Читать книгу Polly - Бетти Нилс - Страница 6

THE GIRL AT the table read her letter slowly, her neat brown head bowed over its single page, watched by everyone sitting with her. She came to the end and then started to read it over again, and the boy sitting beside her cried impatiently: ‘Polly, what’s it say? Do tell us, why…’

‘Hush, Ben.’ His mother, even more impatient than he was, spoke quietly. ‘Polly will tell us when she’s ready.’ She added hopefully: ‘Won’t you, dear?’

The girl looked up and glanced round—they were all there, her mother, father, two very pretty sisters and the twelve-year-old Ben. ‘I’ve got the job,’ she said, and beamed at them all in turn as she handed the letter to her father. ‘Nine to five except Saturdays and Sundays, and a decent salary, too.’

‘Darling, that’s marvellous!’ exclaimed her mother, smiling at her youngest daughter—the plain one of the family and the one with the brains. Cora and Marian had no need of brains; they were so pretty that they would marry just as soon as they could decide which of their numerous boy-friends would make the best husband. Ben was still at school and clever too, but it was Polly, twenty years old, with a clutch of GCSEs and A-levels and a natural bent for dead languages, who had inherited her learned schoolmaster father’s clever head. And a good thing too, thought Mrs Talbot, for she had no looks to speak of—a slightly turned up nose, far too wide a mouth, even though it had soft curves, straight brown hair and a little too plump for her medium height. Her only good features were her eyes, large and brown, fringed by curling lashes which needed no mascara at all. They twinkled engagingly now. ‘It’s a lot of money,’ she said happily, and indeed for the Talbot family it was for there wasn’t a great deal to spare by the time Ben’s school fees had been paid and the rambling Victorian villa they lived in, with its elderly plumbing and draughts, was always in need of some vital repair or other. True, Cora and Marian both had jobs, cycling to nearby Pulchester, one to work in the public library on three afternoons a week, the other to spend her mornings in one of the town’s boutiques. She was paid a pittance, but she was allowed to buy her clothes there at a big discount and naturally enough all her money went on that, and since she and Cora were the same size and shape, she bought for her too, so that neither of them ever had a penny piece between them. But at least, as Mrs Talbot pointed out to her husband, they paid for their clothes and perhaps they would be able to find better jobs later on. Or marry, she added to herself hopefully.

‘When do you start, dear?’ asked Mrs Talbot.

‘Next Monday.’ Polly drew her straight brows together. ‘I’ll have to leave at half past eight, won’t I? It’s twenty minutes on the bike if I do go down Tansy Lane.’

‘What will you wear?’ asked Cora.

Polly pondered for a moment. ‘A skirt and a blouse, I suppose, and a cardigan. It’ll be a bit chilly in the morning…’

‘Ne’er cast a clout till May be out,’ quoted Ben.

Polly grinned at him. ‘Silly—it’s April for another two weeks. I must pop over to see the Vicar and borrow his Greek dictionary; Shylock had the last few pages of mine.’

And presently, closeted with that learned gentleman, she explained why she needed it. ‘Sir Ronald Wise,’ she explained, raising her quiet voice a few tones in order to counteract his deafness. ‘He wanted someone to type his book—a very learned one comparing Ancient Greek and Latin as languages, you know. And of course it’ll be quicker if he has someone who understands a bit about it. I saw his advert in The Times and applied, and I’ve got the job.’

The Reverend Mr Mortimer nodded his bald head. ‘That is excellent news, my dear. Your father must be proud of you.’

He fetched the dictionary. ‘I shall be dining with Sir Ronald next week, he will doubtless tell me how you are getting on.’

Polly left him presently, did a little shopping at the village stores for her mother and started for home. The house was a little way out of the village, halfway up a short steep hill, beside a lane which wound its way in a nonchalant fashion to the next village. She wandered up it, not hurrying, for the spring sunshine was warm and her basket heavy. She was almost home when a Range Rover came over the brow of the hill and stopped squarely in the middle of the lane, leaving her no room to pass, and its driver addressed her.

‘Wells Court—Sir Ronald Wise’s place?’ He was polite, but he was also in a towering rage; that she could see easily enough. He was very good-looking too, in a dark, beaky-nosed fashion. Polly studied his face. Everyone knew everyone else in her part of the world; this man was a stranger.

