The Trouble with Polly Brown

by Tricia Bennett

  “Please, Mr. Postman, take the greatest care with this important letter and faithfully promise me that it won’t get lost at sea,” she begged. “It is going many miles over land and ocean, and at all costs it must get into the hands of a most special friend of mine.”

  The postman smiled and promised that, as with all her other letters, this would be as safe as houses all the while her letter remained in his possession. He also suggested that Polly should try and have a little more faith in the British postal service, as he went on to remind her that it was considered the most efficient service in the world and had Her Majesty’s personal seal of approval.

  “Yes, young lady, that is why it is called the Royal Mail,” he indignantly sniffed.

  “Oh,” gasped a sincerely repentant Polly as secretly she thought back to all the letters she had previously posted to God, letters that she concluded He couldn’t possibly have received; otherwise, He would surely have been gentleman enough to reply to them!

  Polly smiled at the postman and told him that as a result of his genuine and most sincere promise, she could now trust him with her whole life—oh, as well as with her precious letter, of course! “Oh, Mr. Postman, let me tell you, you’re such a darling angel,” she cried as she grabbed hold of the poor, unsuspecting postman’s hand and then gave it an overwhelmingly long and seriously hearty shake.

  With his full sack of letters and small parcels bundled into the back of the mail van, the now shaky and overemotional postman wiped away a tear and then waved good-bye to Polly before turning the key in the engine to set off down the lane. As the engine came to life, there was a loud, strange noise, followed by a series of very disconcerting rumbles. Polly stopped in her tracks and watched as hundreds of white feathers very mysteriously shot out from the undercarriage of the van as it then sped off like a rally car down the long and winding country lane.

  As Polly stood transfixed by the feathers dancing around in front of her, a gust of wind unexpectedly forced the feathers higher up into the air until they came to circle above her head before floating down to land near her feet. How perfectly strange, Polly thought to herself, as in what might be considered a stupefied trance she turned on her heels to head back to the castle.

  On Polly’s arrival back at the castle, she was to be pleasantly surprised to hear firsthand that Uncle Boritz and Aunt Mildred were not at home, nor would they be coming back any time soon. “They had to go to London on a matter of the greatest urgency. That’s all I or any of us know at the moment,” Natalie Nitpick whispered in hushed but very officious tones. “So sadly for all of us, the recently arrived ex-prison warden has been authorized to take complete charge until they return,” she continued to inform, as though she believed it to be her personal duty to relay all relevant and important information on to Polly, as well as any other passerby, whether they cared to ask or not.

  “You mean Miss Scrimp?”

  “Who else?”

  “Does that mean I’ve finally got an evening free from horrid chores?” Polly wistfully asked.

  “No such luck, Polly,” Natalie promptly replied. “Aunt Mildred has seen to it that you are kept busy, for she has left you her latest very lengthy list of duties. You can’t miss it, for it’s pinned to the wall above the kitchen sink.”

  Polly wearily made her way up the creaky oak staircase heading for the dormitory to change out of her school uniform into clothes more appropriate for hard work. On her way back down the stairs, she bumped into James, her younger brother, who was sitting on the bottom stair holding one of his model air planes but looking very glum and miserable.

  Polly felt overwhelmed with remorse. She had no way of explaining that it was not entirely her fault that she had failed to meet up with him at lunchtime, but sadly she knew no excuse would work. She had, as usual, let him down, and the realization that they were drawing further apart than ever was oh so painful. They had already lost their beloved brother, Thomas, so surely it was time for them to close ranks and become close, and yet sadly the opposite seemed to be happening. Words failed her, and it was true to say that since she had returned from Piadora, they had not spoken as much as one kind sentence to one another. In fact, it was farther back than then, for if she rightly remembered, she had not really spoken to him since before dear Thomas’s funeral. She therefore felt terribly guilty, as being his older sister it was surely her responsibility to be there for him. She believed that his heart must surely be broken by the death of Thomas, so she knew his loneliness must match hers, but how could she communicate the love and compassion she felt inside when they rarely had the luxury of just being together to enjoy each other’s company as brother and sister?

