The Trouble with Polly Brown

by Tricia Bennett

  “Oh, sweet pea, don’t be so melodramatic! There’s really no need to get so horribly personal, for your neck might well resemble that of a seriously undernourished turkey, but mine is definitely not the least bit scraggy. In fact, it’s quite firm considering my age,” he snorted while stroking his neck to privately confirm that it was nothing as flabby as his wife’s very unflattering rolls of flab that hung loosely round her aging neck.

  “Boritz, are you even listening to me?”

  “Yes, dear, I am, for in truth I have little to no choice in the matter, as you are painfully bellowing into my ear, which will surely suffer permanent damage if you don’t calm right down and thus address me in more gentle, if not consolatory, tone of voice,” he sulkily admonished.

  “Listen, Boritz, this is an extremely bad time to be dishing out such a punishment, for you must surely realize that, heaven forbid, if anything bad were to happen to her—well, not only would we have to cancel the holiday, but you do realize we would lose most if not all our deposit?”

  “And more,” he quickly chipped in.

  “Yes, and much more besides. Also, has it even crossed your feeble little mind that it could result in a police investigation that in no time at all could find the castle crawling with police officers as they determinedly search the castle for so-called evidence of some heinous crime?”

  “You have made a good point, dear.”

  “Also, we surely would be forced to endure more frequent visits from nosy social workers, and you know how much we would hate for such a disagreeable thing to happen.”

  “Yes, you have another good point there,” he miserably agreed.

  “Also, we have managed to keep Thomas’s death under wraps. Imagine for a minute what would happen if the truth concerning that young boy ever leaked out. Why, we’d never ever be able to hold our heads up high again. And try to think clearly when I say you have worked very hard to climb the social ladder, and at present you are highly thought of and esteemed by most in this town. Do you really want to lose all that over a stupid, mixed-up little brat?”

  “No, dear. I don’t believe I do.”

  “So in the light of all I have just said, it would pay you to stem your insatiable need for revenge and go get the girl before her fingers and toes fall off due to the bitter cold.”

  “Do I have to?” he very childishly moaned. “For even with my thick dressing gown wrapped around me tightly, as well as my scarf bound tightly round my neck, those icy winds will quickly bite straight through my vest, and I might surely suffer another catastrophic bout of pneumonia,” he winged.

  “Oh, Boritz, you can be such an irritating and feeble little wimp! You have never had anything more than a chesty little cough or cold in all the years I’ve known you,” she harshly scolded.

  “Well, that’s not entirely true, dear, for I hasten to remind you that I did get a most terrible bout of influenza a few years back.”

  “Oh, yes, you did, and so did half the nation. And you survived and came through it, didn’t you?” she scornfully reminded him.

  “Yes, that’s perfectly true, dearest, but I lost more than a few pounds due to my sudden loss of appetite, as well as my very high fever.”

  “Well, personally speaking, you could do with losing a few more pounds, so get your podgy and sweaty little body out of this bed, and go get her before I really lose my temper,” she said through clenched teeth.

  “All right, my dear. If you say so. But please do calm down, or I will be forced to spend the rest of the night in one of the guest bedrooms.”

  “Suit yourself,” she angrily muttered as she struggled to place the cucumber slices back over her eyes. “And before you leave to go and release her, kindly pass me my bottle of pain relievers.”

  Boritz stumbled over to her dressing table in search of her pills.

  “Dearest, the whole dressing table appears to resemble the medicine cabinet of the local pharmacy, for it is littered with a vast selection of medicine bottles and pills, many of which are considerably past their sell-by date. So you need to be more specific if I am to put my finger on the ones you are requesting I find.”

  “Specific? How specific do you need me to be?” she roared.

  “Well, dearest, please advise me further as to which of these few hundred or so bottles you now so urgently require.”

  “Just find the one with the green label,” she impatiently ordered.

  “Very well, dear. And if against all odds I have the fortune to miraculously hit the jackpot, can I forget Polly altogether and just slip back under the sheets, as I am already feeling more than a little chilly?”

