aristocracy as portrayed in books and in the theater showed her a world of witty, literate people forever peppering their conversation with quotations.
Polly plunged into an orgy of reading until the world between the covers of a book became more real to her than anything outside. She would have liked a friend to discuss her hopes and ambitions with, but she snobbishly did not want to encourage friendships with girls of the lower class and the upper strata was forbidden to her because of lack of money.
Religiously, she patronized the gallery of the opera or ballet, squeezing into her threepenny or fourpenny seat, avoiding the noisier vaudeville shows with their songs of lost, wonderful mothers, faithless sweethearts, and “The Boys of the Old Brigade” that were secretly more to her taste.
There were eight other businesswomen in the small hostel. Polly only saw them at breakfast. The lady she shared a table with was as terrifyingly grand as a duchess and turned out to be none other than the silk buyer for Belham’s. Polly had tried to strike up a conversation with the buyer who was called Miss Smythe and Miss Smythe had simply looked down her long thin nose and said, “Beg poddon,” in such repressive tones that Polly had given up trying to be sociable.
Once, on one of her weekend visits to Stone Lane, she had passed a group of her former school-friends who were giggling and laughing and talking about boys. Polly had experienced a sudden pang of envy—a sudden longing to give up her ambitions, return to Stone Lane and merge with her background.
Her father, Alf, never ceased to voice his voluble disapproval—and as for Gran, she was quite convinced that Polly’s smart clothes were being supplied to her by a series of lovers. Polly would have been horrified to learn that that illustrious director, Sir Edward Blenkinsop, was of the same opinion.
The Blenkinsops had rented a villa in Dinard for the month of August—not that the change of scene made any difference to Lady Blenkinsop, who had tottered from the vedette and, as soon as possible, established herself on a daybed in the sitting room, surrounded by her patent medicines and smelling salts and exuding an almost palpable atmosphere of boredom.
One morning, Sir Edward was standing at the sitting room window with his hands clasped behind his back. Even his hands looked angry, reflected his wife wearily, all chubby and red with great blue veins standing out on them.
“Tchah,” said Sir Edward, surveying the sunny scene. “You should see what young gels are wearing in the way of bathing dresses these days. Shocking!”
“Would you like to borrow my telescope, dear?” asked his wife with faint malice.
“’Course not. What’s come over you? These modern women. Take that Marsh girl at the office… dressed like a duchess. She had a silk dress on before I left—silk!—and I’ll swear it cost over two hundred guineas. Tart! Some masher’s paying for her wardrobe, mark my words!”
“Perhaps she has some rich relatives,” said his wife.
“Not her! Family’s pure cockney.”
“Still want to get rid of her?” queried his wife with the faint animation she only showed when the dreadful Miss Marsh’s name was mentioned.
“Can’t,” said her husband. “Amy Feathers, the switchboard girl, told Mrs. Battersby, who does the cleaning, that Polly had received a postcard from Lord Peter. Mrs. Battersby told the message boy who told one of the clerks who told my secretary who told me.”
“Really, dear, what an old gossip you are!”
“Harrumph! Nonsense! Got to know the enemy. Spy chappies come in damned handy where there’s a war.”
A thin smile of amusement curled Lady Blenkinsop’s pale lips. “And is there war at Westerman’s?”
“Of course there is! Can’t have office girls stepping out of their class. That’s Bolshevism!” He laid one finger along his nose and leered at her awfully. “Old Blenkinsop has his ear to the
Polly plunged into an orgy of reading until the world between the covers of a book became more real to her than anything outside. She would have liked a friend to discuss her hopes and ambitions with, but she snobbishly did not want to encourage friendships with girls of the lower class and the upper strata was forbidden to her because of lack of money.
Religiously, she patronized the gallery of the opera or ballet, squeezing into her threepenny or fourpenny seat, avoiding the noisier vaudeville shows with their songs of lost, wonderful mothers, faithless sweethearts, and “The Boys of the Old Brigade” that were secretly more to her taste.
There were eight other businesswomen in the small hostel. Polly only saw them at breakfast. The lady she shared a table with was as terrifyingly grand as a duchess and turned out to be none other than the silk buyer for Belham’s. Polly had tried to strike up a conversation with the buyer who was called Miss Smythe and Miss Smythe had simply looked down her long thin nose and said, “Beg poddon,” in such repressive tones that Polly had given up trying to be sociable.
Once, on one of her weekend visits to Stone Lane, she had passed a group of her former school-friends who were giggling and laughing and talking about boys. Polly had experienced a sudden pang of envy—a sudden longing to give up her ambitions, return to Stone Lane and merge with her background.
Her father, Alf, never ceased to voice his voluble disapproval—and as for Gran, she was quite convinced that Polly’s smart clothes were being supplied to her by a series of lovers. Polly would have been horrified to learn that that illustrious director, Sir Edward Blenkinsop, was of the same opinion.
The Blenkinsops had rented a villa in Dinard for the month of August—not that the change of scene made any difference to Lady Blenkinsop, who had tottered from the vedette and, as soon as possible, established herself on a daybed in the sitting room, surrounded by her patent medicines and smelling salts and exuding an almost palpable atmosphere of boredom.
One morning, Sir Edward was standing at the sitting room window with his hands clasped behind his back. Even his hands looked angry, reflected his wife wearily, all chubby and red with great blue veins standing out on them.
“Tchah,” said Sir Edward, surveying the sunny scene. “You should see what young gels are wearing in the way of bathing dresses these days. Shocking!”
“Would you like to borrow my telescope, dear?” asked his wife with faint malice.
“’Course not. What’s come over you? These modern women. Take that Marsh girl at the office… dressed like a duchess. She had a silk dress on before I left—silk!—and I’ll swear it cost over two hundred guineas. Tart! Some masher’s paying for her wardrobe, mark my words!”
“Perhaps she has some rich relatives,” said his wife.
“Not her! Family’s pure cockney.”
“Still want to get rid of her?” queried his wife with the faint animation she only showed when the dreadful Miss Marsh’s name was mentioned.
“Can’t,” said her husband. “Amy Feathers, the switchboard girl, told Mrs. Battersby, who does the cleaning, that Polly had received a postcard from Lord Peter. Mrs. Battersby told the message boy who told one of the clerks who told my secretary who told me.”
“Really, dear, what an old gossip you are!”
“Harrumph! Nonsense! Got to know the enemy. Spy chappies come in damned handy where there’s a war.”
A thin smile of amusement curled Lady Blenkinsop’s pale lips. “And is there war at Westerman’s?”
“Of course there is! Can’t have office girls stepping out of their class. That’s Bolshevism!” He laid one finger along his nose and leered at her awfully. “Old Blenkinsop has his ear to the
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