  Polly slowly forced herself to sit down on the staircase and snuggle up beside him before tentatively placing an arm around his shoulder. “James, we need to talk, and I have no way of saying how sorry I am for letting you down at school today. I have no excuse whatsoever, but all I can say is I really love you, and I know of no way of making things right between us,” she whispered, her cracking voice completely betraying the anguished pain behind her words as she willed herself not to start crying. James made no response to her appeal, so Polly could only think to hug him tighter, her eyes brimming with tears as she considered the sad fact that she had no words left to express her pain at letting him down.

  She knew that no words would suffice. No apology could act as balm on a gaping, open wound, and she was left feeling that her only hope lay in the fact that maybe one day he might come to a full realization of the truth. If then he understood, then surely forgiveness would finally flow.

  Polly hugged him tighter than ever. James shrugged off her expression of love by removing her arm from his shoulder before placing his model plane by his side. He then buried his face in his hands as if to express that all communication was over. They were now way past any hope of sorting things out.

  Though hurt by his blatant rejection, Polly pretended that all was well, and so she continued on.

  “Hey, is this the plane you’ve been working on?” she brightly asked as she picked up the model to further admire it. “Why, James, you’ve done a really wonderful job,” she enthused. “So tell me, what’s this one called?”

  James lifted his head just enough to mumble. “It’s a Spitfire, and I would tell you its complete history if you ever cared to take the time to listen.”

  Polly broke into a smile. “Now, you know time is one thing I don’t have, James, but I wish I did,” she said, giving a heavy sigh to express something of her deep regret. “I think it’s remarkable just how much you know about planes, tanks, and ships. You’re incredible, and I can say hand on heart that as usual you’ve done a really brilliant job.”

  Polly carefully placed it back on the staircase before throwing caution to the wind by replacing her arm back around his slumped shoulder to give it a firm squeeze. “You always do such a beautiful job on your models. I wish we had more pocket money than a meager penny a week, because I would buy you every model kit that exists,” she said, giving him another hug. James remained cold and unmoved despite her generous display of affection, but Polly—being Polly—was not about to give up.

  “Oh, dear brother of mine, can’t we call a truce? I know there must be times when you think that I don’t care, but let me assure you that nothing could ever be further from the truth,” she said, giving another deep and troubling sigh as she reached out to tilt his chin upward and observe for herself his pale, withdrawn-looking face. Looking him directly in the eyes she softly continued on. “You know as well as I do that the boys’ wing of the castle is completely out of bounds to us girls, so apart from school there seems to be very little time left for anything other than horrid chores. But it doesn’t mean I don’t care,” she desperately cried.

  “Truth is, I really love you, and sometimes I love you oh so much that it truly hurts. Yes, James, it’s like a physical pain that will not go away, because everything inside of me yearns to free us both
forever from this horrid, hate-filled castle,” she earnestly cried out, all the while patiently hoping for some positive form of response from James. Anything!

  Still he sat with his head between his hands as though he wasn’t listening to a word she was saying.

  “I know, like me, you must be feeling terribly sad and alone, especially now that Thomas is no longer with us,” she sniffed, her eyes filling with fresh tears as she thought back to the funeral and also because she witnessed a sudden show of pain on her younger brother’s wearied face. Polly seized the moment by grabbing hold of one of his small hands before gently squeezing it.

  “James, we will never, ever forget Thomas—no, not even for one minute will he be out of our prayers. I promise you, hand on heart, that we will be reunited with him, and that wonderful day will be filled with great joy. This I promise,” she stated with great authority, mingled with immense tenderness.

  As she talked on, Polly suddenly witnessed the first signs of hope in James, for she saw a lone tear race unchecked down his left cheek before pausing to momentarily dangle beneath his chin. She quickly moved forward, and with her hand she gently wiped it away.

