Polly Brown

by Tricia Bennett

  “Polly, hate is a most terrible thing. It is a disease that most deceitfully and very stealthily gnaws away the marrow from our bones. It works silently and effectively. One moment you feel good about being angry and the hate feels well-deserved. However, it will eventually turn and ravage you, for that is its nature. It will bring you nothing but misery and unhappiness, and when it has finally done its work, it strikes yet another deadly blow.”

  “Oh, and what might that be?” Polly angrily asked through her vale of tears.

  “Disease and death, to be precise,” Ralph replied. “Oh yes, hate is such an ugly thing, Polly. It shrouds the mind and soul and ultimately takes over the body, and I have to strongly suggest that I feel you do not wear it well,” he added in a soft voice, brimming over with deep compassion. “For you were made for higher things.”

  “Well, I really don’t care about so-called higher things. I just want to go and be with Thomas,” she cried defensively. “For life has brought me nothing but pain and sorrow, and no matter how hard I try, I feel powerless to change anything. I am a mess, a mistake, a monster, and a freak!” she cried.

  “Polly, stop right there! Not only is all this untrue, but you are rushing headlong into a real pity party, and this will do you no good at all.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do, Ralph, for I’m so sick of obeying everyone else’s orders. If I want a pity party, then I’ll have one. I am, after all, a useless mess, or to use my uncle’s words, a blithering idiot, doomed to failure in just about everything I do.”

  “Polly, I will leave this instant if you continue to judge yourself so harshly. For you are none of these things. Yes, it is true to say there is a lot of mess in your life, but it’s a mess that you did not create. I can also tell you with much authority that whatsoever a man thinks in his heart, then that he will be. So you urgently need to pay some attention to how you see yourself and how you speak. Only you have the power to change that.”

  Polly remained dumbstruck as the anger continued to rise within her. Ralph welcomed her silence, because it meant he could still continue to give her advice that, if listened to, might eventually help her.

  “Look, Polly, I know you feel very battered and bruised at this moment in time, but just hear me out. There is an old adage that you need to hear, like it or not. ‘He that hath no rule over his own spirit and emotions is like a city that is broken down and without walls.’”

  “Precisely what are you getting at?” Polly seethed.

  “Well, the sad truth is that you need to work on yourself, for you are like a wounded animal in a corner, fighting for your life. You feel both afraid and vulnerable, and this allows others to plunder then trample all over you, leaving you crushed and feeling pretty hopeless.”

  Listening to all this information was just too much for Polly’s ears, and she soon felt very charged up. How dare this rather presumptuous, scraggy vagrant—a loser who hardly knew her—presume he could lecture her on how to change her life!

  “Ralph, you should try writing a self-help book, for it would probably be a bestseller,” she said tongue in cheek. “Not that I would read it, for I already have enough of your great wisdom to contend with,” she chided. “Then perhaps you could afford to take baths and buy some deodorant, you stupid, pompous scallywag.” She was now feeling very rattled.

  Ralph chose to remain silent, allowing her derisory insults to wash off his back. Even his silence seemed to upset her further, as she mistakenly saw even this as an act of such great piousness. So she continued to pour out her wrath.

  “Yes, Ralph, you’re obviously a man of great wisdom. So perhaps you should consider a new career helping others with your amazing insights into life and the universe. And then maybe, just maybe, you could then buy yourself a smart suit,” she contemptuously spat in his direction. “Then not only will we be able to see how refined you truly are, but also that you too were born for higher things in life. Until then, you certainly have no right to lecture me on anything!”

  With Polly clean out of words, the room fell into a deathly hush. Polly instantly felt ashamed and embarrassed by her very hurtful outburst. Ralph remained standing in complete silence as he searched his mind for the right words to give this traumatized young maiden some comfort and hope in her tragically difficult situation. In truth, he wanted to weep for her and found it difficult not to break down, for he was feeling the full impact of her pain.

  Polly pretty soon found herself feeling very awkward and uncomfortable with the long drawn-out silence. So she decided to pick up from where she had left off, only this time in a more humble and gracious manner.