Prepared to be friendly and in no hurry at all, she observed: ‘Good morning. Are you lost? People will take the short cut from Pulchester, you know, it looks so easy on the map, but if you don’t know your way around it’s twice as long.’

His politeness was icy now. ‘I should be obliged if you would spare me your observations on rural communications. I realise that living in these—er—rustic conditions, time is not of paramount importance to you, but it is to me. Wells Court, if you would be so good…’

Polly gave him a pitying look. Poor man, in a rage about nothing, and in such a hurry, too. ‘You need a rest and a cup of coffee,’ she said kindly. ‘I daresay you’ve come a long way. Turn left at the bottom of this lane, cross the village square and into the lane beside the church. Wells Court is a mile along the road—you can’t miss it.’ She added a friendly goodbye.

His own goodbye held more than a hint of mockery, but she didn’t see that.

She forgot all about him in the small bustle of preparation for the new job, and when Monday morning came she set out on her bike, very neat in her navy pleated skirt, one of Cora’s blouses, a little too big but very suitable with its prim round collar and silky bow under her chin, and her own cardigan would do very nicely, as she wouldn’t need to wear it in the house.

She parked the bike beside the imposing front door and rang the bell. She knew the man who opened it by sight, for he went to church and sat in the pew reserved for Wells Court, but if he recognised her, he gave no sign. His, ‘Miss Talbot? You are expected,’ was uttered in a voice devoid of expression, although he frowned slightly at the sight of the bicycle. ‘I will ask the gardener’s boy to put your bicycle in the shed at the side, miss,’ he told her austerely, and stood aside for her to go in.

She had been in the house on one or two occasions; when it had been opened to the general public in aid of some charity or other, but never further than the entrance hall and the big reception rooms on either side. Now she followed the man along a passage at the back of the hall and waited while he tapped on a door at the end of it.

Sir Ronald’s rather fruity voice bade them enter and Polly did so, slipping neatly past her guide, who shut the door behind her, leaving her to cross a broad expanse of polished floor to the desk at the far end of the room where Sir Ronald was seated.

‘Ah, good morning, young lady. What’s your name? Talbot?’

‘Yes, Sir Ronald. Polly Talbot.’

‘Yes, yes, of course. I’ve met your father somewhere—clever chap.’ He glanced up at her, standing composedly in front of the desk. ‘Got a couple of pretty sisters, haven’t you?’ He chuckled. ‘But you’ve got the brains, eh?’

She wondered if this was a compliment. She said calmly: ‘It’s just that I like Greek and Latin. Sir Ronald, I’m not clever at anything else.’ She almost added: ‘And not pretty either,’ but decided against it.

‘Well, there’s plenty of work for you, Polly. I’ve finished the glossary and it needs careful checking as you go along.’ He leaned back in his chair and rather belatedly invited her to sit down. ‘Greek and Latin,’ he told her with some smugness, ‘a comparison, if I may so describe it—as far as I know, there’s been precious little written about the subject since Beeton’s Classical Dictionary, although my work is no dictionary.’ He turned to nod over one shoulder. ‘There’s a desk and typewriter and all you may need through there. You can start as soon as you wish.’

Polly got to her feet. ‘Is there a time limit?’ she asked.

‘What? The publishers want it as soon as possible. You had better let me know how you’re getting on at the end of the week. Now…’ He fussed with some papers on his desk, and she prudently went through the door he had indicated and shut it quietly behind her.

The room was small and little used, she judged, but there was a fair-sized desk in it with a comfortable chair, a typewriter and a stack of paper and carbons, and of course the manuscript. She sat down and began to read it slowly. The first chapter was written in English and merely detailed the contents of the book. Without looking further, she typed it out; it took her most of the day with a break for coffee and then lunch, which were brought to her there on a tray. A friendly maid led her through a door back into the hall and showed her a downstairs cloakroom, and she lingered a while, glad of a chance to move around a little. The house was very quiet as she strolled round the hall, wishing she dared to go outside for ten minutes; tomorrow she would ask…

She finished the chapter by four o’clock, and since there was still an hour to go, she began to study the second chapter. A very different kettle of fish, she was soon to discover. Sir Ronald had plunged deeply into his subject, and although she was confident that she could type it correctly she had very little idea of what he was getting at. A tray of tea was a welcome relief, and presently, her day’s work done, she laid her work on the desk in the study, and went into the hall. Someone would have to be told she was leaving; she was wondering who when the maid came through the service door at the back.

