Polly and the Meeting of Hearts.

Polly knocked at the door; gentle raps; knuckles against wood. She listened for reply. None came; knocked again, harder. Listened; heard rustle of clothes; movement behind the door. The door opened; Lady Elmore stood as if death had visited early. 1

“Come in, Perkins,” Lady Elmore said, nodding for Polly to enter. “The tray is over there,” she added, pointing to the tray over on a side table. She followed Polly across the room and stood behind her as she went to pick up the tray. “Wait, don’t go, just yet.” 2

Polly paused; turned and gazed at her ladyship, ready to sigh; show signs of her ill temper, but didn’t. She stood with her hands at her side, a mask of contentment on her face. Her thoughts were on Master George and his vacant bed. 3

“You’ve heard I expect that my son isn’t to come home tonight,” Lady Elmore said mournfully, staring at Polly, taking in the girl’s features, the tiredness about the eyes, the drawn expression on the face. 4

Polly nodded, “Yes, Madam, sorry to hear of it,” Polly said, thinking of George’s caresses and kisses when he was last home. 5

Lady Elmore studied the eyes deeper, saw sorrow there; genuine, she mused, turning away; sitting on a chair by the dressing table. “I’ve doubts he’ll come back,” she murmured, her voice suddenly choked. She gazed at Polly’s reflection in the mirror. “Many have died in that place. Day after day names appear. 1916 has been a bad year. I fear that his name will be there amongst the rest one day.” She paused and taking a handkerchief from her dress wiped her eyes. 6

Polly felt tightness in her breast, as if someone had gripped her there; someone had pushed into her breast some knife of hurt. “No, Madam,” Polly said before she could hold back the words, before the wisdom of servitude could enlighten her mind. She sensed the visions of George go. 7

Lady Elmore stared at Polly’s expression in the mirror and frowned. “Daily, Perkins, names and names and names. I fear his will be there. And my husband has failed this time to keep my boy safe.” Chill entered her words. She sighed. Wiped her eyes again. Sat up; gazed at the maid behind her chair. She thought she detected watery eyes, a haunted expression about the mouth. 8

“Master George can’t die, Madam, he can’t,” Polly blurted out, wanting George to enter her again, to hold her near. 9

Lady Elmore turned her head and frowning more said, “But he can, Perkins, that’s my deep worry. It’s no good you saying he can’t, when he can.” 10

Polly sensed tears linger on her lower eyelids; sensed her lips beginning to tremble. Bloody fool, she mused, get a grip of yourself. But she felt unlike herself, as if another stood where she stood and another’s voice was speaking. “He mustn’t die. He’s so much to live for,” she murmured, seeing his dark eyes on her, his hands touching her flesh. 11

Lady Elmore was out of her depth; never had one of her servants spoke like this. “Calm yourself, girl, calm. Anyone would suppose he was your son, your brother, that faced death,” Lady Elmore muttered, reaching out a tapping Polly’s hand, feeling the flesh, the hand chilled, the skin rough. 12

Polly sensed the soft hand touch hers; felt the flesh against hers. She bit her lip to prevent further rushes of words. Said too much; spoken out of turn; not my place to say such, she mused darkly, looking at the lady staring at her the eyes, almost human, the mouth slightly poised for more words. 13

“My only son,” Lady Elmore said. “My only son.” she released the maid’s hand; turned to face her own reflection in the mirror. “Why do men have wars? Why such slaughter?” She paused and sat forward and wiped her eyes. She noticed the maid was wiping her own eyes on a grey coloured rag; saw the eyes watery, the features drawn. “Why, Polly, why?” 14

The fact that Lady Elmore had called Polly by her first name brought Polly to a certain awareness of who she was and where she was. “ Sorry, Madam, I quite like Master George, and him being off to France, and the chance that he might not come back to us, is too much to think about, and I am so sorry…”The words drifted off; silence rested between them. 15

Both women looked away from each other. Both felt uneasy. Polly scratched her thigh. An itch. She coughed to clear her throat. “Shall I take the tray now, Madam?” 16

Lady Elmore looked at the maid. “Yes,” she said softly. But then she stood up and touched Polly’s arm. “I feel deep sorrow; I sense my son’s death may be near, but I want you to pray for him; pray hard; pray he will be spared.” 17

Polly nodded. “Of course, I will, Madam. As hard as I have ever done.” She felt the hand on her arm tighten; sensed a stretching out of boundaries of class by one hand. She looked at the face opposite, at the tears there and the lips drawn thin and wide across the face. 18

Lady Elmore sniffed and released the arm of her maid. She sighed and coughed. Let loose a small smile. “Take the tray, now, Perkins. I need nothing more.” She turned away, walked to the window, and looked out at the evening sky. 19

Polly nodded and picked up the tray. She walked to the door; opened the door with one hand, and giving one final glance at the lady at the window, closed the door with a gentle click, and walked along the passageway with the thought of George and his kisses lingering in her mind. 20