Out fell a small, see-through polythene bag. Polly picked it up and could see that the bag contained earplugs. She laughed out loud and then turned to Ralph. “Are these so I don’t have to listen to your words of wisdom anymore, Ralph?”
Ralph joined in the laughter. “If that’s what you want to think, Polly, that’s fine with me. But no, the real reason for my giving them to you is that, as you make your journey, many will try to discourage you, happily telling you it’s much too dangerous, or worse still, that it will never happen. They will seek to persuade you to abandon your dream entirely, pouring plenty of cold water on your enthusiasm by their words of failure and discouragement. And what you need to understand is such people have no dream they wish to see fulfilled, otherwise very little courage or conviction to follow after it. So, Polly Brown, if they can’t have what they want, they will not be too happy to see you reach the finish line. You need to take what I’m saying fully on board, Polly, for this need to discourage others seems to be inbred into the very nature of many. Therefore, when you meet such people, it is considered best that you put your earplugs in and your blinders on. And having done so, you must politely decline from engaging in all dangerous and idle conversation with such folks. For I believe the whisperings going on inside your head will be enough for you to contend with, without the extra pressure of unwelcome and off-putting advice from other travelers.”
Polly willingly agreed to do what Ralph had helpfully suggested. So she placed the blinders and earplugs into her schoolbag along with all her other possessions.
Having fastened the buckles on her schoolbag, she began to shudder, for the cold was really beginning to get to her. Ralph was quick to notice, and decided it was time to get up and leave.
“Polly, I am on my way to meet up with some good friends of mine and wondered if you might like to come and join us?”
She readily agreed, feeling extremely grateful for the invite, for she felt in desperate need of some companionship. Ralph was the first one up from the ground, and he held out his large hand to pull her up from the pavement. They then journeyed together, talking and laughing as they continued on towards their destination. It was not too long before Ralph caught sight of his friends in the distance standing around an open fire, their arms outstretched towards its fiercesome flames as they attempted to keep warm. Ralph felt Polly’s hesitation and her reluctance to advance any further forward to meet them. So he turned to directly face her and told her she had nothing to fear, for after all these were his friends.
“They are real ragamuffins with hearts of pure gold,” he said reassuringly.
As Ralph walked towards his friends, Polly clung on tightly to his arm, still feeling very unsure about whether she should have come with him. But all this uncertainty evaporated when a large number of them rushed over to greet them.
“It’s good to see you, Ralph,” shouted one of the travelers rather hoarsely as he came up to give Ralph a warm hug.
“Yes, we’ve all really missed you,” shouted another.
“Come and stand by the fire, for it will keep you warm,” interrupted a haggard but kindly woman in a tattered shawl. “And I will roast some delicious chestnuts on the fire. So quick, come closer and introduce us to your little friend.”
Ralph took Polly by her free hand, for her other was tightly holding on to Langdon. He led her towards the warmth of the fire.
He then introduced Polly. “Friends, this young lady is called Polly Brown, and she is a good friend of mine.”
“Well, if she’s a good friend of yours, then she’s a friend of ours too,” piped up one of the travelers.
They all nodded in agreement before moving forward to introduce themselves to Polly. Every greeting was so warm and friendly that Polly’s arm began to ache from the amount of handshakes she received.
“Pleased to meet you, Miss Polly,” said one friendly voice after another. There were so many of them that Polly was afraid she would never remember all their names. But on a more positive note, all fear vanished as young Polly started to relax.
“Give the girl a warm mug of Rosie Lea, Dot,” shouted one of the women.
Polly had no idea what sort of drink Rosie Lea was, but it didn’t take her long to find out. A large mug of hot sweet tea was placed in her hands. This was soon followed by a very questionable-looking sandwich, its filling completely unrecognizable to Polly, even after she had taken a large bite! But as she was so hungry, she just gratefully accepted it, wolfing it down in a matter of seconds.
Later that same night she was given a small paper bag filled with some rather nice roasted chestnuts, which again she polished off in no time at all. Polly noticed that all those gathered around the fire seemed to really love Ralph, and he in turn seemed to love and accept them just as much. Polly found being there a strange but liberating experience.
All her life, and on too numerous an occasion to mention, she had been warned not to speak to strangers. She had done her very best to strictly adhere to this. For Uncle Boritz had gone to great lengths to make sure all the children were made fully aware of the many dangers that were lurking outside the castle. There were also the possible consequences of not following his strong and very sound advice. But here in this magical moment in time, she felt safe to leave all such advice to one side. For this strange night, meeting up with these scruffy outcasts of society, was indeed turning into a most unusual experience. With Ralph constantly at her side, she felt safe and secure as well as happy.
As she huddled around the fire with Ralph and his friends, she listened to all their personal stories—stories of such hardship and sadness that made her want to weep.