‘I’m going home now,’ said Polly. ‘My bike’s been put in a shed…can I get it?’

‘You wait there, miss, it’ll be fetched for you.’ The girl went away again and Polly sat down in one of the massive chairs ranged against the wall. A cold unlived-in house, she decided, looking around her, probably because Sir Ronald was a widower with grown-up children living away from him. It was nice to get out into the garden again, jump on her bike and cycle home through the quiet lane.

Going in through the kitchen door presently, she could smell hot buttered toast and the wood fire in the sitting room and gave a contented sigh. Never mind the shabby furniture and the threadbare carpet in the hall—this was home, warm and welcoming. She washed her hands at the kitchen sink and hurried to the sitting room where the family were gathered round the fire having tea.

Her mother looked up as she went in. ‘Darling—just in time, how nice. Did you have a good day?’

Polly took a great bite of buttery toast. ‘I think so. The first bit’s easy; I just had time to look at the next chapter and that’s going to be a bit tricky, but I like it.’

She answered a string of questions, helped clear the tea things and offered to take Shylock for his walk. Cora and Marian were both going out that evening and Ben had a pile of homework, so, as so often happened, Polly took the dog out far more often than anyone else; her sisters went out a good deal in the evening and could never find the time. And Shylock was a large unwieldy dog who needed a good deal of exercise. The pair of them went off happily, walking briskly in the chill of the spring evening, Shylock’s large woolly head full of the pleasure of rabbit hunting, Polly’s happily occupied with the delights of having money to spend.

But before that she had to work for it, and work hard. She was not unfamiliar with the Greek and the Latin so that she was able to keep at a fair speed—all the same, it took her three days to type the second chapter. She laid it before Sir Ronald halfway through the morning and sighed with relief when he glanced through it with evident satisfaction.

‘Very nice, very nice, Polly. I shall go through it carefully later today. You have started the next chapter?’ Without waiting for her to reply he added: ‘You have all you want, I hope? Your meals and so on?’

‘Yes, thank you, Sir Ronald. Would you mind if I went into the garden for a few minutes during my lunch break?’ She hesitated. ‘It will take me longer to type the rest of the book, Sir Ronald; I have to study each page…’

He nodded. ‘Of course. Just so long as it’s well done. There’s no time limit, Polly.’ He added to contradict himself: ‘As soon as possible, you understand?’

He waved a vague hand at her, and she went back to her desk and spent an hour frowning over the next chapter.

Lunch was a welcome break; she ate it quickly and hurried into the garden, to sit on a sheltered seat and feel the midday warmth of the sun on her face, and presently went back to work. It dealt with Greek and Latin proper names with a long explanation of the vowel sounds; she was halfway through this when the door opened and the driver of the Range Rover walked in. He looked at her with surprise. ‘Good God, the rustic chatterbox! I’m looking for Miss Talbot.’

‘Me,’ said Polly, her colour heightened and her voice tart. She was neither rustic nor a chatterbox; he was insufferably rude, whoever he was.

He crossed the little room and leaned against the desk, a large, very tall man. ‘Well, well, as my nanny so often remarked, wonders will never cease. Are you the paragon who’s typing Sir Ronald’s manuscript?’

‘I am not a paragon, nor am I a rustic chatterbox. I’m typing his work, yes. Why do you want to know?’

Polly poised her hands over the keys in the hope that he would take the hint and go away. A friend of Sir Ronald’s, she supposed, indulging in idle curiosity. She thought it unlikely that he would answer her question, and she was right, he ignored it completely, just went on standing there looking at her. ‘You don’t mind if I get on?’ she asked frostily. ‘I daresay someone will find Sir Ronald if you want to see him…’

The gentleman in question came through the door as she spoke, already talking. ‘There you are, Sam. Been having a look at the manuscript, have you? Polly’s doing a good job of the typing. A clever girl, is Polly—it isn’t everyone who can read both Latin and Greek and type them intelligently as well.’ He beamed at her. ‘And that reminds me that your wages are on my desk, collect them as you go, will you?’

He took the other man by the arm. ‘There’s a most interesting book I want you to look at,’ he told him as they walked to the door. ‘I found it in Pulchester of all places, in a poky secondhand shop…’ His voice faded as he went through the door, followed by his companion. Neither of them took any notice of Polly. She hadn’t expected them to do so.

