Polly Brown Read online

  She had also taken to writing many urgent letters directly to Him, which she then placed in the various red pillar-boxes in the town. So far He had not replied to any of them, yet she felt certain she had the correct address: Mr. God, Cloud Nine. She knew this to be the correct cloud, because many times she had heard various people say that they were on it. She thought it might be the cloud where people dropped by to join Him for a cup of tea and a bit of sympathy. He poured the tea, and they poured out their problems. On the next line she always wrote “Seventh Heaven.” Again, this was because she had often heard people say they were there and had again duly noted that they always smiled when they said it. With this observation, she presumed that God not only gave them a nice cup of tea, accompanied by biscuits or cake, but that He also handed out the very useful advice they needed. She then always finished the envelope with, “Somewhere up in the sky,” as the final clue, which she hoped would help the postman deliver it to the right address. Still she received no reply, so on more recent letters, Polly resorted to putting a little note to the postman:

  P.S. Dear Mr. Postman, if the address is not entirely correct, would you please be kind enough, at your earliest convenience, to forward it to the next universe?

  Yours ever so truly,

  As the evening of her eleventh birthday drew to a close, she felt she could no longer control the deep sadness welling up inside, which made her chest feel so tight that her heart felt on the verge of exploding. With the last task of sweeping and scrubbing the front doorsteps finally finished, she flung the wooden brush back into the pail of soapy suds before collapsing in a heap onto the hard, cold steps. Then, with her head cradled between her knees, she burst into uncontrollable sobbing.

  She sat there only a matter of minutes when suddenly she heard a warm, comforting voice behind her say, “Hello, Polly.”

  Polly raised her head and, through a mist of tears, strained to see who it was that had just greeted her.

  “I believe this is yours,” he said, handing her a faded blue elephant, which had seen better days. “I also believe his name is Langdon. Am I right?”

  “Yes, sir. You are correct,” simpered Polly, rubbing her eyes so she could get a better look at him.

  It did not take her very long to realize that this stranger, dressed in a long, threadbare, brown trench coat, was in fact one of the many gentlemen of the road who knocked at the door of the home asking for something to eat and drink. The man looked tired and strained, and his clothes, including his boots, were peppered with large holes. His hair, though long and straggly, was silvery in appearance, and he had an equally long matching beard. His eyes were a piercing deep blue, and they twinkled when he smiled. Polly was not the least bit frightened because she was so used to talking to these unusual visitors who would ring the doorbell in search of refreshments.

  Polly leapt up, holding Langdon tightly to her chest. “Do you want the usual?” she inquired with a little sniff.

  “Yes, the usual will do nicely. Thank you,” said the man, breaking into a warm smile.

  “You must be familiar with what the usual is then?” Polly continued, forcing her face into a grimace, as if to imply that he could change his mind if he wished and would be well advised to do so.

  “Indeed, I most certainly am,” replied the gentleman of the road as he mimicked Polly by also distorting his face into a grimace. “But as I am hungry enough to eat a horse, the usual will be fine.”

  “Then the usual it is,” announced Polly with a grin. “And I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting.” She made a mocking bow, laughing out loud before turning on her heels to push the heavy door open.

  As she disappeared inside, the stranger called out to her, “Polly, would you like me to take care of Langdon while you make my mug of tea and sandwich?”

  “Thank you, but no thank you,” Polly swiftly replied. “I never leave Langdon alone, for he is so special to me. He is my closest friend in the whole universe—oh, as well as Eton, my teddy bear. But Eton is not with me at present, for he’s not feeling so good. Too many late nights! I’m sure you understand.”

  “I know,” replied the man.

  “Know what?” interjected Polly, feeling a growing irritation towards him.

  The man paused before continuing. “You love Eton, but in truth, if you had to choose between the two, it is Langdon you would keep.”

  “How do you know that?” quizzed Polly.

  “The reason Langdon is so special,” continued the ragged man in an all-knowing manner, “is that he holds inside him all the tears you have ever cried.”

