Polly (2 page)

These last chores completed, Polly sat down and gazed at herself in the mirror. Her damp hair was already springing back into its familiar golden curls. She had a broad forehead and well-spaced wide blue eyes, a straight little nose, and a perfect mouth.
Beautiful
, thought Polly, not for the first time.
Absolutely beautiful
.

She had once thought that perhaps she had been adopted. For how could the bent little Alf Marsh and the cottage loaf Mary Marsh have produced such a beauty? But Mary Marsh had only grinned and shown Polly a photograph of herself, Mary, as a young girl. She had looked exactly like Polly and Polly had pouted for days. Gone were her secret dreams of being the cast-off daughter of an aristocrat!

Her mother’s voice broke into her thoughts. “Come along, Pol. We ’as fish-and-chips from Bernie’s, as ’ot as ’ot. But if you sits up there much longer, luv, they’ll be bleedin’ cold!”

The Duchess of Stone Lane gave a disdainful sniff, but the thought of Bernie’s fish-and-chips with perhaps a big pickled onion or two was too much for her. She ran down happily to join the rest of her family, who were already gathered around the kitchen table.

Gran was inhaling her tea with noisy relish, baby Alf, a chubby five-year-old, was pleating the fringes of Gran’s shawl, and nine-year-old Joyce was trying to eat fish-and-chips and read a comic at the same time.

Mrs. Marsh eased off her shoes and gave a groan of pleasure. “Sit down, ducks,” she said as Polly came in. “That’s a luvly bit o’ fish. Yerse. Tell you what, Pol, I was a-talking to Lil—you know, ’er what ’as the junk store—’bout Westerman’s. Well, she says as ’ow the duke ’as got two sons and none of ’em is married.” Her small blue eyes twinkled wickedly at Polly from behind pads of fat. “Think you’ll marry one of ’em?”

Polly blushed with irritation. She
had
been thinking just that. She tossed her curls. “They’re probably too old.”

“Not a bit of it,” said Mrs. Marsh. “Lil says that the elder is Edward, Marquis of Wollerton, and ’e ’as bin disappointed in love when ’e was a lad. ’E’s thirty-six now. Yerse. And the young ’un is Lord Peter Burley and e’s only twenty.”

Polly licked her fingers. “How did Lil find out all this?”

“’Er reads them society columns,” said Mrs. Marsh. “Bring me my slippers, Joyce, there’s a luv.”

“Oh,
Ma
, I’d just got to the interesting bit,” wailed Joyce, clutching hold of her comic.

“Do as yer ma says or I’ll tear off yer arm and hit yer with the soggy end,” snarled her father. Alf Marsh was, in fact, a timid, gentle man but he had a habit of uttering really terrible threats that fortunately no one, and least of all his children, took seriously.

“When I was ’er age…” began Gran, and Polly drifted off into dreamland.

Life had always seemed sunny and easy. She had passed her exams at school with hardly any study and she had learned shorthand and typing in under six months. The road to the future stretched out in her mind, broad and sunny, all the way to the altar with one of the duke’s sons. Which one? The marquis sounded a bit old. But Lord Burley! Now he was only a year older than herself.

The remains of the fish-and-chips congealed in the newspaper as Polly pictured her first day at work.

“
Oh, Lord Peter! How you startled me!
” she would cry out when she turned to find him standing behind her.

“
Forgive me
,” he would mutter hoarsely. “
I am enchanted by your beauty…
”

“Wake up, Pol,” said her mother. “Yer ladyship ’as still got some cleaning up to do!”

I will, of course, hire her a maid
, thought Polly as she cleared away the tea things with a faint condescending smile. Meanwhile, she must suffer, like the best of Cinderellas.

Tomorrow would be a whole new life….

The clocks of the City were chiming eight on a windy March Monday morning as Polly, clutching her hat, arrived at the worn front steps of Westerman’s offices. The walk had taken longer than she expected, since various dreams of marrying into the aristocracy had slowed her steps.

Once into the narrow winding streets of the City, London’s commercial hub, she had found herself wedged in a moving mass of men in tall silk hats and frock coats, all walking at a tremendous pace. Businesswomen were still a rarity in this masculine territory, and more than one paused his hurrying steps to stare appreciatively at the golden girl with the wide blue eyes and pink cheeks. Polly took it as her due. She was used to being stared at.