  “Boritz, you pitiful little weasel, you’d best do as I say and go get her, or else!” were her last threatening words before securing the peg back on the end of her bright red nose as, in a state of frustration, she rolled over and proceeded to huffily pull the bedclothes up to her neck, a clear indication that all meaningful conversation was well and truly over.

  After placing his dressing gown tightly ’round him, and with his thick scarf protecting his neck and chest, a bleary-eyed Boritz, with torch in hand, woke up Pitstop. The two of them were forced to trudge down the long corridors of the castle as they systematically checked every door and window to make sure they were properly locked, ensuring they were safe from intruders.

  Finally they got ’round to addressing the matter of Polly, who needed to be released from his underground bunker and then regimentally escorted to her bed. Trudging slowly through the garden, his teeth began to furiously chatter, and his ears felt as though they were about to be savagely ripped from his head, such was the unbearable ferocity of the wind that harsh and very cruel winter’s night.

  After making his way across the garden, he stood outside the tunnel to once more fumble around for the right key to place into the lock “Brrr. It’s so unbelievably cold.” He winced as his breath visibly appeared to freeze right in front of his eyes.

  Pitstop, who stood beside him, could only whimper his complete agreement.

  Finally, the creaky door to the tunnel opened. Boritz thought he saw a faint light in the tunnel briefly, before it suddenly dispersed. Uncle Boritz, with Pitstop stalking in his shadow, carefully made his way down the narrow steps of the dank, dark room, only to be hit by the extreme warmth of the space. Seconds later saw him feeling thoroughly confused, as he began stripping off his scarf and dressing gown. He was convinced that he was about to pass out due to the intense heat. Feeling very unnerved, he slowly and cautiously made his way across the room, his torch light bouncing off the walls as he tried hard to get a feel of where everything was situated, Polly included.

  Boritz blinked. He then took in a mighty sharp breath and blinked again, though this time around more through shock, as his torch light began to convey to him something of the destruction of his beloved handcrafted coffins. He began to sway back and forth as, feeling deeply mortified, he almost fainted, for with his own eyes he stood and witnessed his beloved prize project, his meticulous craftsmanship, his labor of love, strewn like discarded packaging all across the basement floor.

  Shaken to the core of his being, he still managed to stagger like a desperately stricken man over to where the upturned coffins lay abandoned, and with a long stick he carefully pushed one of the lids over to one side. Looking down with his torch in his hand, he was once more visibly shocked to see the laid-out corpse of Polly Brown sound asleep and surrounded by many equally docile furry balls of fluff.

  With the full force of his torch light shining on her face, Polly gave a loud yawn, and then shaking her head, she opened her eyes, only to be met by an eyeful of Pitstop’s slimy drool. As Polly wiped the slobber from her cheek, she then realized that the other face peering down at her was the distraught and ashen face of Uncle Boritz.

  “Is it morning already?” she innocently asked, giving an almighty yawn.

  “Quite what have you done to my beloved coffins?” he whispered in a hysterically high, stra
ngled voice. As per usual, the question was rhetorical, for Polly was given no time at all in which to answer.

  “Girl, this beggars belief. I’ll have you know that the idea behind these coffins took me years to conceive before constructing, and all this was done with my own bare hands,” he sorrowfully lamented. “Yes, these creations were intended to help make my fortune. So what took me years to create and then implement, you, girl, have intentionally destroyed in less than a night. What plausible explanation could you possibly come up with for such needless, unwarranted destruction?” he hoarsely whispered.

  “I am so sorry, Uncle, but I had to do something, and quick; otherwise, I would not have survived the night, for I could well have died from the cold,” she reasoned.

  “Girl, I have little choice but to leave this matter for the present, but you can rest assured that I will give this latest atrocity my full attention, if not first thing tomorrow then as soon as I return from my holiday,” he roared. “Hmm. This fact should surely have you quaking in your boots, for I intend to make you pay fully for all this absurdly senseless and intentionally destructive behavior, for these coffins were my babies and therefore very precious to me,” he sorrowfully lamented.

