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Digory did not answer the door when Polly knocked. That, however, was not at all unusual, and since he never bothered to lock the door when she was expected (and likely any number of other occasions as well), she simply put a hand to the ancient knob and a shoulder to the door in its warped frame, shoving her way inside. She stepped over the muddy boots left jumbled in the entryway, added her coat and hat to the rack listing perilously against the wall, and called out, “Digs? Are you studying or asleep, my lad?”
“Parlor!” he called back absently, forgoing such niceties as hello and how are you. Polly merely rolled her eyes; Digory had never been much for social graces even when not consumed by work.
She stepped through into the front room -- calling it a parlor was really granting it too much dignity, and said more about Digory’s upbringing than his current residence -- to find Digory hunched over two thick tomes and one thin bound journal, apparently referring to all three at once. Considering that represented a mere seventy percent of his usual preoccupation, Polly judged he’d intended to play the considerate host. This was further borne out by the lack of material on the best chair, a grand old thing presiding in faded dignity before the fireplace. Every other surface in the room was littered with books, periodicals, or scribbled notes, although a tiny space had been cleared on the tea table where a single cup, sans saucer, resided. A peek into it confirmed the presence of a half-cup of tea, its clinging oily sheen bearing silent testimony of its temperature.
“Digs, put that away,” she ordered, tidying a spill of notes into a stack so that the table would accommodate a second cup. A wordless murmur acknowledged her. Polly counted to twenty silently, then poked him in the shoulder. “Digory. I came to see you, not --” She plucked the journal out from under his hand, provoking a protest that at least dragged his nose out of the books. “-- The Proceedings of the British Academy? Oh, Digs, you’re not going to become one of those stuffy dons, parading about in robes and all?”
“The robes are required,” he began mildly, but surrendered under her narrow glare. “No, of course not. But Professor Humphries quite despairs of me, you know. I’ve been strictly instructed that my next paper is to be something he won’t be embarrassed to place before the committee. Imagination is not a virtue of the scholar, you understand.”
“A little more of it wouldn’t hurt,” Polly declared, picking up the abandoned teacup. “Do something with the books on that other chair while I put the kettle on.” She strode into the kitchen before he could gather his thoughts, but that was not enough to preclude argument.
“I’m perfectly comfortable--”
She shook the kettle -- mostly full. “You will be distracted by those books in a trice if I let you stay there. Shall we at least try to converse like civilized individuals?”
The thump of books being restacked was barely audible above the hiss and pop of the gas. Polly set the kettle over the flame and retrieved a second teacup and two saucers. They were at least clean, never a foregone conclusion in Digory’s bachelor flat. The teapot and tea were easier to find -- sometimes she thought Digory subsisted entirely on tea. Footsteps at the door announced his presence. “Two chairs, one table,” he announced, “as requested. Although I don’t see why we should pretend to any great measure of civility seeing as you are already frequenting a bachelor’s private rooms wholly unchaperoned.”
“Digory, your stuffy upbringing is showing again.” She dashed tea leaves into the pot by eye. “It is the twentieth century, after all.”
“You are just fortunate my landlady is singularly uncurious.” He picked up the cups, adding, “Come and sit down; that stove takes an age to boil.”
Polly obeyed, retrieving a packet of biscuits from her bag before setting it on the floor at her feet, and depositing the biscuits atop the nearest stack of books. The titles on their spines looked like gibberish at first glance, until she nudged the stack around to see them square-on. “Welsh? Since when do you read it?”
Digory threw a resentful glance at the books. “‘Read’ may be overstating the case somewhat,” he admitted. “But the source documents for my research require it.”
“Why is Professor Humphries so upset, anyway? One can hardly walk into a book shop of late without tripping over someone’s new Arthurian novel, or poem, or monograph. I should think you’d blend into the crowd.”
“Not precisely what an aspiring scholar hopes for either,” he answered ruefully. “But yes, if I were writing another analysis of, oh, references to ivy or the significance of the word dinas , I’m quite sure he would be pleased. Muddling about with vanished land myths and the faerie connections, on the other hand…” Digory sighed. “I shall have to prepare at least a few of the standard sort to appease him, if I can ever find a suitable topic. Perhaps I’ll use the ivy, after all.” He laughed with little mirth.
Polly considered that while the kettle made a wheezing sort of noise and Digory rose to attend it. He had buried himself in stories when they were young -- well, they both had, really -- looking for any sign of other travelers, other people who might have crossed worlds as they had. It was Polly who had suggested Arthur originally, remembering that horrid Mr. Ketterley had boasted about his godmother LeFay, but Digory was the one who’d stuck it out even after he’d gone off to university and then taken a post as a fellow. Polly, meanwhile, had gone off after one of Digory’s suggestions about Atlantis, and started investigating places where time and space seemed to go a bit queer. Sometimes they worked together; there had been any number of trips to Glastonbury, even long after they had both given up any notion of stumbling into Avalon--
“Apples!” she blurted, startling Digory into splashing the tea he’d just begun to pour. He swore mildly and hastily set down the pot, casting about for a cloth without success. Polly contributed a handkerchief to the mopping up effort and took over pouring duties herself to let Digory rescue his papers, dabbling at the stained edges.
“The biscuits are fine, I thought,” Digory said hesitantly once the minor disaster was cleared away. “And it isn’t the season for apples.”
“Not to eat,” said Polly. “For your research. Instead of ivy,” she added puckishly.
Digory sat back in his chair, teacup cradled between his hands. “Apples,” he repeated slowly. “The Isle of Apples…”
“And the Garden,” Polly prompted gently, watching pleasure chase thoughtfulness across his face.
“Yes.” A twitch at the corner of his mouth spread into a smile. “It would, at least, be more interesting than chasing linguistic drift through six centuries. And it might provide an opportunity to contrast the pagan Roman and Celtic symbolism with the introduced Christian layers, which ought to please Humphries.” He dragged a piece of paper towards him, producing a stub of pencil from some pocket about him, and started scribbling notes. “Wassailing, perhaps - waking the trees. Eden, naturally, and wasn’t there something in Irish myth---?” His mutters became gradually less intelligible, and Polly shook her head. Once Digory got started on an idea, he wouldn’t emerge until he’d chased it to its end. She opened the packet of biscuits, set two on her saucer, and chose a book at random from the piles, only pausing to confirm it was in a language she could read. Return trains ran well into the night; time enough to finish the visit after he’d emerged from this bout of scholarly fog.