  “Let’s face it, Ralph,” Polly wept, “I am nothing but a crackpot!”

  “Crackpot is good, Polly,” replied Ralph with a relaxed, gentle smile.

  “Good!” exclaimed Polly. “How on earth can a crackpot be good?”

  Ralph paused for a moment before telling her a most ancient story: “Listen to me, Polly,” he softly ordered.

  Polly responded by making a face, but she obeyed, showing some interest, albeit resignedly.

  “There once was a man who had to travel many miles to get down to the river and fetch water. On each shoulder he carried a pot. One pot was perfect, with no visible defects.”

  “You mean no cracks?” interrupted Polly.

  “Yes, that’s precisely what I mean,” Ralph replied.

  “The other pot was full of cracks. Each day the man walked miles to the river and, upon arriving at the waters edge, he filled both pots full to the brim with water. As he traveled home, the cracked pot leaked continuously. The master therefore had to make many more trips than he should have, due to the cracked pot. One day the cracked pot turned to its master saying, ‘Oh master, I am so sorry that I am such a burden on you. For if it wasn’t for me and all my awful cracks, you would have no need to travel so many times to the river to collect extra water.’

  “The master turned to the cracked pot and smiled. ‘I know you are cracked, but to me you are just perfect.’

  “The cracked pot was now very confused. The master then turned to the cracked pot and said. ‘Look down at the dusty path that we travel each day and you will see that on your side are the most beautiful flowers, and it is you that waters them each day. Nothing delights me more than to see those beautiful flowers, for it makes my journey into something so magically wonderful and special.’”

  Polly made another face, this time to convey that she was not entirely convinced. “Nice story, Ralph, but it won’t work. For at the end of a day a cracked pot is a useless vessel that should be thrown away and then replaced by something better.”

  “Oh, Polly, don’t throw the baby out with the bathwater. Yes, it is true that you have many cracks in your pot—I mean life! But as a result, you have a wonderful ability to give yourself to others. You see things that others are unable to see, and you think nothing of going the extra mile to help out wherever you can. This is truly a great gift, Polly, but you seem unable or unprepared to acknowledge this truth.” He momentarily paused, for he knew by the look on her face she was still not convinced.

  “Polly, do you remember the evening of the Girl Guides awards presentation?”

  “Oh, great. You had to bring that up now!” thought Polly, feeling quite furious. For the last thing she wished to do was remember something she had spent a considerable length of time trying hard to forget!

  “If I am right, and I nearly always am,” said Ralph slightly tongue in cheek, “you, Polly, my dear, received the award for the best Girl Guide of the year!”

  Ralph was correct. Polly, who had never received an award for anything, was innocently sitting alongside all the other girl guides. As far as she was aware the ceremony was over and all the awards had been given out. They had gone to people like Cynthia Molespot for her most brilliant cello performance, and to Angela Kettledrum for having collected all three cookery badges. Cassandra duPlantis never failed to get the most prestigious award for h
er most excellent contributions on just about every camping expedition that had ever taken place in the universe. The girls who received the awards exceeded everybody’s expectations in just about everything they did. Polly had not even hoped for an award, for she knew that such honor was well beyond her reach.

  Suddenly, the organizer announced that they had created a special award, and with it, a new badge. And this was to be given to the girl who had shown herself to be worthy of the title “best Girl Guide of the year.” Polly was only half listening, as the lady standing at the microphone told one story after another of some unknown young girl who had continuously put herself out to help others. The girls all sat in nail-biting trepidation, anxiously waiting to know who the winner of this new badge was. Finally it was announced.

  “This award goes to Polly Brown.” Polly heard her name but did not respond. “Will Polly Brown please come forward?” said the lady with the microphone, standing behind the high podium.

  Still Polly refused to come forward. This was not because Polly was being stubborn—quite the contrary. It was because no one had ever given her any type of award before. All her seemingly heroic deeds that they saw as so wonderful were, to Polly, her usual way of life. She had no choice but to respond if she thought she could do anything to help anybody. It was part of her nature. She certainly did not think that this deserved being given any sort of high praise or accolade!