  “I’m truly sorry, really I am,” Polly quietly sighed, but she could see that Uncle Boritz was indeed in no mood to listen, let alone forgive her.

  “Now, get up, girl, and get to your bed quickly before I change my mind and leave you down here for the rest of the night,” he snorted.

  Polly obeyed, as she carefully picked up each kitten and gently placed each of them to one side before standing up to quietly step out of the damaged coffin. “Uncle Boritz, I am so sorry, truly I am,” she muttered remorsefully, as with head down she attempted to pull out all the stuffing from her shirt and shirt sleeves before turning her attention to the stuffing that was still down her trousers.

  “Now get out of my sight,” he spat, his whole torso visibly shaking.

  Polly obeyed, and after walking across the floor, she began climbing the steps that led to the open cellar door.

  “Just one minute!” Uncle Boritz bellowed as he quickly shone the torch in her direction.

  Polly stopped in her tracks and turned once more to face her enraged uncle.

  “I do believe that you still have something on your odious body that belongs to me,” he thundered.

  Polly looked confused.

  With his eyes raised toward the heavens and using his index finger, Uncle Boritz began tapping the side of his head repeatedly. Polly continued to look perplexed. It then dawned on her that she rather foolishly still had a long piece of the silky material tied around her forehead. She sheepishly unwound the band from her head and held out her hand to pass it directly back to him.

  “Here, shall I bring it down to you?” she most innocently asked.

  “No, girl, just drop it on the ground, and then do as I say and get out of my sight before I do something I might live to regret,” he snarled through clenched teeth.

  Polly wasted no time, as despite the cold and dark she raced full pelt across the garden in her desperate endeavor to get as far away from her uncle as she could. She did not even look to the left or to the right until she believed that she was safely out of harm’s way, and that meant crawling, fully clothed, into her bed and then hiding away under the blanket for the remainder of the night.

  Early the next morning Polly sat in her bed as she quietly and anxiously flicked through her dictionary trying to look up certain specific words. “Ah, here we are: belligerent. The dictionary says ‘hostile, aggressive, ready to start a fight, or go to war.’ Oh, dear. How can this be, for I have always hated anything and everything to do with war?” she wailed as she thought back to her many history lessons.

  She then moved on as she tried looking up yet another of the many cruel words that in his anger her Uncle Boritz had called her. “Ahh, here it is: impudent. Right. This is the correct page; now where is it? Here we are. It says ‘rude, showing a lack of respect.’ Oh dear,” she sighed. “Next, recalcitrant. Ahh, here it is: ‘stubbornly resisting authority, hard to handle.’ Oh, goodness. I am turning out to be such a problem to the whole wide world,” she cried, slamming the dictionary shut before throwing it at the wall as she vented her overwhelming frustration. Luckily for her, the other girls in the room failed to be disturbed as, lost to the world, they remained deep in their slumber.

  A now thoroughly inconsolable Polly threw her head back down on the pillow and pulled the thin blanket over her head as she then quietly sobbed into Langdon’s soft, furry body, all the while lamenting as to just how troubling a nuisance she had become to the whole wide world.

  Chapter Fifteen

  WILL MEETS THE LIKELY LADS

  POLLY KNEW SHE would once more miss the bus if she did not hurry and get straight into her uniform. She made it down the stairs, only to bump straight into James, who was also running late if he were to catch the bus.

  She immediately noticed that he had red rims around his eyes, and she needed little help to work out that her brother was still feeling very distraught that his precious models not only had been confiscated but most likely for an undetermined period of time.

  “If you wanted to say good-bye to Uncle Boritz and Aunt Mildred, you’re five minutes too late, for they’ve already left,” James miserably confided as he sat on the stairs, his hands cupping his downtrodden face.

  “James, if the truth be known, I’m very relieved to have missed them,” Polly honestly admitted. “So let’s head off together to the bus stop,” she suggested as she attempted to put a friendly arm around his shoulder.

