On hearing this latest unpleasant threat, Polly realized she was wasting her breath. There was no way Gailey would ever consider doing the decent thing by rightfully returning the bag, as she too required them for today’s cookery lesson.
So with no food in her stomach and no ingredients in her schoolbag, Polly made haste to race toward the bus stop to catch the bus that then dropped them off at the train station to make the last part of their journey to the school. To her utter horror, as she turned the last corner she could only watch helplessly as her school bus drove straight past with Gailey keenly parading the bag of ingredients up to the window, a fat, cheesy grin on her face as from her seat on the bus she waved good-bye to Polly.
Polly groaned deeply and dropped her schoolbag to the ground, feeling greatly discouraged by all the events of the morning. Already the black clouds that hung around just waiting for her appearance were making it their personal duty, as always, to haunt her, and it was only seven forty in the morning!
Eventually she picked up her bag and began the long, tedious walk to the train station, for the next bus was not due at the stop for another forty-five minutes and so would guarantee her a visit to the headmaster’s office, for it would get her into school much too late.
As she walked the long distance to the train station with her head hung low and a heavy heart, she barely noticed a brand-new red bus pass by her before pulling up a few yards farther down the road. The bus driver then made several extremely loud honking noises as he attempted but failed to capture her attention. The loud honks continued, and eventually a couple of the children stuck their heads out of an open window and called out to her. Finally she looked up and realized they were calling her by name. She still made no effort to walk faster, preferring to watch on as the rear door of the bus opened and out popped a very familiar head.
“Polly, dear, is that you?” a very familiar and friendly Irish voice shouted out.
“Huh? I cannot believe it,” a deliriously happy Polly cried out.
Polly immediately found her feet and began racing toward the vehicle as fast as her young legs could carry her, all the while excitedly yelling, “Mrs. O’Brien! Mrs. O’Brien! Mrs. O’Brien, I can’t believe it’s you. How wonderful and unexpected this is,” Polly croaked as she struggled to catch her breath and smile at the same time. “I thought your school must have closed down, as I have not seen you or any of the girls from your school on the bus,” she stuttered, suddenly feeling overwhelmed by such strong emotions of great joy and happiness that she immediately began to break down and cry.
Mrs. O’Brien grabbed hold of Polly’s hand and pulled her toward her. “Close down! Heaven forbid that such a thing would ever happen, for the French would immediately shut down the ports and throw themselves a week-long party, and that, dear Polly, would never do.”
Polly used her sleeve to wipe away the fresh tears that were now unashamedly racing down her cheeks.
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. O’Brien. I feel so ridiculous—in fact, a real idiot—to be acting in such a foolish manner, but I can’t help myself, for I am so overwhelmed with happiness to see you again,” Polly cried.
“Well, don’t just stand on the steps fly-catching, dear. Hop on our new private bus. There’s a good girl. Otherwise we’ll all be jolly late for school and so find ourselves being sent to the headmaster’s office. Come on, come on,” she beckoned.
Polly hurriedly clambered up the steps, and then with gay abandon she flung herself into the arms of her adorable teacher to give her a long, hard embrace.
“Feel free to cry as much as you like Polly, my dear, but it won’t get you to school any faster,” Mrs. O’Brien stated as she returned the hug before wiping away a few of Polly’s tears with a gentle sweep of her hand. “Well, Polly dear, if nothing else, you’ll surely start this day with a nice, clean face. Now come along, dear, and find a seat, and then we can set off once more.”
Polly obeyed and released her tense grip of Mrs. O’Brien as she then walked down the aisle of the bus, anxiously looking for a spare seat.
“Our school close down! No more cookery lessons? Oh, deary me! I cannot think that such a travesty should ever be allowed to take place, Polly dear. No, it must remain well beyond the realm of possibilities, for just imagine our dear French neighbors not only thinking but actually believing that they alone produce the world’s most gastronomic victuals, as well as the most famous cooks,” she pouted before overdramatically raising her eyes into her head to further emphasis her utter horror.