  “Look, James, maybe we can talk again later this evening if by some unforeseen miracle I can get through my chores early,” she tenderly whispered in his ear.

  James once more buried his head in his hands, but eventually he reached out just enough to place a hand on hers as if to say that even though he was furious with her, he was still touched that she had made the effort to sit down with him and at least try to explain herself. True, it had not changed much, but even so, it had momentarily formed a bridge between them. Polly gave his hand another friendly squeeze and then stood up to leave.

  “Look, as usual I’m very late starting my chores, James, and if I don’t hurry up and start the tea soon, I will be in even deeper trouble.” James looked up and nodded, and as he did Polly could have sworn she saw even more tears welling up in his eyes. “See you later,” she said, giving him a long and lingering smile before heading off toward the kitchen to begin the evening duties.

  As she walked, she thought about the tasks at hand. “Right, I’ve got to clean the bathrooms, wash the kitchen floor, cook tea, followed by a mountain of ironing, and then before I go to bed I must polish the shoes all by myself as surprise, surprise Cecilia is off sick again! Oh, great! Nothing new, but just as I suspected, there will be no time to catch up on my homework, which is now beginning to seriously mount up.”

  Polly was still deciding the best order in which to tackle the mountain of tasks when Miss Scrimp perkily marched through the open kitchen door and sidled right up her. She gave Polly a quick elbow in the ribs and then turned to face her, eyeball to eyeball.

  “Polly, as you can see, I have once more been left in charge, and even though I have only been in this new post a number of months, I fully intend to stay and make my mark. So, understand me when I categorically state that there will be no slacking whatsoever,” she loudly and curtly muttered.

  “Yes, Miss Scrimp,” Polly wearily muttered.

  Suddenly one of the boys entered the kitchen and informed Miss Scrimp that there was a tramp at the door asking for a cup of tea and something to eat. “He also asked to see Polly,” the boy breathlessly stated.

  “Sorry, Polly. You know the rules as well as I do. Uncle Boritz has clearly specified that you are no longer allowed any form of communication with the transients and vagrants who ring the doorbell, and this means you are forbidden from taking mugs of tea or any food out to them. With that said, you can make the tea and cheese sandwich, but then I will have to order one of the other children to take it out. Have I made myself clear?”

  “Perfectly, Miss Scrimp.”

  “Good, because may I remind you that it will be my neck on the chopping block if they discover otherwise!”

  “Yes, Miss Scrimp. I will not disobey your orders.”

  “Oh good, and please don’t think that while the cat’s away, the mice can be allowed to play, for I assure you I will be standing over you to make sure that every task is done to dear Mildred’s highest standards. So chop, chop! There’s no time left for loitering. After putting the kettle on, you will need to head over to the sink, for there are a large number of potatoes in the sink that require peeling,” the old battle-ax snorted as once more she sunk one of her razor-sharp elbows directly into Polly’s arm. “When you’re on ROPE, don’t expect life to be a bundle of fun. Oh, and before you start on the potatoes, this large tin of jam needs the furry green-and-gray mold scraped off the surface. Just get as much off the top as you can, and then stir in the rest,” she brusquely ordered.

  “Oh, please, Miss Scrimp. As my guardians are away, can’t you just turn a blind eye and allow me to throw it away? It looks really disgusting.”

  “Girl, stop your insolence now, and just do as I say, for if I say scrape, then that’s what you’ll do. We’re here to save money, not throw it away. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Miss Scrimp.”

  “Well, then repeat after me: ‘It’s my duty to be thrifty at all times; therefore, I will always seek to save whatever can be saved.’”

  “Yes, Miss Scrimp.”

  “It’s called being cost effective, I’ll have you know.”

  Polly grimaced as she considered what she was being asked to do.

