The Art of Love. Elizabeth Edmondson

a daredevil; thank goodness on a Sunday morning there wasn’t much traffic about. ‘I don’t want to give up my work.’

      ‘Polly, be reasonable. You’ll be starting a new life, you’ll be a new person, Mrs Roger Harrington. It wouldn’t be at all suitable for you to carry on — it’s not really the kind of job that — well, it isn’t suitable, that’s all. Besides, we’ll want to have children, a baby will put a stop to all that kind of thing.’

      Roger hadn’t been impressed by the workshop on the one occasion he had been there. He’d come to pick up Polly, and Sam, spying him in the yard below, had called to Polly that her young man was here, and shouted to him to come up.

      Roger hadn’t taken to Sam — ‘What an extraordinary young man, I’m not sure it’s quite the thing, Polly, you working up there alone with him.’

      Sam hadn’t been any more flattering about Roger. ‘Can’t you do better than that, Polly? Look at his mouth, he’s quite handsome now, but that’s going to get more and more rigid as the years go by. I smell a disapproving man, you want to watch out, it’ll be disastrous getting hitched to a man who disapproves.’

      ‘What rubbish you do talk,’ Polly had said, annoyed, but then, at Roger’s remarks, she had had to swallow her amazed laughter. ‘I’m perfectly safe with Sam, I assure you. And mostly Mr Padgett’s there as well, and other assistants who come and go. Honestly, what do you imagine? Wild lust among the paint tubes and the canvases?’

      ‘I do wish you wouldn’t say things like that.’

      Polly usually found Roger’s prim ways rather endearing, but this time it annoyed her. ‘Oh, Roger, can’t you see at a glance that Sam’s as queer as a square button?’

      ‘No, I cannot, and I don’t like to think that you could. Do you realize what you’re saying? Do you realize that it’s a criminal offence? Never mind. I put it down to naivety. As a medical man I have some understanding of such people, but it’s wholly inappropriate for you to make such remarks, you don’t know what you’re talking about.’

      She wasn’t going to argue, not now, not this morning, and here they were, in Bryanston Square, and there was Roger’s sister, Alice, waving at them from behind the wrought-iron railings of the first-floor balcony.

      Roger screeched to a halt in front of the large terraced house, and went round to open Polly’s door. The front door of the house was already open, and Dr Harrington, Roger’s father, came down the shallow steps, smiling a welcome. ‘Come in, my dear, come in, you must be freezing, driving in that open car of Roger’s, really, it’s high time he bought a saloon.’

      And up the stairs to the drawing room, where one of the other Drs Harrington, Roger’s mother, sat in a comfortable chair with her youngest grandchild on her lap, looking pleased, and telling Alice to ring for Foster to bring fresh coffee.

      Polly let out a sigh of pure pleasure. The Harrington family were, to her, like something out of a book: read about, dreamed about, but known not to exist outside the pages of a story. But they did exist, here they were, and what was even more wonderful, she was part of the family, or soon would be.

      The drawing room was large, with tall sash windows that looked out over the green garden of the square. It had a formal marble fireplace in which a substantial fire was blazing. Everything in the room that could shine, shone: the brass fire surround, the window panes, the large mirror on the wall, the polished surfaces of the tables.

      Roger had an older brother, Edward, another Dr Harrington, a rising man in his field of eye surgery, who was married to Celia, herself the daughter of a distinguished consultant. She was a qualified pharmacist, and an asset to her husband. Alice was Roger’s younger sister, still a schoolgirl, she rather frightened Polly with her ferocious personality, and it always surprised her when Alice expressed admiration for her calling as an artist.

      ‘It’s a vocation, isn’t it? Just like my family think medicine is. I mean, you have to do it, whether you want to or not,’ she had said to Polly the first time Roger had brought her home to meet his family. ‘Writers are the same, they get twitchy if they don’t write. Does Roger understand that, I wonder?’

      Celia came and sat on the sofa opposite Polly. Polly braced herself, for although Celia was always kind and polite, Polly knew quite well that Celia felt it her duty to fill Polly in on various matters of life that would be important for any woman married to a Harrington. ‘You’ve had your hair cut, I see,’ was her opening gambit.

      No, strictly speaking that wasn’t true. Polly had cut her own hair. Thick, straight and heavy, she trimmed it into an approximation of a bob, leaving it long enough to pin up if she wanted it out of the way.

      ‘I can recommend my hairdresser, Miss Lilian, at the Westbury Salon.’

      ‘Thank you,’ said Polly, hating the sound of Miss Lois, but having to admit to herself that Celia’s sleek cut was a delight.

      Lunch was announced, and they went downstairs to the dining room, a handsome panelled room on the ground floor, with portraits of earlier Harringtons looking benignly down from the walls.

      Sunday lunch at the Harringtons was always the same. Soup, a joint and a pie.

      Always plentiful, always beautifully cooked, always delicious. Today it was a thick leek and potato soup, followed by roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, with roast potatoes, buttered parsnips and cabbage.

      Edward turned to Polly as she was about to take a mouthful of Yorkshire pudding smothered in rich gravy.

      ‘Have you and Roger settled the day yet? January’s not far away now. Then off to the Alps, how I envy you.’

      Roger wiped his mouth and laid his napkin beside his plate. ‘Slight change of plan, actually,’ he said. ‘Sorry, Polly, I’d meant to tell you before, but I thought I might as well tell everyone at the same time. I only heard on Friday. The fact is, I’ve been offered a chance to go to America — you remember, Father, I told you I might apply for one of the Leadenhall Awards? Well, I’ve got it.’

      A minor uproar broke out around the table, with mingled congratulations and questions. A success for any one of the Harringtons was felt by them to reflect well on the whole clan.

      ‘What does it entail?’ Dr Harrington senior asked.

      ‘I get six weeks in Boston, all expenses paid, and a chance to work with some of the top men in the field.’

      Polly said nothing. Alice too was silent, and she looked directly at Polly. ‘You don’t mind a bit, do you?’ she said in a soft voice.

      ‘No,’ Polly whispered back.

      ‘I am sorry, old thing,’ Roger was saying to her. ‘I didn’t tell you I’d even applied, because of course I never expected to get a scholarship, the competition’s fierce.’

      ‘Why don’t you get married at once and go to America for your honeymoon?’ said Celia brightly.

      Polly looked at Roger, alarmed. Of course, she’d love to go to America, but…

      ‘Impossible, I’m afraid. It’s definitely just me, there’s no provision for wives. You won’t mind, Polly, will you? After all, since we’ve been engaged for more than a year, two or three more months are neither here nor there.’

      ‘No, of course I don’t mind,’ Polly murmured, trying to hide her relief. For goodness sake, what was the matter with her? She was genuinely fond of Roger, if not exactly passionately in love; he represented stability, security, safety, and when she was married, she would acquire what she’d never had: a family. A brother and a sister, and Dr Harrington the father she didn’t have. If Roger’s mother was a trifle too austere to count as the maternal type, well, she had a mother of her own. Two, in fact. Quite enough for anyone.

      That brought her up short. Could it be that Polly Smith, daughter of Ted and Dora Smith, was perfectly ready to marry Roger, but that Polyhymnia Tomkins, daughter of Thomasina Tomkins, would rather marry