Polly stood for a while in the aisle, all the while drinking in all her teacher’s amusing anecdotes.
“No, no, Polly dearest. Forget what I just said. Don’t even begin to imagine it,” she mumbled in her rich Irish brogue, shaking her head as if to make such terrible imaginations flee her thoughts immediately.
Polly’s eyes continued to fill with tears, as just listening to Mrs. O’Brien and her delightfully playful intonations inexplicably reached deep into her broken, wounded heart, instantly ridding her of all despair as it replaced all doom and gloom with vibrant cheer and fresh optimism.
“Right then, Polly. You can’t remain standing up in the aisle, so go and sit next to dear, sweet miss Vivienne Levine. I’ll have you know this lass has just joined us from over the pond.”
“Uhh,” was all Polly managed to murmur as she moved slowly toward the vacant seat. Even after taking her seat, she still managed to have a ridiculously stupid grin plastered over her face as she continued to savor every amusing word and gesture that Mrs. O’Brien cared to conjure up and then deliver.
“America. Dearest America,” she stated as she came behind their seats and gave the pretty young American girl a friendly pat on the back. “Yes, and she will be spending the next year learning how awfully well-groomed English ladies spend their days usefully. Now won’t that be a lot of fun?” Mrs. O’Brien said with a giggle as she moved over to give young Polly a little dig in the ribs to wake her up from her dreamlike state.
“And I have to tell you, Polly, this young American sweetheart is already giving the girls a run for their money. I do believe her spectacularly unusual desserts, as well as other interesting and varied creations, will in the years to come win her many an award and accolade as they find their way into a number of splendid cookery books. So make her acquaintance quickly before you get off this bus. There’s a dear.”
Polly happily did as she was told, and after introducing herself to the lovely Miss Levine she sat back, feeling thankful that the bus had stopped and saved her from much trouble.
Sadly for her, in no time at all the bus pulled up outside the train station. Polly stood up from her seat with the full intention of quickly disembarking, as she knew she could not afford to miss the next train, but as she turned to say a quick good-bye to Vivienne and the other girls, Mrs. O’Brien suddenly reached out and grabbed her by the hand.
“Polly, dear, you must understand me when I say you must never, ever forget Piadora.”
“Yes, Mrs. O’Brien. I will try to remember.”
“Oh, Polly, the word try is not good enough. You, my dear one, must seek to nurture and build on everything you learned there. Do you truly understand?” she said as her grip tightened in her bid to stress the point. “For whether you do or do not fully comprehend everything, your hidden strengths, Polly, are indeed the most potent weapons against all—I repeat, all—the forces of darkness that are now more determined than ever to pull you down and bring your spirit to its chasm of destruction.”
Polly nodded once more, but Mrs. O’Brien had not yet finished.
“Polly, dear, are you really listening to me? For hell has no particular preference as to whom it slowly and surreptitiously sucks into its bowels. Oh, no. It just lies in wait, seeking to pounce most unmercifully on any available and unwitting victim. But you, my precious one, have a glorious future, so promise me here right now you will never compromise but will continue to fight the good fight. You must prevai
l to ensure that such a terrible thing will never happen.”
Polly nodded her head as though she were in perfect agreement with Mrs. O’Brien, but deep inside she could already feel herself timidly fending off the first rumbles of very unwelcome murmurings that were mischievously seeking to re-invade her mind and emotions with their obsequious and sickeningly spiteful methods. They were, after all, expert strategists in the art of psychological warfare. These dark and subliminal forces thought nothing of continuously and viciously bombarding her mind with hideous, soul-destroying thoughts such as, “Nothing ever changes. I’m just a useless, festering, ugly blob. I’ll never amount to anything. Nobody could ever love me. Everything in my life is just too painful. There’s nowhere left to run. Nobody cares if I live or die. Life is unfair, and best of all, Polly Brown, you’re a complete idiot if you believe your life will ever improve or get better. So do us all a favor and give up now, and then we can get back to the way things used to be. Yes, and this way you’ll soon be feeling back to your good, old, very remorseful self. We, for our part, hereby promise to leave off all punishments usually meted out to those traitors who think they can abandon their lowly post, having the nerve to even consider that they can achieve great things, even believing they might one day become inspiring pioneers of one kind or another.”