It was at the end of the afternoon, her wages safely stowed in her pocket, wheeling her bicycle away from the house, that Polly encountered the man again. He came out of the shrubbery bordering the long drive just as she was about to pedal away.

‘Going home?’ he asked idly. ‘You live in the village?’

‘Yes,’ she answered politely. ‘Good evening.’

She rode off fast, anxious to get away from him. She wasn’t likely to see him again; the Range Rover had been parked on the sweep before the house, ready for him to leave. She wondered who he was and where he lived and why he was so abrupt in his manner. ‘Downright rude,’ she said out loud, then forgot him in the pleasure of deciding what she would do with the money in her pocket. There was, she estimated, about six weeks’ work ahead of her, perhaps two months. She could save it up, of course, and have an orgy of spending at the end—on the other hand, she needed some new clothes and she could buy Ben the football boots he wanted for his birthday, and give her mother some housekeeping money too. She had made up her mind to that by the time she reached home; she could save something each week, and perhaps visit Aunt Maggie’s in Scotland when she had finished.

Over tea she put these plans forward. Her offer of the boots was received with enthusiasm by her brother, just as the housekeeping money was welcomed in a more restrained manner by her mother. Her sisters, considering these to be unimportant, embarked at once on a deep discussion as to the clothes she should buy. It was soon evident to Polly that if she took their advice she would be penniless in no time at all and the possessor of more clothes than she would ever wear. But she didn’t say so; Cora and Marian were helping her in their own way. She murmured suitably each time they paused to look at her and finally, when they had run out of ideas, suggested that it might be a good idea if she saved a few weeks wages before she went shopping. ‘For I’ll not have time to wear anything much until I’ve finished the job,’ she pointed out reasonably, and was relieved when they reluctantly agreed.

The weekend, with its well tried routine, came and went. A long walk with Shylock, time spent helping Ben with his homework and pottering round the house doing small chores for her mother, a little gardening, a pleasant half hour with her father, discussing Greek mythology. Cora and Marian were out, but they mostly were on Saturdays, driving somewhere or other with whichever boy-friend was in favour. They were out again on Sunday too, but only after they had gone to church with the rest of the family. Mr Talbot, a mild man, was adamant about that. They walked through the quiet village and filled the family pew, exchanging nods and smiles with the familiar faces around them. Polly, her head round the other way while she listened to a friend’s gossip offered in a decorous whisper, almost had her ribs caved in by her sisters each side of her. ‘Polly, who’s that marvellous man, just come in with Sir Ronald? Have you seen him? Is he staying with him? Where does he come from?’

‘I don’t know, and yes, I’ve seen him. I suppose he’s staying at Wells Court. I don’t know where he’s from.’

Two pairs of eyes stared at her in astonishment. ‘You mean to say,’ hissed Cora, ‘that you’ve actually spoken to him and you don’t know anything about him?’ She was prevented from saying more because old Mr Symes, the organist, had stopped his gentle meandering over the keys and had begun the opening hymn as Mr Mortimer and his choir came out of the vestry.

It was at the end of the service, as Sir Ronald and his guest passed the Talbot pew and the former exchanged civil greetings with their father, that Cora and Marian had a chance to get a look at his companion.

A look he returned with some interest, for they were really very pretty and worth more than a glance. The look he gave Polly was quite another thing; it made her feel like yesterday’s left-over cold potatoes.

There was no sign of him when she arrived at Wells Court on Monday morning, and indeed, for the moment she had forgotten him; it was a lovely day and the quiet Gloucestershire countryside was green and alive with the familiar sounds she had grown up with; lambs and sheep, cows lowing over the hedges, tractors going to and fro, the birds… She parked her bike and rang the bell.

The third chapter was to do with Greek and Roman chronology. Polly was typing, very carefully, the data concerning the Greek calendar when Sir Ronald walked in, and his guest with him. Their good mornings were affable as they stood behind her chair, looking over her shoulder at what she had already done. ‘Munychlon’, observed Sir Ronald, ‘so much better sounding than April, don’t you think? You’ve been to Munychia, of course, Sam?’

‘Yes. Does Miss—er—Talbot take an interest in such things, or is she merely a typist?’