  Polly was stunned! How could this complete stranger—a homeless man—know anything about her or her secret about Langdon? Could it be possible that he knew other very private things about her? She hoped not.

  Before she had time to open her mouth and challenge him further, he carried on.

  “Polly, I know a lot about you and your brothers.”

  Polly took a deep gulp as he continued.

  “I know all the terrible things that have happened in your life and the dark and evil things that take place here behind closed doors.”

  Polly just stared at him in stupefied silence.

  “Now, how is my tea coming on?” he asked in the most gentle of voices in his effort to steer the conversation in a different direction. “If you don’t go and put that kettle on, I will almost certainly die of thirst.”

  Polly flashed him a little smile, forgetting that smiling was not something she usually did. As she started to close the door, the man called out to her again.

  “Oh, and Polly, before I forget, I have not told you who I am, have I? Allow me to introduce myself.”

  Polly stopped in her tracks and poked her head back around the door to show some interest.

  “My name is Hodgekiss. Jeremiah Hodgekiss at your service,” he said, making a low bow at the same time.

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Hodgekiss,” said Polly, holding out a hand toward his. “And I have to say that I just love your name, for it sounds like a savory pie!”

  Hodgekiss looked slightly amused, and Polly giggled before going on to explain exactly what she meant. “Oh, do please have a slice of Hodgekiss Pie, Mrs. Tattersbury.” Polly said slightly mockingly as she pretended to pass a plate. “Oh, thank you so much. I will have just a smidgen, if you don’t mind, Mrs. Smythe-Bourne. Your Hodgekiss Pie is after all simply quite delicious.”

  Polly giggled. “There, see what I mean?” she said, still holding out her hand to shake his.

  They shook hands. The likable vagrant smiled back.

  “Well, it would be nice to be famous for something, Polly, even if it is Hodgekiss Pie!” He then chuckled, “I have a very good friend called Ralph, another gentleman of the road who drops by here frequently. I am sure you must know him! It was he that told me about you.”

  Polly nodded. She did know Ralph and his most distinctive smell. (Mind you, most of these well-worn travelers seemed to have a most uninviting odor.) But Polly was much too polite to make mention of this. Instead, she just served them steaming cups of strong, sickly sweet tea, accompanied by thick, moldy cheese sandwiches. On numerous occasions she had sat on the doorstep and listened intently as Ralph or one of the other fellow travelers told lengthy tales of all that happened to them, as well as all the different places their lives on the road had taken them.

  Polly ordered Hodgekiss to hang on, and after going back indoors she raced down the long, highly polished corridors until she reached the door of the kitchen. She hoped she would not bump into Aunt Mildred, as this might mean more chores. Luckily for Polly, the kitchen was empty, so she quickly went about cutting two extraordinarily large and disgracefully uneven wedges from a stale loaf that sat on a shelf in the pantry cupboard. She then filled the kettle and placed it on the stove, willing it to boil extra quickly so she could get back to her guest to continue their conversation. Once the tea brewed, she reached up to a high shelf and took one of the large, whit
e china mugs reserved for serving tea to such gentlemen. The mug was terribly chipped, and the inside was stained a very deep brown. She placed it back on the shelf and picked up another. On close inspection, this one turned out to be just as bad and equally disgusting as the other one. “Oh well. It will have to do,” she thought to herself. Polly filled the mug up to the brim and beyond, leaving no room for the milk. This situation was soon rectified as, while pouring in the milk, she gave the tea an all-too-vigorous stir, splashing the hot liquid all over the table. The tea was further reduced by the very generous amount of sugar she piled into the mug. Grabbing a tablespoon from the cutlery drawer, she started to count.

  “One…two…three…four…five…There, that will do,” she said with a distinct air of satisfaction.

  She then went to the large, old-fashioned fridge and, upon opening it, took out the only item on the shelf, a large block of questionable cheese. Polly hummed to herself as she busily went about the gruesome task of slicing off the mold that covered every inch of the cheese. She then cut a large piece into long strips and placed them diagonally between the thick pieces of bread.