Mr. Baines was already there, fastening card-board protectors on his wrist bands, as Polly blew into the dingy offices on a gale of March wind that sent the papers flying.

The heavy glass door crashed behind her and the dim, religious silence, which can only be created by a group of people slaving to the gods of wealth and industry, surrounded her.

Mr. Baines looked at the clock with some irritation. One minute past eight. This was what came from employing females, but stenographers were “modern” and “up-to-date” and Mr. Baines was human enough to share the up-to-date craze that was sweeping London.

“Take off your coat, Miss… ah… and I will begin dictating letters immediately.”

Polly removed her coat with nervous fingers. Four clerks were already seated on their high stools, bent over their ledgers. One of them caught Polly’s eye and winked. She flushed and looked away. Cheek!

Mr. Baines was a small, slim, middle-aged man with a high celluloid collar and patent-leather hair. He had the small, twinkling humorous eyes of people who have usually no sense of humor.

“Now, Miss… ah… if you will follow me.” He led the way out of the outer office and along a long dark corridor, finally pushing open a door at the end.

“This will be your office, Miss… ah… I think it highly unsuitable that a young girl should have an office of her own but, on the other hand, it would be extremely unsuitable if you were to work with the men.”

Polly stared around her in dismay. The “office” was little more than a dingy cubicle with a small, chipped and battered wooden table on which stood a black and gleaming typewriter decorated with feminine scrollwork. The typewriter had been considered a female instrument from the day it was first invented and the manufacturers still made considerable efforts at gentility by decorating their machines with gilt-stenciled decoration.

There was a peg to hang her coat, a wooden filing cabinet, a pile of dusty ledgers from which protruded scraps of yellowing paper showing that the room had been previously used as a dump, a small gas fire, and wood-paneled walls, dark with age.

Polly did not know that Mr. Baines was as nervous as herself. It was a big day for him. Instead of scribbling his business letters and then handing them over to a clerk to make a fair copy, he would be able to sit and dictate.
Very
up-to-date. He had not yet told his business friends who he met daily at lunchtime in the chop house around the corner about it. But he fancied he might just drop a little word today.

Especially to Bloggs.

Bloggs with his beery face and large mustache would shout as usual, “Here comes our relic of the Dark Ages. What you been doing this morning, Baines? Sharpening up the quill pens?”

And in his mind’s eye Mr. Baines could see himself casually raising his tankard and taking a slow pull before remarking carelessly, “Oh, nothing special, old boy. Spent the whole morning dictating letters to my secretary.”

And wouldn’t Bloggs stare!

Not that he meant to tell Polly that she ranked as a secretary. That sort of thing gave girls ideas above their station.

Polly opened her bag and produced a large note-book and sat down primly behind the desk, while Mr. Baines prowled up and down. He cleared his throat. He said, “To Messrs. Thistlewood and Jamieson, 22 Victoria Street, Singapore. Dear Sirs…”

The working day had begun.

Mr. Baines dictated letter after letter, while Polly made a mental note to study her school atlas when she got home that evening. All the addresses seemed to be in the farthest-flung parts of the British Empire.

Mr. Baines droned on, the gas fire hissed and popped, and Polly began to think that lunchtime would never come. She had an overwhelming desire to go to the lavatory and did not know if she could last another minute.

She firmly crossed her legs under the desk and tried to concentrate as her face got redder and redder. There was nothing for it. Social conventions must be thrown to the wind. Mr. Baines had finished one letter and was about to start another when Polly spoke up. Her voice sounded to her ears as if it was coming from very far away.

“I beg to be excused, Mr. Baines.”

“Why?”

“I would like to leave the room, sir,” said Polly, feeling as if she were back at school.

Mr. Baines looked at her with dawning comprehension. Now it was his turn to blush. “Well, really Miss… ah… I’m afraid that is something that has been overlooked. Can you not contain yourself until lunchtime? There is a… er… place for ladies opposite the Bank.”

Polly shook her head firmly.

“Oh, dear, dear. Follow me,” he said, leading her back along the winding corridors and down a flight of twisty wooden steps to the basement. Mr. Baines lit a candle with maddening slowness. “No gas laid on here I’m afraid. There is the… er… yes, behind that door.”