Rude! thought Polly, and said with commendable restraint. ‘The festival of Munychia was held in the town of that name, in honour of the goddess Diana.’ She added kindly: ‘I believe that quite ordinary people read about such things, Mr—er…’

Sir Ronald coughed. ‘Professor, my dear. Professor Gervis. He’s famous in his field, you know.’

She raised guileless brown eyes. ‘Indeed? What field?’

The Professor let out a bellow of laughter. ‘I don’t often make mistakes,’ he observed coolly, ‘but with you I certainly did.’ He turned away, suddenly bored. ‘Would it be a good idea if we phoned Rogers this morning—there’s the question of the right type setting…’

Polly was left sitting there; she should have been feeling triumphant, but she felt rather silly. She must have sounded like a little prig; no wonder he’d laughed!

She was sitting in the sun during her lunch break when he appeared suddenly and sat down beside her. He asked without preamble: ‘Have you never been away from the village? Surely with your talents you could have got a place at a university or found a well paid job with a museum or some such thing?’

She turned to look at him. ‘I expect I could, only I haven’t wanted to. I like the country; there’s a lot more to do than just typing Greek and Latin…’

‘You’re not interested in money? It buys pretty clothes and pays for hairdressers and all the other things girls want.’ The faint mockery in his voice annoyed her.

‘Of course I like pretty things—even we rustics dress up occasionally. I daresay if I’d been born and brought up in some big city, I’d feel differently about it.’

‘Those were your sisters in church?’ he wanted to know idly.

‘Yes.’

‘Very pretty girls, and dressed charmingly.’

‘Yes,’ she got up, ‘but as you see they’re, as you say, very pretty girls. It’s time I was back working. Goodbye.’

He went with her most annoyingly into the house. As he stood aside for her to go through the garden door he said: ‘You know, you intrigue me.’

‘I couldn’t care less,’ said Polly.

She didn’t see him for the rest of that day, nor, for that matter, for the rest of the week. She finished the chapter and started on the next one, completely absorbed in her work, only occasionally bothered by the memory of a dark mocking face.

It was during a morning halfway through her third week there that the maid suddenly burst into the room looking frightened, ‘Oh, miss—do come! Sir Ronald’s ill—he’s lying on the floor in his study and he don’t speak!’

‘Phone Doctor Makepeace and ask him to come at once.’ Polly was already through the door, running across the study to where the old man lay beside his desk.

A stroke, she supposed, loosening his tie and undoing his waistcoat buttons, putting a cushion behind his head and telling Briggs to see that there was someone to have the door open and usher the doctor in the moment he arrived.

After that the rest of the day was a horrible kind of dream, with Sir Ronald carried to his bed, a second doctor coming, followed by a nurse and the entire household at sixes and sevens. Polly abandoned her typing, saw that food and drink were produced at the right times, a room made ready for the nurse and messages sent to Sir Ronald’s son and daughter. It was mid-afternoon when the nurse came in search of her.

‘Sir Ronald’s rallied a little. He wants to see you. Polly, he said.’

‘That’s me. I’ll come.’

Sir Ronald looked very ill and his rather loud voice had shrunk to a thread of sound. ‘Get Sam,’ he whispered. ‘He’s to come now. Make him understand. Now. In the phone book—my desk.’

‘Very well, Sir Ronald.’ Polly’s voice was its usual calm self. ‘I’ll phone now.’

She dialled the number, having no idea where she was dialling. Not a London number, that she did know. And he answered; she would have known his voice anywhere—deep and assured and, just now, businesslike.

‘Professor Gervis, this is Polly Talbot. Sir Ronald told me to phone you. He was taken ill this morning and he wants to see you as soon as possible. Could you come at once?’

She wasn’t really surprised when he said: ‘I’ll be with you in about an hour,’ and hung up without having asked a single question.

Polly phoned her home and explained that she would probably be late back, then went away to find the housekeeper and ask her to get a room ready for Professor Gervis. It seemed likely that he would stay the night.

Doctor Makepeace came again presently, bringing his colleague with him. They spent a long time with their patient and then disappeared into the smaller of the sitting rooms and talked. Polly, watching Briggs taking in a tray of coffee, decided that she would wait in the hall and ask just how ill Sir Ronald was. There was an air of gloom over the whole house, with the servants creeping about with long faces, and Doctor Makepeace, whom she had known since she was a child, had looked very solemn. She was sitting in one of the uncomfortable chairs ranged against the wall facing the sitting room when the front door was opened and Professor Gervis walked in. He hadn’t rung the bell like any other caller would have done and she hadn’t heard his car, although she had been so deep in thought that she might have been deaf to its engine. He wasted no time on the niceties of greeting.