  “There. All finished,” she declared with a note of triumph as she gave the sandwich an almighty thump with the palm of her hand in a vain attempt to weld the sandwich together and thereby decrease its mountainous height.

  Polly placed the sandwich in an old brown paper bag, picked up the mug of tea, and headed back down the long corridors. Halfway down the second corridor she had a thought. Had she forgotten the sugar? She suddenly could not remember if she had put any in or not. She turned on her heels and raced back to the kitchen, on the way slopping the tea once more over the same highly polished oak floor. She counted out another five spoons of sugar, gave it a quick stir, and took a tiny sip of the tea just to taste it. “Yuk,” she thought to herself. “How on earth do people drink this stuff?” With that thought thoroughly sorted, Polly raced back down the hallway, again slopping the tea as she went.

  Hodgekiss smiled and thanked Polly as he took the sandwich from her. Polly then handed him the mug of tea before settling back down on the steps. As he peered into the large mug, he could not help but notice that it was less than half full, but it did not matter at all—he liked syrup very much. While Hodgekiss attempted to eat the seriously stale sandwich, Polly talked on incessantly. Usually it was Polly who listened to tired travelers slurping their tea and telling stories, but on this occasion it was Polly’s turn to pour out all her woes, including the fact that today was her eleventh birthday and there had been no surprise to look forward to. Hodgekiss listened but remained silent. Polly began to think that maybe, just like everyone else, he was simply not interested.

  “That was a most delicious sandwich, Polly,” he announced as he poked a lone finger into his mouth to excavate the leftovers stuck between his teeth. He then brushed out the remaining crumbs from his tangled beard.

  Polly giggled and said, “You liar. It was awful; admit it!”

  Hodgekiss burst out laughing before confessing that he had tasted better food, even from the waste bins at the various train stations he frequented!

  “I’m so sorry, Hodgekiss,” said Polly. “But there was nothing else to give you. There never is much food in the cupboards. I often go hungry myself.” She paused, giving her stomach a little rub, and then added that the other children often went hungry as well. “If we complain, Uncle Boritz always tells us the same thing,” she added with a note of resignation in her voice. “‘If you are hungry, you will eat stale bread, and if you are thirsty, you will drink water.’” Her voice trailed off.

  “Go on, Polly,” Hodgekiss urged. “Is there more?”

  “Well, yes and no,” said Polly. “That is all he ever says, but he must find it very funny, because he always walks off laughing.” Polly felt she could trust Hodgekiss, so she carried on. “What is so hard to bear is they have four children of their own who also live at the castle. But they are separated from us by iron bars, and on their side they get to eat really nice food.” Polly sighed deeply, making a wry face. “Many a time they walk past us munching on chocolate bars and candies. It makes me feel really bad and my tummy rumbles even more.”

  Hodgekiss raised his bushy eyebrows to show his concern, but still said nothing, for once Polly was in the flow of things, it was indeed very hard to stop or slow her down.

  “Let me tell you now, Hodgekiss, that once a year on New Year’s Eve they hold an amazing party and invite all their posh friends, as well as the more favored children, to join them. They spend the whole evening stuffing themselves, and I would have you know that there are twenty-one courses, starting with soup and ending many hours later with coffee and chocolates. The banquet comes to an end in the early hours of the next morning, and then only after many glasses of vintage brandy have been consumed. The cooking preparations take days, and there is probably more food eaten in that one night than I get to eat in a whole year! Can you believe that, Hodgekiss?”

  If Hodgekiss had wanted to reply or make any sort of comment, he would have found it very difficult to get a word in edgewise. Polly took a deep breath before continuing.

  “Every New Year’s Eve, those children who are not allowed to attend, myself included, are shooed off to bed much earlier than usual.” Her voice began to crack as she went on with her story. “I lie in bed unable to sleep as I try to ignore my hunger pangs. Even if I cover my ears, I can still hear all the laughter and smell the smells of the fine food that I could only dream of eating wafting up the stairs.” Polly felt tears come to her eyes. “When the guests finally leave in the early hours of the morning, the noise of their departure also travels up the stairs, and I hear all the guest’s say good-bye.” Polly put on a poker face, changing her voice to the similar affected tones of the gushing guests as they prepare to leave the banquet and go home.