  Polly had to be pushed forward that evening by the other Girl Guides, who were standing by her side.

  “Polly, it’s you they are talking about,” they insisted.

  She still stood glued to the spot.

  “Polly, please go up and receive the jolly award or we’ll be here all night,” they pleaded.

  Polly was still most reluctant to move. It took the girls on either side of her to give her an almighty shove that forced her out of the line. Only then did she move forward towards the podium. Even as she walked towards the lady with the microphone she hesitated, for she truly expected that they would burst out laughing and then cry out: “Only joking, ha ha.” Or worse still, for the lady at the front to look embarrassed and say “So sorry, dear!” as she ever so slowly thumbed down her list, suddenly stopping to say, “I can’t find it, dear! No, I’ve checked and your name is not on here. So see here, it wasn’t your name I called out; it was actually Polly Brownslow. So, if you’d be kind enough to return to your seat, dear, I think that would be best, don’t you?”

  Polly would then have turned scarlet, and wished for the end of the world to take place instantly, for she loathed the awful feelings humiliation brought to her soul. As she stepped out to receive the award, unlike the other girls she did not wallow or glory in her twenty seconds of fame. Polly knew only great fear as she shook the lady’s hand and accepted the award. For all these reasons Polly would have much preferred that particular night to stay well out of their conversation!

  Polly was getting really behind with the shoe polishing and decided that she should ask Ralph to go.

  “Pitstop will be coming here to sleep for the night, Ralph,” she said, fearful for his safety. “And if Uncle Boritz finds I have not finished the shoes, or worse still, discovers I am talking to someone, I will be in real trouble. So please go now.”

  “Look, Polly,” replied Ralph. “Your so-called uncle is fast asleep, and so, for that matter, is Pitstop.” Polly looked slightly puzzled. “How on earth do you know that, Ralph?” she asked. Ralph smiled. “Let’s just say it was with a little help from a tranquilizer.”

  “What? Both of them?” questioned Polly, feeling shocked as well as amused.

  “Yes, both of them,” Ralph sheepishly replied. Polly laughed and turned to Ralph, looking suitably concerned.

  “Oh, Ralph, how could you? Pills are not good for you. You must surely know that,” she giggled.

  “Ah yes, dear Polly,” he said. “But these were no ordinary pills. Oh, no! These were made from the sap of the Hoolie Koolie tree, and they are guaranteed to keep them fast asleep for the whole night and probably much of tomorrow as well!”

  Polly laughed. “Is there any condition the sap of the Hoolie Koolie and Hubber Blubber trees won’t fix?” she asked, attempting to be serious.

  “Not as far as I know!” Ralph replied with a straight face.

  Polly accepted Ralph’s help, and they carried on talking as they finished polishing the rows of lined-up shoes. Polly thought it was a much more pleasant task with Ralph than with dear Cecilia Crabtree. Ralph’s undesirable smell seemed on this occasion more bearable, and Polly deemed it to be far more preferable than having to constantly duck the fountains of spittle Cecilia showered upon her.

  “How did you like the last book?” Ralph asked.

  “Well, I don’t think it will come as any surprise to you, Ralph, but just like the previous one I have to admit that I didn’t like it very much. Oh, don’t get me wrong, the story’s great, but, yet again, it made my sadness feel worse than ever,” she sniffed. “Yes, it was just as painful to read as the one about the ugly duckling. Let’s face it, Ralph; they are wonderful fairy tales. But that’s the point. At the end of the day they are tales made up by fairies for fairies.”

  Ralph raised an eyebrow. “Oh, Polly. We all have to deal with secret heartache and disappointment, and you could say that fairy tales give us all hope.”

  “OK, but the point I’m really trying to make is they all end happily ever after, and I know that life just isn’t like that.”

  Ralph agreed. “Hodgekiss told me you’d say that,” he mused. “You’re right, Polly. They are at the end of the day just fairy tales. But let me tell you, there is an ancient book filled with stories of ordinary people just like you and me. They were nobodies with no hope and no future, but they had dreams and they followed after them until they took hold of them.