‘Tell me what you know,’ he said as soon as his eyes lighted on her. He flung a case and his car coat on to a chair and came to stand in front of her.

She did so in a quiet voice, giving him facts unembellished by guesses or rumours. He nodded when she had finished. ‘Doctor Makepeace is here now, you say?’

‘Yes,’ she nodded to the door opposite. ‘In there with the other doctor who came this morning. I was waiting to see Doctor Makepeace…’

‘Shouldn’t you have gone home some time ago?’

‘Yes, but how could I? You’re staying the night? I asked the housekeeper to get a room ready for you…’

‘Very thoughtful of you.’ He turned abruptly, crossed the hall, tapped on the sitting room door and went inside.

All three men came out five minutes later, but it was Polly waiting that caused Doctor Makepeace to detach himself from the others and cross the hall to speak to her.

‘It’s good of you to stay, Polly. Will you come into the dining room? I believe Briggs is bringing coffee and sandwiches for us. Professor Gervis wants to talk to you.’

She went with him, wondering why the Professor couldn’t have told her himself, or was he as arrogant as he looked?

The two men were standing by the fireplace where someone had lighted a log fire against the chill of the evening. They looked at her without speaking, although the other doctor nodded pleasantly when Doctor Makepeace introduced them, adding: ‘Of course, I don’t need to make you known to each other, do I?’

A remark which called forth an uninterested glance from the Professor.

She poured the coffee when it came and presently the doctors went away back to their patient. As they left the room the Professor asked: ‘What is your telephone number?’

She told him and then added: ‘Why do you want to know?’ But he didn’t answer her, only went to the telephone on a side table and dialled the number. She listened with some indignation as he explained who he was and added: ‘I’ll drive Polly back within the hour; there are certain matters to be discussed,’ and then in answer to the voice at the other end, ‘He’s very ill indeed. The doctors are with him now.’

Polly, for something to do, poured herself another cup of coffee. Not for the world would she let him see that his high-handed treatment irked her severely. She settled her gaze on an elaborate family group framed in gilt and ignored him.

‘And now you’ll give me your full attention,’ he commanded, ‘and be good enough not to interrupt until I’ve finished.’

She gave him a speaking look and took another sip of coffee.

He had sat down opposite to her so that she had to look at him if she looked anywhere at all. He looked older, she decided, staring rather defiantly at him, and tired, but as ill-humoured as usual. He stared back at her for a long moment.

‘Sir Ronald is dying, you must know that. He’ll not live the night through. He was quite lucid when I spoke to him just now, and I have given my word that his book shall be published on the date he intended and that you will continue to get it ready for the publishers. That means that you will continue to come here until the funeral, and after that the only possible solution is for you to return with me to my house and complete your work there.’ And as she opened her mouth to make a strong protest: ‘I asked you not to interrupt. I’ve had a lot to do with his book and you’ll need guidance and someone to check your work. I think that whatever our personal feelings are, we should ignore them and do him this service. It has been years of work and research, and I for one don’t intend them to be wasted.’ He added with a faint sneer: ‘My sister lives with me, which will, I imagine, settle any qualms a girl such as you is bound to have.’

He sat back, one long leg crossed over the other, entirely at his ease. Waiting for her to say yes, thought Polly.

‘I’ll think about it and let you know tomorrow morning.’ Her voice was pleasant enough, but it had an icy edge to it.

‘Now,’ the Professor’s voice was very quiet; it was also compelling. She looked down at her hands, resting quietly in her lap and tried to marshal a few sensible arguments against his wishes. Before she had time to think of a single one the door opened and Doctor Makepeace came in.

‘Sam, will you come?’ They left the room together, leaving her alone with her thoughts. If Sir Ronald died she would have to accept the Professor’s suggestions. The old man had been kind to her after his fashion and she knew without being told that his book had been his greatest interest. She sat quietly, and presently the Professor and both doctors came in together.

‘Sir Ronald died a few minutes ago, Polly,’ Doctor Makepeace told her kindly. ‘A peaceful end, I’m glad to say; a pity he won’t see his book published, but I understand that you and Sam are going to carry out his plans. I’ll give you a lift home, child.’

