Polly
By: BETTY NE ELS
Synopsis:
Another romance from the prolific pen of Betty Ne els
mills & boon
CHAPTER ONE
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 marvelous!" 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