  “Oh, right,” said Polly sullenly. “And who precisely are these people? And more importantly, where can I find this so-called ancient book?”

  “First things first, Polly,” said Ralph. “One of the many stories is about a young shepherd boy who is the least in his family. He gets to kill a giant and eventually becomes a king.”

  “Well, then that counts me out as usual, for I have no strength at all,” she mournfully stated, flexing her arm at the same time. “Go on, Ralph. Have a good feel, and you will see for yourself that there’s not a hint of a measly muscle anywhere. Truth is, I’m really very puny.”

  “Oh, Polly! The shepherd boy was not strong,” laughed Ralph. “No, quite the contrary. He was puny too! They put the heavy armor on him, and he pretty soon discovered that he could not move a muscle, for he was so weighed down. Eventually he declined all offers of protective clothing, preferring to go into battle in the clothes he stood up in. Polly, I have to tell you that there was not one soldier on the battlefield that believed this young boy could kill the giant, but none of them wanted to volunteer for the job either, so they were left with no choice but to let him have a go. If the young boy had listened to their opinions, there is little doubt that he would have changed his mind. But he refused to listen to anything but what his heart told him, and that was that he had been chosen to defeat this most terrible giant, who, I might add, had never known defeat. When the giant saw his opponent was nothing more than a little whippersnapper, he could not help but burst into fits of laughter, shouting out; ‘Ooh stop, you’re really scaring me,’ whilst clutching hold of his belly to roar, ‘You’ll soon be nothing but mincemeat in my burger bun.’

  “While the whole army of Israel watched on, shaking and scared witless by the giant Goliath and his threats, the young David, without any of the usual weapons at his disposal, marched out onto the battlefield. Reaching into his pouch of smooth pebbles, he placed one in his sling. He then bravely stood before his terrifying opponent, sized him up, sent up a prayer, and took aim. The pebble flew through the air at ninety miles an hour before smashing through Goliath’s forehead like a bullet. Goliath collapsed onto his knees
before crashing nose-first into the dust.”

  “Fantastic,” remarked Polly.

  “A miracle,” commented Ralph. “David then used the giant’s own sword to cut off his head, just for good measure.”

  “I bet that was to make sure he was really dead,” added Polly with a shudder, getting very carried away with the grim and gory details of the story as she pictured the giant’s messy brain matter scattered across the battlefield.

  “Yes, I’m sure it wasn’t a pretty sight,” admitted Ralph.

  “Pretty gruesome, I would imagine,” Polly replied with a small smile, lighting up her face.

  “Precisely. And Polly, I would imagine there was not one Israelite whose jaw did not drop down to his knees with sheer disbelief at what they had witnessed before their very eyes. Also try and imagine the panic of Goliath’s army. They decided to make a very hasty retreat.”

  Polly grinned and thanked Ralph for sharing this story of hope with her. Ralph gave a deep sigh as he admitted, “I just love that story. It is indeed one of my favorites.”

  “All right. You’ve mentioned one. Now give me another example,” ordered Polly. Ralph kindly obliged.

  “Well, another accurately-recorded tale is of an equally young man named Joseph. This young boy was a dreamer, and just like you, Polly, he dreamed big. As a result, all his brothers hated him.”

  “That’s just like me with the other children in this castle,” cried Polly excitedly.

  “Yes,” said Ralph. “And in Joseph’s case the brothers plotted to kill him.”

  “They’d kill me too if they could get away with it!” Polly insisted.

  “I’m sure they would,” Ralph thought to himself. “Anyway, after many terrible trials, Joseph became the second most important person in the land. And, Polly, the icing on the cake was that he got to control the food storehouse for the whole land of Egypt. Now tell me, how amazing is that!”

  Ralph now had Polly’s undivided attention. “Yes! Joseph was able to eat like a king and distribute whatever food he fancied, seven days a week, three hundred sixty-five days of the year!” Ralph informed her, licking his lips with great relish. “He could also be as generous as he wished to whomever he wanted to help. Now that’s powerful stuff, don’t you think?”