck. If telling the truth spelled trouble, as it had done so many times in the past, then lying made her feel equally uncomfortable.

  Polly would look over in Gailey Gobbstopper’s direction only to find Gailey having no such difficulty. She would be sitting, head down, writing away most furiously. When Gailey’s essay was finally read to the class, it was a tale of pure fantasy. Its lengthy pages were filled with nonstop adventures that left most of the class feeling extremely envious, for they had only been to Spain for their holidays! Gailey Gobbstopper, however, had managed to sail the oceans, stopping off to visit the seven wonders of the world before heading home. All this miraculously in just five short weeks! During her vacation, she’d eaten endless mind-boggling breakfasts and sat at the captain’s dining table devouring sumptuous gourmet cuisine every jolly evening. And when her feet finally touched dry land, she still found the time to go horse riding on one of her many ponies that she kept at the castle! Sadly, Gailey even believed that she was one of the Scumberry’s own children, although the rest of the world knew different.

  Mrs. O’Bleak never seemed to question Polly’s unusual lack of written work on these occasions or, for that matter, Gailey’s extensive, fast-paced, over-the-top summer holiday program of events. Something obviously did not add up as they both lived under the same roof, yet she chose to ignore this glaring difference. Polly hated the first day back at school more than any other day.