  “Well, what are you waiting for, child? Or do you need reminding that mold is, in fact, very good for you. Rest assured it’s considered by many to be good, wholesome bacteria that will serve nicely to protect you from all sorts of detestable illnesses. Joseph Lister was, after all…”

  Polly gave a resigned smile as she glumly thought how odd it was that everybody she knew had such blind faith in Uncle Boritz and his profound words of wisdom that they all happily recited them verbatim at every opportune moment. Yes, if Uncle Boritz stated with much authority that eating serious amounts of gray fungi and festering mold was not only good for you but could actually save your life as it medicinally acted to ward off all horrid, ghastly germs, well then, it was the best thing for you, end of story. And so Polly grew to understand that his word on every imaginable subject was not only supreme but actually precedent and therefore not open to reason, unable to be changed, tampered with, or violated in any shape or form, unless, of course, you desired to challenge his supreme lordship and thereby land up on trial in one of his man-made court-martials.

  Polly made tea and sandwiches, and then she went on to successfully scrape off what she deemed to be a reasonably decent amount of gray mold from the surface area of the jam. She then dutifully went to a drawer in search of a wooden spoon to do as she had been ordered, and this was to stir the residual spunky-looking mold into the rest of the jam. Miss Scrimp stood watching on, her severely wrinkled and withered arms folded as her never-blinking, cold, beady eyes bore into the nape of Polly’s neck. Polly imagined her mind was in constant overdrive as she continued to scheme all sorts of extra mealy-minded ways to make Polly work harder and thus more efficiently.

  Miss Scrimp was a waspish sort of woman with grayish, paper-thin skin and severely slit eyes, which truly resembled the narrow windows of some bygone fortress tower. And, I might add, when this fearsome woman was on the war path, it would be no lie to suggest that many a fiery arrow seemed to shoot from them. Her misshapen beak was long and narrow, as were her yellowing, razor-sharp teeth, which appeared as though with one bite they could easily crunch straight through to the bone of her unsuspecting victim like a hungry-bellied barracuda. The remainder of her slight torso appeared like a cardboard cut-out, for it was minus even an ounce of unwanted flesh, and the bones of her rib cage were so clearly visible that they could easily be counted, and often were by the children as she stood, hand on hip, officiously screaming out her orders.

  She had thinning, wiry hair scraped into a very formidable-looking bun and equally thin and permanently pursed lips that no longer bore testimony to a mustache, as quite recently Aunt Mi
ldred had seen it as her duty to introduce the woman to the art of clinical waxing. However, any further feminist acts were to be considered an absolute no-no. She wore sensible, flat shoes all the time and equally sensible long-hemmed skirts that did a painfully poor job in hiding her excessively saggy knees.

  But this hauntingly fragile image was one of pure deceit, for not only did this woman have the masculine hands of a carpenter—large, rough, and extensively cracked—but her record for accurately hitting her target, mainly that of a child’s ear as he or she passed by, was, to say the least, impeccable! Perhaps much of this precision had been honed when as a young adult she had been something of a champion log thrower. At least, this was among much of the salacious gossip that was now regularly being bandied around the castle.

  In the weeks and months since this woman had taken up the appointment, she had more than delighted the Scumberrys with her absolute professionalism. “I have the ideals of Hitler and the barbaric determination of Mussolini,” she would bark at the terrified children if they dared to sass her. Of course, most of the children had little to no idea as to quite whom she was referring to, as they were not the least familiar with Hitler or Mussolini. All the same, they could not fail to get a very clear picture of where she was coming from.

  Her excuse for having such unsightly, blemished hands was the long length of time they were subjected to chemically based detergents as she scrubbed away from dawn to dusk in the washroom. Sadly, this sanctimonious woman’s tongue was also believed to have been accidentally dipped in a large bowl of caustic soda, for every word that spewed forth from her lips carried with it the harshest and meanest criticism and judgments. They never failed to chill each and every child down to the very marrow of his or her bones.

  As if all this wasn’t enough, she had also been blessed with obscenely large feet, and many a child’s trouser pant bore testimony to her specialist skills as they raced down the corridors trying very hard to stay well out of reach of her boot.