Polly was in too much agony to be embarrassed. She dived into the lavatory, which was fortunately lit by a small barred window, since Mr. Baines had kept the candle.

She emerged a few minutes later to find a much-shaken Mr. Baines standing guard outside.

“I shall leave you to type those letters, Miss… ah… and in future, you will need to make your own arrangements. It would be very distressing if any of the gentlemen should find you here. You really must consider their feelings, Miss… ah…”

He extinguished the candle and fled up the stairs, leaving Polly to find her own way back to her room. She stared around in bewilderment and then slowly moved along the corridor. Was this it? Six men with bristling mustaches, looking for all the world like a meeting of walruses, were seated around a large mahogany table. They all stared at her with outraged expressions on their faces as she hurriedly closed the door. She turned around and nearly bumped into the cheeky clerk who had winked at her. But she needed help. “I’m lost,” she said. “Can you show me to my office?”

“Certainly,” said the young man. “I will even slay dragons for you. My name is Bob Friend, as in friendly. I am your servant. I fall at your feet.”

“Simply show me to my office, Mr. Friend, I have work to do,” replied Polly in chilly accents.

“Of course,” he answered with a grin. “This way, my lady. Will my lady be partaking of lunch? I would be glad to offer my humble escort.”

Polly opened her mouth to refuse. But the thought of venturing out into the masculine City on her own was frightening. She would never find out anything about the mysterious duke and his sons, locked away in her cubicle, either. And Mr. Friend was quite pleasant-looking, with a plump, cherubic face and an unruly mop of brown curls.

She forced herself to smile at him. “I should be glad of someone to show me to a place to eat.”

“Good!” said Mr. Friend. “I’ll call at your palace in half an hour.” He pushed open the door to Polly’s office, gave her a cheery wave, and bustled off down the corridor. Polly mentally resolved to draw a map or make chalk marks on the wall on the way out so that she should not lose her way again. Why, those terrifying men with the walrus mustaches could be complaining about her to Mr. Baines right at this minute!

She had typed half of the letters, neatly and rapidly, by the time Mr. Friend popped his curly head around the door.

Mr. Friend had decided to brave Spielmann’s, the chophouse where Mr. Baines usually ate. It was more than he could afford and he felt sure Mr. Baines would be furious to see him there, but one lunch with this gorgeous girl was surely worth eating saveloys from the street vendor for the rest of the week.

Mr. Baines was just savoring his triumph over Mr. Bloggs when Bob and Polly pushed their way through the crowd at the bar to find a table in the small room beyond. The crowd of men fell silent and all heads turned. To see a woman in Spielmann’s was rare enough, but to see such a beauty!

Crimson with pride, Bob found a corner table and drew Polly’s chair out for her.

“Well, bless my soul!” cried Mr. Baines. “That’s my secretary with one of my clerks!”

Mr. Bloggs wiped the foam from his mustache and stared at Mr. Baines in open admiration. “Why, Baines,” he said slowly, “you
old dog
.”

Mr. Baines drank his beer in a rosy glow. Never had anyone looked at him in admiration before. He stood primly and quietly as usual, but inside, his ink-stained soul swaggered with all the bravado of the veriest masher.

“Now, what would you like Miss… ah…” Bob Friend was saying.

“Oh, I’m tired of being called Miss Ah,” said Polly, picking up her soup-stained menu. “My name is Miss Marsh.” She looked at the menu. There was a businessman’s lunch special for one shilling and sixpence but it still seemed like an awful lot of money, especially as Mr. Friend would have to pay for her lunch.

Polly was vain, but she had a great deal of her mother’s maternal good nature in her character. “I suggest, Mister Friend,” she said in her clear, light voice, “that if I pay for my own, we could possibly afford another lunch together. I certainly cannot afford these prices every day and neither, I suppose, can you.”

“Don’t spoil my big moment,” pleaded Bob. “All the fellows in the room are envying me like mad.”

“It’s all right,
really
,” said Polly. “I’ll slip you the money at the end of the meal and nobody will be any the wiser.” She looked at him with her large blue eyes and Mr. Friend felt as if he were deliciously drowning in a tropical sea.

“Furthermore,” Polly went on, “if you don’t let me pay, I shall not have lunch with you again.”

“Oh, in that case,” said the much dazzled Bob, “I will—I mean, you can pay.”