  “Oh, this has been a most wonderful evening, Mrs. Scumberry.”

  “Hasn’t it just!” agrees another.

  “The food was simply superb!” joins in another voice with a rather bloated chortle.

  “Yes, positively divine,” adds another. “No better still. Absolutely exquisite! Did you try the roast pheasant, Mrs. Oaksbury? Oh right, you had a little smidgen. So tell me now, didn’t it taste utterly scrumptious? Mildred dearest, you must stop inviting us to these exceptionally lavish parties, for our waistlines can hardly take any more of your delectable dishes. But it was so awfully kind of you to send us an invitation.”

  “Hear! Hear!” the other equally boisterous guests chant in unison. Then I hear their keys turning in the ignition followed by the shrieking, high-pitched voice of some lady shouting her grand finale through the open window of the car. “Mildred, both you and Boritz are such wonderful, caring people, and those little orphans are so lucky to have the two of you to look after them. Well, until next time!”

  Polly drew breath and lowered her voice as she spoke on, her words tinged with great sadness. The truth is, Hodgekiss would have been there for at least a week if she were to tell all of what went on behind the high, flint walls of this castle.

  “I might add, Hodgekiss,” said Polly rather sullenly as she continued to unload her woes, “that the next time is never far off. A couple of weeks after the New Year’s Eve party is the old peoples’ party, where we, the children, get to entertain a load of merry old grannies. Aunt Mildred and Uncle Boritz always busy themselves, refilling cups with more milky tea while making polite conversation, presumably in the hope that when the old dears finally pass on, they will remember to leave a handsome donation to the orphanage,” Polly miserably confided. “After all the old people have been shuffled out of the front door, Aunt Mildred and Uncle Boritz congratulate themselves on a most successful event. The next day, just like after their New Year’s Eve gathering, we, meaning us foster children, are left to clear away the incredible mountain of leftovers. Only then do we see what we have missed out on. I find it all so unbearable.” Polly fell silent as she anx
iously wondered whether she had said far too much.

  Hodgekiss sat with his head slightly bowed and muttered, “Better is a morsel in the house of a friend than a banquet in the house of your enemy.”

  “What did you say, Hodgekiss?” Polly asked, sticking a finger in her ear to see if it was blocked.

  “Oh, nothing, dear Polly. Nothing at all,” Hodgekiss replied. “Though one day you will understand everything, this I promise you.”

  Polly thought it might be a good idea to change the subject, so, putting on a bright smile, she went on to discuss the weather. She did this purely because she knew that the weather was the favorite subject of every grown-up she had ever met. She knew that just like drinking endless cups of tea, it was a particularly English thing to do, for it showed just how polite and educated one is. Personally, she could not understand this desperate need to discuss it at every gathering. She thought that if someone informed you that their beloved grandmother had suddenly departed, it would be inappropriate to respond with, “Oh dear, I’m so sorry to hear that, but isn’t the weather utterly glorious today. Let’s hope it stays that way. Would you care to join me for a cup of tea?”

  Polly had a sneaky feeling that most people were afraid to talk about real things that truly mattered, and their apparent obsession with the weather was just a way of avoiding baring their heart and souls to each other.

  Anyway, with the weather out of the way, she turned her mind back to the more serious matters affecting her young and sadly traumatized life. “Now if you had visited on Saturday,” continued Polly, most informatively, “I could have given you a cake as well as a sandwich, Hodgekiss. For Saturday is pocket money day, and with the few pennies I receive, I ask the baker at the shop down the street for threepence worth of stale cakes. Since I go at the end of the day, he gives me a large bag filled with cakes that have been on display in the window and remained unsold. If they have no cakes left over, I try my luck at the fish and chip shop. They also are very kind and happily scoop out all the batter from the large fish fryer and sprinkle it with salt and vinegar for my threepence. Therefore, Saturday is for me the best day of the week. Promise me you will remember this for future visits.”