The Trouble with Polly Brown (20 page)

And so it went on and on as the wildly ecstatic but viciously cruel and sinister whisperings chanted, all the while regrouping and repositioning themselves. They were once more well on the way to taking back full control.

However, at present these evil whisperings had little choice but to hold back, for Polly hadn't exactly cracked and thrown in the towel. No, she was still winning her very personal battlefield of the mind and soul, but only just. Her wonderful experiences in Piadora still felt so fresh and alive, for they were indelibly written on the chords in her heart for safekeeping. So, at least for the present, she had triumphantly fought off all niggling and harmful thoughts that sought to hinder then suck her back down into the hellishly frightening pit of destruction where they could and would do with her as they wished, causing her to relinquish all rights to happiness.

As Polly sat on a bench waiting for the next train to arrive, she felt truly grateful for the lift but also saddened by the realization that with the arrival of the new bus, this would surely mean less opportunities than ever for her to accidentally bump into her dear, darling teacher. She would also miss the idle chit-chat of the well-heeled girls as they sat huddled on seats, heads touching as they shared, as all young girls do, their deepest, intimate secrets with each other. Her eyes brimmed with tears as she then thought that she might never again hear Mrs. O'Brien's loud and very amusing exhortations as she proudly sought to instill her good and very sensible values into the girls. She closed her eyes and gulped, giving serious consideration as to how on earth was she going to make it through another day, let alone the rest of her life!

Polly could just about see her train in the distance, but as it had yet to pull into the station, she decided to pull out her timetable from her schoolbag to remind herself what other lessons she had that day. She was instantly dismayed to discover that after domestic science with the deputy headmistress Miss Strickneene, she then had PE, better known as physical education with Miss Peligrano. Polly couldn't help but make a deep sigh, for she knew with much certainty that she did not have her PE kit in her bag either, as this too had rather mysteriously gone missing.

“Oh, no. I can't believe this!” she groaned as she wearily stood up from the bench and waited for the train to stop so she could open the door and climb into carriage.

Of course, just as Polly had feared, Miss Strickneene was most annoyed.

“Polly Brown, I am not the least amused,” she airily stated. She then dismissed Polly from her classroom and ordered her to go and fill up a bucket with soapy water.

“While the other girls make a deliciously fluffy Victoria sponge cake, you, my girl, can spend the time scrubbing out the shower block,” the slightly dumpy Miss Strickneene told her in a dismissive tone of voice as she then held open the door to allow Polly to leave her classroom and head for the shower block.

“But wait. Before you go on your way, pray, tell me how it is that your foster sister Gailey has all the right ingredients, and yet you, Polly Brown, have failed to produce any. So don't stand there pretending to be dumb! Mrs. Greaseball warned me to expect nothing good from you, and from today's performance I can see that she was absolutely correct.”

Polly shrugged her shoulders, though not out of defiance, more because she had firmly come to believe that nobody in the world cared one iota about getting to the truth of this or any other matter. At least this appeared to be the case regarding just about everything that concerned her miserably unfair and chaotic world.

Today of all days truth in its entirety mattered not a jot, for Polly had other, much more pressing things on her mind, namely the gut-wrenching loss of her precious and most prized ring, and the unexpected loss of this made all other problems pale into insignificance. However, much to her amazement, as she undertook the arduous task of cleaning the whole shower block and changing rooms, she quite unexpectedly found herself overtaken by intoxicatingly happy feelings that in no time at all had her feeling extremely light-headed and overwhelmed by irrepressible joy.

And so Polly Brown, professional cleaner and performer extraordinaire, found herself rather unexpectedly rising to the occasion, as with mop and bucket she single-handedly cleaned the entire shower block whilst singing “The Impossible Dream” at the top of her voice, the mop handle standing in for a microphone of course!

With no one standing over her to order her around, she also found herself dancing rather demurely around the shower block, and by flipping the handle, the mop now became a stand-in for her absent male suitor. “Well, Stanley, my good man, it appears that of all the pupils in this school, surprise, surprise, I've become the chosen one, with every teacher not only hating me more than ever but also wishing to hand me all your old cleaning tasks,” she sniffed as she brought the mop head up close to her face in order to have a meaningful conversation with it.

“So do me a great favor, Stanley, and enjoy the break. Oh, and while you're at it, I would consider it a great honor if you would do just one more of those delightful cartwheels for me,” she said, giving a lighthearted laugh. “Then you're free to make yourself a splendid cup of tea, although I must warn you that according to our dear headmaster, you, my dear man, have rather absentmindedly left your teapot and caddy in the school shed. So until we can find some way of getting it to you, may I take the liberty of suggesting that you use a teabag instead,” she advised.

“Here's to you, Stanley Albert Horlicks, the kindest caretaker in all the land,” she shouted, placing the mop to one side and raising her hand into the air as though she were holding up a bone china teacup. She then brought it down to her lips, pretending to sip some hot tea, extending her little pinky in the same manner that she had witnessed other very prim and proper ladies do in order to keep their composure whilst sipping hot tea from delicate bone china teacups.

With the shower block now pristine clean, Polly took the mop and cleaning agents back to the store cupboard and then reported back to Miss “Never One to Pussyfoot” Strickneene.

