who she really was. How would they react when she revealed that, instead of being the daughter of respectable people, not on a par with the Harringtons as to background and wealth, of course, but just about acceptable, she was illegitimate? What would they say to a bastard in the family? Dr Harrington liked to think of himself as broad-minded, but Polly had an idea that Roger’s mother might have been happier if Roger had become engaged to another Celia.
Polly had never subscribed to the school of getting unpleasant things over with; she always lived in hope that if you put off what was disagreeable, it might go away, and she had found this was often the case.
‘When do you go?’ Mrs Harrington was asking Roger, and Polly knew she was thinking of suitable clothes and packing. ‘Isn’t Boston terribly cold in the winter? Did you order a new overcoat? Will it be ready in time?’
‘I sail on Saturday. On the United States.’
Should she be wrinkling her brow and worrying about whether Roger would have enough warm socks? Polly asked herself. Bother socks, let him worry about them himself.
‘I’ll be back by the end of January, so we can get married in February. Which reminds me, you’ll need a passport.’
‘I got it,’ said Polly. Oh, God, Polyhymnia Tomkins; surely her duplicity, her new identity must show in her face; go away, Polyhymnia Tomkins, she said inwardly; you aren’t wanted in Bryanston Square.
Roger raised his eyebrows to heaven. ‘I know what you’ve done, you’ve got one in the wrong name.’
‘What?’ Polly said, her voice squeaky, how did he know?
‘You’ve got a passport in your maiden name, haven’t you? Whereas you need one in your married name. What a nuisance, but you can turn it in and I’ll put you on mine. I thought it would be advisable for you to have one for yourself, in case we have to travel separately at any time, but I don’t suppose that will ever arise. Meanwhile, you’d better give it to me, I’ll see to it, and I don’t think that room of yours is a safe place to keep valuables.’
‘I left it at home. In Highgate. With my mother,’ Polly said swiftly and untruthfully, shocked at how easily the lie sprang to her lips. She dug her spoon into the apple pie which had been set in front of her. It was covered in clotted cream sent up from Devon, where the Harrington family came from and had a holiday house, and she rolled the food around in her mouth, barely able to swallow it.
‘A walk in the park?’ Dr Harrington suggested when they had had coffee upstairs in the drawing room. The walk was part of the ritual, and today Polly, sleepy and disturbed, was more than willing to get out of the house and walk herself back into a good humour.
The park in question was Regent’s Park, looking rather forlorn in the fading light of a winter’s day. Polly linked arms with Roger, and Celia walked on her other side, talking across her to Roger about Alice. ‘I’m pleased to see her take her school work seriously. She needs to buckle down to her books and really apply herself if she’s going to get a place to study medicine.’
Roger nodded.
‘Does she want to be a doctor?’ Polly asked.
Celia had a particular laugh which had nothing to do with mirth. She laughed now. ‘Of course she wants to be a doctor. She’s a Harrington. She’s lucky, she’s got the brains for it, and of course the family will help her get a place, only she must get good results in her exams. Women can’t get in on rugger and good humour, they have to be twice as good as the men on the academic side.’
‘What would she do if she weren’t a Harrington?’
‘Don’t be tiresome, Polly,’ said Roger. ‘She is a Harrington, it’s irrelevant.’ And then, with a flash of irritation, ‘I suppose she’s been going on to you about how she wants to be an actress. It’s nonsense, childish fantasy, there’s no question of it. Wanting to go on the stage, I ask you!’
A chill came over Polly that was unconnected with the icy wind that had sprung up and was blowing the last leaves of autumn across the path. A squirrel ran down a tree, and sat upright, looking at them with beady eyes before springing away.
‘Does Alice have no say?’
Roger looked at her in surprise. They were much of a height, for he wasn’t a tall man, and Polly was tall for a woman. ‘A say? Of course she has a say. She has plenty of say, it’s impossible to shut her up.’
‘No, a say about being an actress.’
‘I’ve told you, it’s just a silly idea she has. She’ll grow out of it. She’s got too much sense and too good a brain to go in for anything so foolish.’ Roger put his arm round her waist and gave her a squeeze.
‘If we had a daughter, wouldn’t you let her do what she wanted?’ Polly said, looking at the ground as she walked.
‘Parents know what’s best for their children, and I’d hope that any daughter of ours would be too sensible not to want a decent profession, at least until she married, and medicine, if a woman chooses the right field, general practice or paediatrics, can be combined with marriage and even motherhood. Don’t worry about Alice, Polly. She’ll want to be a dancer or some such rubbish next week, and I dare say a balloon pilot the week after. You know how girls are at that age, all this acting business is just a passing fad.’
Polly remembered how she was at that age, absorbed in her painting and drawing, fascinated by colour and line and perspective, spending all her spare time in galleries or looking at pictures and sculptures in books, intoxicated by the beckoning world of the artist.
Polly had got engaged to Roger on the way home from a Sunday spent with his family. Warm and secure, she had wrapped herself in Roger’s embrace, welcoming the tweedy solidity of his arms, the lingering scent of pipe tobacco. Now she suddenly felt she was looking at him and his family as though through a shattered pane of glass, with the tranquillity and security distorted and broken into a thousand pieces.
FIVE
‘Happy families! You’ve too much sense to be taken in by a happy family,’ Oliver said to Polly that evening, as they sat side by side on a settle covered in faded red velvet in the Nag’s Head. Polly, who had drunk two glasses of burgundy at lunch, was drinking lemonade, while Oliver had a whisky and soda. It was quiet, on a cold Sunday night. A fire burned in the old-fashioned grate, and the pub cat, a large ginger tom, was curled up on the chair opposite.
Oliver had come round with uncannily good timing, to find Polly sitting on her bed in something like despair.
‘Come on, Polly, it’s not like you to be down. What’s amiss? No, don’t tell me. Put on your coat and hat, and we’ll go for a drink. Then we can share our tales of sorrow.’
Polly looked gloomily into her glass of lemonade. ‘It’s just that life’s a bit fraught at the moment,’ she said finally. ‘Why share our sorrows? What’s up with you?’
Oliver was an equable man, who took life lightly, often amused, sometimes sarcastic, inclined to be free with his tongue and opinions, but always in a slightly detached way.
I feel closer to him than I do to Roger, Polly said to herself. Roger’s a fiancé and a lover, but he isn’t a friend. I don’t think he ever will be a friend.
‘Bertram — well, Bertram and I are washed up, that’s all,’ said Oliver. He took a big swig of his drink. ‘I think I need another one of these.’ He got up and went over to the bar and sat down again. ‘Sorry, Polly. I don’t think you need to hear about other people’s problems.’
‘You aren’t other people,’ said Polly.
Polly had discovered that Oliver was a homosexual by the merest chance; that is, she had gone to his flat, at his request, and had found him in bed with a man. Both of them naked, Oliver’s friend severely embarrassed, snatching up the cover to conceal himself, Oliver stark naked and still aroused, laughing at her expression