  James shook his head. “No, Polly. You go on ahead, for if I miss the bus, then so what?”

  “Come on, James. Remember that Uncle threatened terrible consequences for those who dared misbehave while he is away.”

  “I really don’t care anymore,” he briskly retorted, his face etched with pain. “There is nothing he could do that could hurt me more than taking away my model planes,” he moaned, another anguished look washing over his young face.

  “Look, James, maybe they’ll have such a fantastic holiday that Uncle will want to be kind and give them back on his return,” Polly stated, as she attempted to be more than a little over-optimistic in her forecast.

  “I doubt that very much, for we all know that when he’s mad, well then, he’s out for blood,” James glumly retorted.

  Polly could clearly see that her brother was feeling very depressed, and in this sad moment in time she knew that any words of comfort that spilled from her lips would only seem trite and irrelevant. So, as usual, she had no choice but to remain helpless and, so, feel utterly useless.

  “Come on. I’ll race you to the bus,” Polly yelled as she grabbed hold of his jacket and began to pull him in the general direction of the front door.

  James was having none of it. “No, Polly. Go away. Please leave me alone. You go on ahead, for I meant what I said. I truly no longer care what happens to me.”

  All this left Polly with little choice than to leave him behind and head as quickly as she could to catch the school bus. After racing down the street as fast as her legs could carry her, she was relieved to see the bus was still in the parking bay with other school children still waiting to board, and this immediately lifted her spirits.

  With both Aunt Mildred and Uncle Boritz away for the next two weeks, Polly felt like a huge weight had been lifted off her shoulders. She still had the long list of tedious chores that she had to get through every night, but somehow even these did not seem quite so tiresome.

  She was also able to sneak out of the castle on numerous occasions, mostly to see her new friend, Will, but on one occasion it was for an entirely different and very personal reason.

  Polly had promised herself for some time now that she must pay an impromptu visit to the tearoom, and that visit was now seriously long overdue. She needed to see for herself that the name of the tearoom really had been
changed from The Copper Kettle to Polly’s Pantry. She hated to admit that she was equally curious to see what the new owners, who went by the name of the Kindlysides, really looked like. After all, with a surname like that, they could hardly be as mean and mealy minded as the Greedols, could they?

  “No, surely not,” she mumbled under her breath as she hastily made her way down the road, heading for the tearoom.

  As Polly stood outside the tearoom looking up, she had to admit that she felt tickled pink to see that the tearoom really had been renamed and was now called Polly’s Pantry. However, as she stood outside looking in, she felt a mixture of both fear as well as anticipation, because up until now she had never met the new owners. Oh, she had meant to pay them a visit, but getting time off from all her duties was a chore in itself. Looking through the large glass window, it was clear that little had been done to alter the tearoom. It still looked much the same as it had always done, quaint and old fashioned, with lots of teapots adorning the shelves, as well as endless brass and copper brica-brac, which all the tourists begged to purchase, the American ones in particular.

  Polly took a deep breath as she then tried to muster up the necessary courage to enter the building. Once through the door, she was immediately greeted by an extremely cheerful-looking waitress.

  “Hello, my dear. May I help you?” the pleasantly plump waitress politely asked, her voice betraying a very unusual accent that Polly instantly realized was extremely rare in these parts.

  “I hope so, but before you help me, may I be so bold as to ask your name and where you are originally from?” Polly brazenly inquired.

  The kindly waitress removed her thin-framed glasses in order to get a better look at Polly.

  “My name is Mrs. Moira Muldoon, so pray, tell me, wee young lady, by what name do you like to be known?

  “Oh, me? Well, my name is Polly Esther Brown.”

  “Well, that’s a lovely name, my dear.”

  “Oh, trust me, Mrs. Muldoon, when I say it isn’t. Yes, it’s horrible, and I so hate it. Yes, I hate it very much,” Polly said, lowering her eyes as she spoke.