magazines. She looked up as Polly went in and told her to get herself a drink from the side table, then come and help her choose something to wear. ‘A christening,’ she explained, ‘and Sam and I will have to go; we’re vaguely related to the baby, and Sam’s a great one for family ties and all that kind of thing.’ She handed Polly Harpers & Queen. ‘That grey outfit’s rather nice, isn’t it? I’ll have to have a hat, of course…I don’t want to spend too much…’
A remark which struck Polly dumb, since the outfit concerned was priced around five hundred pounds. Presently she managed a polite: ‘It looks charming, and grey’s a useful colour.’
‘Useful?’ queried Diana, looking surprised. ‘Is it? Anyway, I’ll nip up to town and have a look at it, I think. I haven’t any money, so Sam will have to give me some. I haven’t a rag to my back.’
Polly finished her sherry and ventured: ‘I expect you go out quite a lot.’
‘Oh, lord, yes. It gets boring, some of the dinner parties are so stuffy, and Deirdre—that’s Sam’s fianceé—has the most tiresome parents. She’s tiresome too. I can’t think how Sam can put up with her.’
‘He doesn’t have to,’ observed Polly, ‘but I expect if he loves her he doesn’t notice.’
‘Of course he doesn’t love her—they sort of slid into it, if you know what I mean, and I suppose he thinks she’ll change when they are married. She’s very suitable, of course, and they make a handsome pair.’ Diana bounced off the sofa. ‘Let’s have dinner—I’m starving!’
Polly, accustomed to cottage pie and fruit tart eaten in the bosom of her rather noisy family, thought dinner was quite something. The dining room for a start was a dignified apartment, with a large oval table in its centre, straight-backed chairs with tapestry seats, and a vast sideboard. The meal itself, served on white damask with quantities of silver and cut glass, was mouthwatering, far better than the birthday dinners each member of the family enjoyed at one of the hotels in Pulchester. And since Diana had a good appetite, Polly, who was hungry, enjoyed every mouthful of it.
They went back to the drawing-room afterwards to have their coffee, and Diana plunged into the serious matter of clothes once more, until Polly said regretfully: ‘The Professor wants the work I’ve done to be put on his desk each evening; I’d better do that, if you’d tell me which room…?’
‘Just across the hall, the middle door. Do you really have to go? I’ll see you at breakfast, then. Let Bessy know if you want anything.’ Diana beamed at Polly. ‘Goodnight—it is nice having company, you know.’
Polly said goodnight and then remembered to ask at what time she should come down to breakfast. ‘Or do I have it somewhere else?’
‘Whatever for? Oh, I see, you start work early, I suppose. I don’t get down before nine o’clock. Could you start work and have it with me then? What time do you want to get up? I’ll tell someone to call you.’
Polly said half past seven; that would give her time to dress at leisure and perhaps go into the garden for ten minutes before putting in almost an hour’s work. ‘I said that I’d work office hours’, she explained, ‘that’s eight hours a day. Professor Gervis is very anxious for the book to be finished.’
‘Well, don’t let him browbeat you. It sounds like slavery to me.’
A very luxurious slavery, thought Polly, getting ready for bed, turning on the shaded lights, sinking her bare feet in the thick pile of the carpet. There were even books on the bedside table. She inspected them eagerly; a catholic selection to suit all tastes. She pottered happily into the bathroom and lay in a haze of steam, wondering what it would be like to live in such a house and eat a dinner like she had just had every night of the week. Probably very boring. No, not boring, she amended; if the Professor was around life would never be boring. She turned on the hot water tap again and began to think about his fianceé. Diana didn’t like her, but Diana was a good deal younger than the Professor and their tastes might not match. Probably she was exactly right for him and would know just how to run a house such as this one, wear all the right clothes and make intelligent conversation about his work when he got home. As to what he did exactly, Polly was vague and uncaring. Something to do with publishing, she supposed; she pictured him in a plushy office, sitting behind a vast desk, pressing little buttons and summoning people. And that reminded her that she hadn’t taken her work to the study downstairs. In a panic she got out to dry herself on an enormous fluffy towel which she had no time to admire, got into her nightgown and dressing gown and went back downstairs. The drawing room door was shut, and there was no sound anywhere. She crossed the hall to her little workroom, collected up the sheets and went back into the hall. The middle door, Diana had said. Polly opened it carefully and shot inside.
The Professor was sitting at his desk, writing. ‘Oh, lord,’ said Polly, ‘I didn’t know you were here.’
‘So I should imagine.’ He had got to his feet and was looking her up and down, a smile just lifting the corners of his firm mouth. She didn’t much like the smile; she must look a fright, scarlet from too hot a bath, hair hanging around her face in a damp tangle, her dressing gown, a bulky garment of candlewick, flung on anyhow and tied bunchily around her small waist.
‘I forgot,’ said Polly, ‘you said you wanted to see what I’d done each morning, and if I’d waited till then I might have disturbed you.’
‘And what are you doing now?’ he enquired blandly.
‘Ah, but I didn’t know you were here.’ She thumped the neatly typed sheets down on the desk, and quite forgetting to say goodnight, nipped smartly through the door and raced back to her room. Not a very good beginning, she admonished her reflection as she brushed her hair.
She was called by a cheerful maid carrying a tray of tea and a little plate of biscuits, and since she would have to wait for her breakfast, she made no bones about draining the teapot and finishing off the biscuits. She had slept dreamlessly, and since the sun was shining she got out of bed to take a look at the day. It was going to be a lovely May morning; just for a moment she longed to be at home, free to go out into the garden before helping to get breakfast. But there was no reason why she shouldn’t go outside now if she dressed quickly. She was ready in fifteen minutes, very neat in her blouse and skirt, her hair silky smooth, her face made up in a limited fashion. Surely no one would grudge her ten minutes in the garden?
She went softly through the house and found the front door open, although there was no one to see, and after a moment’s hesitation she turned along the path running round the side of the house. It led to a broad expanse of lawn, circumvented by another path and bordered by flower beds. She went all round and then took another path leading invitingly into a shrubbery. She was nicely into it when she heard dogs barking and a moment later the Professor’s voice. She had forgotten Toby and Mustard—having a morning stroll with their master, she supposed. Guiltily she popped back the way she had come and peered round her. The Professor was some way off walking away from her, the dogs bounding ahead of him. It took only a minute to hurry back to the house and in through its door. A moment later she was seated at her desk, putting the first sheet of paper into the typewriter. She had no need to feel guilty, she told herself crossly; she was quite entitled to a breath of air… She was halfway down the page when she heard sounds, muffled by the thickness of the doors, which suggested that both the Professor and his dogs were back indoors, and a few minutes later she heard a car drive up to the house and after the briefest of pauses drive away again. The Professor had gone to wherever he went each day. ‘And good luck to him,’ said Polly loudly, still cross.
She worked steadily until she heard the stable clock strike the hour, and not before time, for she was famished and longing for her breakfast. She found Diana already at the table, reading her letters, but she put them aside as soon as she saw Polly.
‘Good morning, Polly. I suppose you’ve been up for hours—you and Sam should get on well together—early risers and gluttons for work! Come and sit down. There’s porridge, or grapefruit and egg and bacon, or Bessy’ll do you some kippers if you’d rather…’