There was an ancient-looking man named Mordecai Monkfish, and Polly listened most intently as he told the saddest stories. His young son, who had been the apple of his eye, had drowned while on a fishing trip. Mordecai had always warned his son of the many dangers when going down to the river. And he had spent the time ever since that fateful day apportioning all blame to himself for not having been there to rescue his son. With the loss of his son too painful to bear, he had turned to alcohol to stifle his anguish and torment. He had then lost his job and his wife, for she ordered him to leave the family house when she could no longer cope with the loss of her son and seeing her husband fall apart at the seams. Mordecai was full of deep regrets and shame, and he told Polly he wished he could turn the clock back, for he would have sought to solve his problems in other ways—any way but the bottle! He had been on the road for some twenty years, and the bottle was now his closest companion.
Then it was the turn of his fellow traveler, Ichabod Grimshaw, to tell his tale. He also had suffered much. He had been young in years when he had been called up to go and serve in his country’s war, and sadly he had never fully recovered from all he saw and experienced. He had finally come home after helping to bury many of his fellow soldiers who had become close friends. There had been no hero’s welcome for him or for his fellow soldiers who, having survived the madness of war, made it home only to discover that their townsfolk were angry at them for going to war in the first place. It had made no difference that they had obeyed the call to go to war. They wished to serve and defend their fine country. Many of his friends were still missing, never having returned. And of those who did come back, many since had chosen to end their lives, unable to live with the nightmares that were to constantly haunt them.
“Polly, you need to understand something,” Ichabod explained, his voice cracking under the weight of his words. “Wars will only cease when clear-thinking, decent men refuse to fight. For having seen the real horror of war, I can honestly say there really are no winners. Yes, war is a most terrible thing to behold! And I think that those of us who have witnessed the hideous darkness and terror that war brings, never stop seeing its horror.”
Polly knew exactly what he was talking about, for she too felt she had been through a war. Her war had, of course, been very different from the one Ichabod had experience
d. Nonetheless, she had been bloodied on the battlefield of life and had sustained real injuries as a result. She therefore considered herself to be just as much a casualty and therefore in need of a healer. Her memories were like open wounds, bleeding constantly and refusing to be healed. And just like Ichabod, they served as a constant reminder of the terror she had experienced at the hands of others. She therefore reached out her hand to touch his to reassure him that she not only understood but also felt the depth of his pain. Yes, his pain had become her pain. As she listened most intently to this man, whose very soul appeared to have been destroyed, she felt nothing but the deepest sorrow on his behalf.
Ichabod felt touched by young Polly’s gesture, and pondered how a girl of such a tender age could understand and empathize with what he’d been through in life, as well as accept him in his current state: a raggedy, smelly old ragamuffin, who most of society steered well clear of. He could only speculate as to the horrors she had endured in her young life that went to make her the deeply caring and understanding young lady that she was.
Poor Ichabod had struggled in his effort to return to normal life, but had found it impossible to do so, preferring to take to the highways and byways and walk—then walk some more—in his futile attempt to ease his pain.
Polly wept openly as she listened, privately thinking, “Where do you go when there’s nowhere to go, and you don’t want to be where you are?” Eventually she could no longer restrain herself, and she reached over and flung her arms around his scraggy neck.
“Oh, dear sweet Ichabod, I am so sorry that all this has happened to you. Please believe me when I say that I truly wish there was something I could do to take your pain away.”
Ichabod fought as hard as he had on the battlefield to hold back the tears, but to no avail. In no time at all he lost his fight to remain in control, and with it went all reasoning. To be hugged, and so warmly, by a young, caring girl was more than a man of his years could withstand, especially since he had completely forgotten for years too numerous to mention the long lost emotion that the touch of a hand or the warmth of a gentle smile could bring. Within just a matter of seconds, he could no longer hold on to the tears that had remained hidden and stored away all these years, refusing to come forth and bring healing to his broken heart.
“Thank you, young lady. You giving me this hug is making me feel all cracked up inside. Yes, quite wobbly!” he sniffed as he struggled to control the depth of emotions that now had been unleashed. For he did not want to break down completely and frighten Polly, or himself for that matter!
What he did not know that night as he embraced her was that Polly would not have been the slightest bit afraid, for she was so used to tears, her own as well as others. She felt really comfortable and at home around open and honest people who showed their vulnerability, for such people touched her to the very core of her soul. What really frightened her were people who were decidedly superior and delighted in making her feel small or insignificant, people who made her feel worthless. It was this kind of people who made Polly most afraid.
Ralph watched on and said nothing. He just sat and observed young Polly, hoping with all his heart that she would make it to Piadora for her sake, as well as for the sake of others who needed the love and openness that this young girl radiated from deep within.
For the first time since they met, he felt glad that it was he who had volunteered for the special assignment of directing Polly towards her destination. He therefore smiled secretly before noticing a feather flutter past him. He watched its flight path until it landed on the ground before coming to the full realization that there was a large pile of feathers growing in number gathering around his feet. “Oh, dearie me,” he thought to himself. If I stand near this fire much longer, then pretty soon I will be as naked as a plucked chicken! He rather furtively delved into his long trench coat pocket and produced a small dustpan and brush. Then after checking that no one was watching, he discreetly began sweeping up the pile of feathers. When the task was done he put the dustpan and brush, along with all the loose white feathers, back into his pocket.