“There are still another twenty minutes until the lunch break,” she stated as she looked down and observed her delicate gold wristwatch, which Polly duly noted was badly pinching her skin, as it was really too small and delicate for her generously plump wrist. “Time enough for you to start cleaning out this food cupboard. So fill up this bowl with warm soapy water, and then follow me,” Miss Strickneene ordered, giving her chic and heavily lacquered hair the very important gentle pat. Polly knew this pat was most essential in case perchance she were to accidentally bump into any one of the many male teachers, whom Miss Strickneene had come to heavily rely on for daily compliments, as they never failed to subserviently express their greatest admiration toward her.

For some unfathomable reason, Polly didn't mind or fear the deputy headmistress, although it was plainly obvious that she posed some form of threat to all other female teachers, who failed to hide their annoyance at what they considered “disgracefully flirtatious behavior” that was “not becoming of a deputy headmistress, or a cookery teacher for that matter.” However, as Miss Strickneene was the deputy head, her highness was allowed to get away with pretty much what she liked and still keep her throne and crown intact.

Despite being a little—how shall we say?—pudgy, she still managed a light and hearty spring in her step as she breezed down the lengthy corridors, pausing only for the odd lighthearted private joke with any male teacher who happened to pass by. Often she could be seen walking toward her classroom accompanied by a large plate in her outstretched hand.

“Did you really make this wonderful cake creation all by yourself?” the male teachers would stop and loudly gasp as they unwittingly drunk in her heady perfume.

“Why of course, Mr. Meakins,” she would demurely reply through her cherubic, overly plastered lipstick lips, as she used her free hand to subtly adjust his tie, as well as stroke off that annoying and most unhygienic imaginary wisp of hair that seemed always to be stuck to his and every other male teacher's lapel as they happily stopped to converse with her.

“Well then, Miss Strickneene, you should consider sending your wonderful recipes to Mrs. Beeton, for I'm sure she would happily add them to her next cookbook.”

“Oh, Mr. Meakins, don't flatter me in such a manner,” she would softly purr as once more she gave her heavily lacquered and coiffure hair the now famous pat, which sent automated signals to her eyelashes, commanding them to begin fluttering so as to draw forth further compliments from the mouth of her latest admirer. This woman was undeniably queen bee of the school, with all the male drones subconsciously, if not consciously, following after her, her highly sensuous perfume, as it overwhelmingly drifted down the stale, sweat-smelling corridors of the school, seducing all males—teachers and pupils alike—to fall wildly and irrevocably in love with her.

As Polly took it upon herself to keenly observe all this seemingly irrational behavior, which only took place in Queen Bee's presence, she had some time before mistakenly began to believe that a bottle of perfume could well be the answer to all her prayers, especially as she was always desperately seeking untried ways in the hope of finding some meaningful friendships. Imagine her delight when on her way to school one day she happened to come upon what appeared to be an expensive bottle of exquisite perfume in the crack of the seat. Needless to say, Polly assumed that it must have fallen out of the handbag of some classy lady, especially as she thought the petite purple receptacle looked pretty expensive looking.

It came as no surprise that after breakfast one fine day, instead of leaving to catch the school bus, she made a small detour and headed back upstairs. With no one around she used the occasion to smother her hair and uniform with the entire contents, shaking it violently over her head until she was satisfied she had emptied the bottle of every single drop. First she was almost ordered off the bus, and then she found herself sitting quite alone in the normally crammed train compartment. This in itself would have been enough to have most normal people seriously questioning that something must be horribly wrong, but not Polly. No, apart from feeling happy and gloriously optimistic, she chose to keep her head firmly in the sand, as with a skip in her step she had headed toward the school with higher than usual expectations of having a great day.

When finally she was ordered to vacate the class and head for the shower block to rinse off what was not only making the whole class nauseous but also causing some pupils to have strange burning sensations at the back of their throats, well, only then did it finally dawn on her that something was clearly very wrong.

It would be many hours later when back at the castle she was finally enlightened by Bertha Banoffee, who, apart from being more clued up than Polly, unquestioningly had much clearer vision than her counterpart. “Polly, you dumb idiot. This was not a bottle of expensive Italian Mozo Muzzichuzi! No, you dumb fool, if you had taken the time to read the label correctly, you would realize that according to the label you have been a stupid idiot, for you doused yourself from head to toe with a highly concentrated form of mosquito repellant! Yes, and according to this bottle, it is primarily used by soldiers for the prevention of malaria when facing combat in the African jungle or other equally high-ratio mosquito-ridden zones.”

Polly was aghast and found it hard to believe that she had done such a stupid, idiotic thing.

“Give it back to me. Let me have a proper look,” she yelled, grabbing the bottle back from Bertha. Sure enough, Bertha was absolutely correct, for despite being a small label, the word
warning
was not only written in red but also in block capitals. Then
highly concentrated
was written under the warning, and although this writing wasn't in capitals it was almost as clear. However, on a more positive note, it also meant that she couldn't entirely rule out further perfume trials, especially, as it had now been substantiated that all failure was down to her own incompetence; therefore, her life of pure loneliness and isolation could still be changed if only she could find the right bottle of highly desirable sweet-smelling perfume.

Polly would stand at Miss Strickneene's desk, and with eyes closed tight, she too would breathe in as deep as she felt able, for just like the male drones, she also delighted in her teacher's heady and sickly sweet aroma, which never failed to linger long after every mortal had left the classroom.