And so it went on and on as the wildly ecstatic but viciously cruel and sinister whisperings chanted, all the while regrouping and repositioning themselves. They were once more well on the way to taking back full control.
However, at present these evil whisperings had little choice but to hold back, for Polly hadn’t exactly cracked and thrown in the towel. No, she was still winning her very personal battlefield of the mind and soul, but only just. Her wonderful experiences in Piadora still felt so fresh and alive, for they were indelibly written on the chords in her heart for safekeeping. So, at least for the present, she had triumphantly fought off all niggling and harmful thoughts that sought to hinder then suck her back down into the hellishly frightening pit of destruction where they could and would do with her as they wished, causing her to relinquish all rights to happiness.
As Polly sat on a bench waiting for the next train to arrive, she felt truly grateful for the lift but also saddened by the realization that with the arrival of the new bus, this would surely mean less opportunities than ever for her to accidentally bump into her dear, darling teacher. She would also miss the idle chit-chat of the well-heeled girls as they sat huddled on seats, heads touching as they shared, as all young girls do, their deepest, intimate secrets with each other. Her eyes brimmed with tears as she then thought that she might never again hear Mrs. O’Brien’s loud and very amusing exhortations as she proudly sought to instill her good and very sensible values into the girls. She closed her eyes and gulped, giving serious consideration as to how on earth was she going to make it through another day, let alone the rest of her life!
Polly could just about see her train in the distance, but as it had yet to pull into the station, she decided to pull out her timetable from her schoolbag to remind herself what other lessons she had that day. She was instantly dismayed to discover that after domestic science with the deputy headmistress Miss Strickneene, she then had PE, better known as physical education with Miss Peligrano. Polly couldn’t help but make a deep sigh, for she knew with much certainty that she did not have her PE kit in her bag either, as this too had rather mysteriously gone missing.
“Oh, no. I can’t believe this!” she groaned as she wearily stood up from the bench and waited for the train to stop so she could open the door and climb into carriage.
Of course, just as Polly had feared, Miss Strickneene was most annoyed.
“Polly Brown, I am not the least amused,” she airily stated. She then dismissed Polly from her classroom and ordered her to go and fill up a bucket with soapy water.
“While the other girls make a deliciously fluffy Victoria sponge cake, you, my girl, can spend the time scrubbing out the shower block,” the slightly dumpy Miss Strickneene told her in a dismissive tone of voice as she then held open the door to allow Polly to leave her classroom and head for the shower block.
“But wait. Before you go on your way, pray, tell me how it is that your foster sister Gailey has all the right ingredients, and yet you, Polly Brown, have failed to produce any. So don’t stand there pretending to be dumb! Mrs. Greaseball warned me to expect nothing good from you, and from today’s performance I can see that she was absolutely correct.”
Polly shrugged her shoulders, though not out of defiance, more because she had firmly come to believe that nobody in the world cared one iota about getting to the truth of this or any other matter. At least this appeared to be the case regarding just about everything that concerned her miserably unfair and chaotic world.
Today of all days truth in its entirety mattered not a jot, for Polly had other, much more pressing things on her mind, namely the gut-wrenching loss of her precious and most prized ring, and the unexpected loss of this made all other problems pale into insignificance. However, much to her amazement, as she undertook the arduous task of cleaning the whole shower block and changing rooms, she quite unexpectedly found herself overtaken by intoxicatingly happy feelings that in no time at all had her feeling extremely light-headed and overwhelmed by irrepressible joy.
And so Polly Brown, professional cleaner and performer extraordinaire, found herself rather unexpectedly rising to the occasion, as with mop and bucket she single-handedly cleaned the entire shower block whilst singing “The Impossible Dream” at the top of her voice, the mop handle standing in for a microphone of course!