Ralph breathed a sigh of relief, for he had almost been found out, and now was definitely not the right time for him to have to do any explaining!
Luckily, Polly had not noticed Ralph sweeping up his feathers, for she was too busy listening most intently to a rather plump, red-headed lady who had introduced herself to Polly as Morag McCrutchfield. She told Polly that she too had been living on the streets for many years after being thrown out of her home at the tender age of sixteen by her drunken, abusive father. She had lived on her wits on the streets ever since, going from soup kitchen to soup kitchen with a rusty, broken-down shopping cart that was filled to overflowing with all the seemingly insignificant worldly possessions that she had accrued over her years. She had braved the harshest of English winters by stuffing realms of newspaper down her coat in an effort to keep warm. Despite all her hardship, this well-worn lady was so warm and jolly in character. She made Polly feel so welcome. She even pulled out a jumper from her many plastic bags for Polly to wear. Polly felt both humbled and touched to be in their presence and find real acceptance, something she had never experienced in her young life.
“Here, put this on, love,” she said to Polly with a huge grin on her craggy face. “Or you’ll catch a death of a cold, that’s for sure.”
Polly grinned back and thanked her before putting it on. Morag then picked out an old newspaper from the cart and, taking piece after piece, she screwed them up before handing some to Polly.
“Here, my dear. Stuff some of this down your jumper, for it will do much to keep out the bitter cold.”
Polly giggled, but obeyed. She instantly felt much warmer. As she continued to listen to many other sadder-than-sad tales, she felt that even if there had been no fire to stand next to, the very warmth that came from these unusual and most bedraggled outcasts would have been enough. She began to experience a melting inside her heart as she talked and communed with them. In the past she had been guilty of shunning such people, for she could only view these ragamuffins with disgust. Now having heard just some of the stories, she felt deeply ashamed. That night around the fire, Polly discovered that judging such people only serves to harden the heart, but compassion does much to melt it away.
They had been talking for hours when Ichabod turned to Ralph and asked about Hodgekiss.
“Yes, where is he?” asked one of the travelers.
“We have not seen him for some time,” piped up another.
Ralph smiled and then said, “He is fine and well, but rather busy at present organizing a huge banquet, I believe.”
“Well, please tell him that we miss him,” interrupted another of the travelers.
“Yes, tell him we really love it when he pays us a visit,” said Mordecai, “he somehow manages to give us such hope and strength to carry on. It just isn’t the same when he’s not here.”
They all nodded their agreement.
“Yes, and he really makes us laugh,” interjected another traveler. “So be sure to tell him we are in real need of a few belly laughs to keep us warm on these cold winter nights.”
Ralph smiled and promised to pass their greetings on to Hodgekiss when he next caught up with him.
With all conversation ended and all available scraps of food consumed, a man with a grey beard, funny brown hat, and matching grey jacket suggested to those present that it was now time for a good sing-along. His idea was met with real enthusiasm by all gathered, so he opened his bag and produced an accordion. His friend standing beside him, who also sported a beard, likewise produced an instrument. Polly was not certain if it was a violin or viola or something she had heard referred to as a fiddle, but all she knew was when the bow made contact with the strings the sound that came forth was so sweet that the strings of her fragile heart were most affected.
“Well, what shall we sing then, folks?” asked the man with a squeeze box.
The n
ext few moments were chaotic as everyone cried out for this or that song; there were so many requests that Polly felt they could spend all the rest of the night if they were to get through singing all the songs.
Finally, the man in the blue jacket with the violin made the choice for them. In seconds they were all singing “Danny Boy.”
The travelers sang with great gusto, and although their voices were rough from years of hard drinking and smoking, none of this seemed to matter as the musicians’ instruments did much to mellow the sounds that filled the air around the campfire. Polly looked at all the faces of those singing, faces that had seemed so hardened by life’s tragedies, and yet, as they glowed in the light of the fire she saw raw pain and beauty in their eyes, and it made her want to weep some more.
They went on to sing “You’ll Never Walk Alone.” Polly knew and loved this song as much as the travelers, although she did think it strange that they would want to sing this song, as just like herself they had walked through life with only loneliness and despair for companionship. Polly noticed that many an eye was decidedly moist as they sang on, not wishing for the song to end. She laughed as they started the next song called “Show Me the Way to Go Home.” She sang along, desperately trying not to burst into fits of laughter, for she knew that once again, just like herself, they would all love to find their way home. Yes, home to the warmth of a real fire and the arms of a real, loving family, as well as delicious hot food and a warm, cozy bed. Instead they had to settle for lamenting and dreaming of such things. Finally, after many more golden oldies had been sung, including “Pack Up Your Troubles in Your Old Kit Bag,” the two raggedy musicians decided to call it a day, or rather a night.
“No, can we have just one more?” pleaded a lady in a red shawl as she drank from an open beer bottle.
“Yes, go on. Just one more tune,” urged her giggly friend as she too swigged from a bottle. “Yes, can we sing ‘Streets of London’? For we haven’t sung that one in ages,” urged another traveler as he dragged deeply on his pipe.
Polly Brown Page 28