‘I’ll take her back,’ said the Professor. ‘I’ll have to explain how matters stand to Mr Talbot. It’s rather late now, but I daresay we can arrange a meeting tomorrow.’

Doctor Makepeace bustled to the door. ‘Good, I’ve still got a couple of calls to make and I know that Doctor West here wants to get back as soon as possible. You’ve got the certificates, haven’t you, Sam? I’ll see you in the morning. When will his son and daughter get here?’

‘Tomorrow, I should suppose. Goodnight, and thanks.’

The men shook hands and Doctor Makepeace said: ‘He was a good friend to me…’

‘And to me,’ said the Professor, and just for a moment Polly considered that he looked quite human.

‘We’ll go now,’ he said. ‘My car’s outside.’

‘I’ve got my bike.’

He looked at her without expression. ‘You’ll be fetched in the morning,’ was all he said, and he hurried her out into the hall, where she collected her cardigan, said goodnight to a hovering Briggs and went through the door he was holding open for her. It was dark by now, but lights from the windows showed her a Bentley Corniche parked on the sweep. He indicated that she should get into the front seat and got in beside her. They were almost in the village when he asked: ‘Where now?’

‘Across the square, up that lane on the other side. The house is on the left, almost at the top of the hill.’

The gate was never shut. He swept past it on to the gravelled sweep before the house and stopped before the door. Polly had hopped out almost before he’d switched off the engine and gone to open it. But it was opened as she reached it and her father came through it. ‘Polly, my dear—you’re so very late, and how is Sir Ronald?’ He peered past her at Professor Gervis looming out of the dark. ‘Someone has brought you home,’ he said, stating the obvious.

‘Professor Gervis—my father,’ said Polly, very polite, and then: ‘Father, the Professor wants to talk to you. It’s too late now…’

‘Nonsense, child, we’ve only just finished supper. Come in, Professor Gervis, you must meet my wife and then we can discuss whatever it is…’

They were in the dining room, the whole family, sitting round the table with the remains of a macaroni cheese and one of Mrs Talbot’s fruit tarts.

Everyone spoke at once until Mr Talbot said hush and introduced the Professor. ‘You were in church,’ said Mrs Talbot instantly, and then: ‘You’d like some supper? Coffee?’ She put an arm round Polly. ‘You look pinched, darling. Is Sir Ronald very ill?’

‘He died this evening,’ said the Professor quietly. ‘Polly has been most helpful. I should think she needs her supper and a chance to talk.’ He smiled across the table at her, looking quite different; kind and friendly…

‘I’m sorry. We all liked him. I’ll get some coffee at least, while you’re talking. Sit down, Polly, you shall have your supper. Cora, Marian, get a tray ready will you?’

Neither of them needed a second bidding. They rolled expressive eyes at Polly and flew into the kitchen, and a reluctant Ben having been sent to bed, Polly and her mother sat down together. ‘Now tell me all about it,’ demanded Mrs Talbot. ‘We guessed Sir Ronald was very poorly the first time you phoned. Poor man! I’m glad you were able to help.’ She cut a generous slice of tart and put it on Polly’s plate. ‘Why does this Professor want to talk to your father?’

‘Well,’ began Polly, ‘it’s like this…’ She explained carefully and then waited to see what her mother would say.

‘A very sensible idea,’ commented that lady. ‘Professor what’s-his-name seems to know what he’s going to do.’ She added reassuringly, ‘And his sister lives with him. More tart, love? He’s quite youngish, isn’t he? Early thirties, I should think. Easy to get on with?’ Her voice was casual.

‘No,’ said Polly forthrightly. ‘We don’t like each other, but I do see that it’s important to get the book published, and I don’t have to see him often, you know. Just show him each chapter as it’s done, just as I’ve been doing with Sir Ronald.’

‘And where does he live, darling?’

‘I don’t know.’ Polly filled her mouth with tart. ‘It can’t be very far away,’ she said in a crumby voice, ‘because he said on the phone he’d be about an hour, and he was—rather less, I think.’

Her mother started to clear the table. ‘Well, darling, you’ve had a rotten day, now you’re going straight to bed. There’s plenty of hot water and I’ll put a bottle in your bed.’

‘Oughtn’t I to say goodnight?’ asked Polly.

‘I don’t see that it matters,’ observed Mrs Talbot cheerfully, ‘if you don’t like each other…’