With no one standing over her to order her around, she also found herself dancing rather demurely around the shower block, and by flipping the handle, the mop now became a stand-in for her absent male suitor. “Well, Stanley, my good man, it appears that of all the pupils in this school, surprise, surprise, I’ve become the chosen one, with every teacher not only hating me more than ever but also wishing to hand me all your old cleaning tasks,” she sniffed as she brought the mop head up close to her face in order to have a meaningful conversation with it.
“So do me a great favor, Stanley, and enjoy the break. Oh, and while you’re at it, I would consider it a great honor if you would do just one more of those delightful cartwheels for me,” she said, giving a lighthearted laugh. “Then you’re free to make yourself a splendid cup of tea, although I must warn you that according to our dear headmaster, you, my dear man, have rather absentmindedly left your teapot and caddy in the school shed. So until we can find some way of getting it to you, may I take the liberty of suggesting that you use a teabag instead,” she advised.
“Here’s to you, Stanley Albert Horlicks, the kindest caretaker in all the land,” she shouted, placing the mop to one side and raising her hand into the air as though she were holding up a bone china teacup. She then brought it down to her lips, pretending to sip some hot tea, extending her little pinky in the same manner that she had witnessed other very prim and proper ladies do in order to keep their composure whilst sipping hot tea from delicate bone china teacups.
With the shower block now pristine clean, Polly took the mop and cleaning agents back to the store cupboard and then reported back to Miss “Never One to Pussyfoot” Strickneene.
“There are still another twenty minutes until the lunch break,” she stated as she looked down and observed her delicate gold wristwatch, which Polly duly noted was badly pinching her skin, as it was really too small and delicate for her generously plump wrist. “Time enough for you to start cleaning out this food cupboard. So fill up this bowl with warm soapy water, and then follow me,” Miss Strickneene ordered, giving her chic and heavily lacquered hair the very important gentle pat. Polly knew this pat was most essential in case perchance she were to accidentally bump into any one of the many male teachers, whom Miss Strickneene had come to heavily rely on for daily compliments, as they never failed to subserviently express their
greatest admiration toward her.
For some unfathomable reason, Polly didn’t mind or fear the deputy headmistress, although it was plainly obvious that she posed some form of threat to all other female teachers, who failed to hide their annoyance at what they considered “disgracefully flirtatious behavior” that was “not becoming of a deputy headmistress, or a cookery teacher for that matter.” However, as Miss Strickneene was the deputy head, her highness was allowed to get away with pretty much what she liked and still keep her throne and crown intact.
Despite being a little—how shall we say?—pudgy, she still managed a light and hearty spring in her step as she breezed down the lengthy corridors, pausing only for the odd lighthearted private joke with any male teacher who happened to pass by. Often she could be seen walking toward her classroom accompanied by a large plate in her outstretched hand.
“Did you really make this wonderful cake creation all by yourself?” the male teachers would stop and loudly gasp as they unwittingly drunk in her heady perfume.
“Why of course, Mr. Meakins,” she would demurely reply through her cherubic, overly plastered lipstick lips, as she used her free hand to subtly adjust his tie, as well as stroke off that annoying and most unhygienic imaginary wisp of hair that seemed always to be stuck to his and every other male teacher’s lapel as they happily stopped to converse with her.
“Well then, Miss Strickneene, you should consider sending your wonderful recipes to Mrs. Beeton, for I’m sure she would happily add them to her next cookbook.”
“Oh, Mr. Meakins, don’t flatter me in such a manner,” she would softly purr as once more she gave her heavily lacquered and coiffure hair the now famous pat, which sent automated signals to her eyelashes, commanding them to begin fluttering so as to draw forth further compliments from the mouth of her latest admirer. This woman was undeniably queen bee of the school, with all the male drones subconsciously, if not consciously, following after her, her highly sensuous perfume, as it overwhelmingly drifted down the stale, sweat-smelling corridors of the school, seducing all males—teachers and pupils alike—to fall wildly and irrevocably in love with her.
The Trouble with Polly Brown Page 14