Polly (11 page)

‘Right, right!' Max responded, a little embarrassed, glaring at the machine to hurry up. He'd recently read an article about supermarkets being hotbeds for ‘
singles in search of sex
' and was increasingly worried that there were ulterior motives for this woman and her cookies. The machine was silent. Thank God.

My hands are full; bugger and damn!

‘Here, let me,' the woman offered.

‘No, no,' rushed Max, ‘honestly.'

Too late.

She had the photos. Though she pretended not to look, she'd have seen the one of him pulling his monkey face. And the one below of his wide-eyed theatrical pout. In a glance.

‘Er,' Max stumbled, ‘thanks, right, yes, thank you. Fine. They're for my girlfriend. She's in America.'

‘My home, my country,' sighed the woman, clasping hands (and the photos) to her breast and smiling.

‘Yes,' said Max, inadvertently clapping eyes on her breast, ‘Vermont.'

The woman's smile fixed itself and then dropped. She scoured Max's face and he found himself rooted by a pair of very blue eyes.

‘Vermont?' she gasped, ‘you wouldn't be—?' She let the sentence hang. England sure was small – but not that small, surely.

Max's eyes alighted on cat biscuits, tinned salmon and condensed milk visible in the woman's plastic bag.

Buster.

‘You're not—' he stopped. They stared at each other, searching for some further clue.

‘I'm Jen Carter,' she laughed, eyes dancing while her brow twitched becomingly.

‘Good Lord!' Max chuckled, shaking his head and grinning back, ‘I'm Polly's Max.'

‘You don't say.'

‘I do,' he assured her, ‘I am.'

They shook their heads and then shook hands.

‘Well well,' Max said, handing Jen the ice-cream while he restored order to his shopping bag.

‘Can I tempt you,' Jen asked, ‘with Polly's spoons? You want to eat up your ice-cream back at the apartment? Check the place over? Say hi to Buster?'

What an offer. Of course he did.

Aha. Is autumn to be a season of trysts? A helluva fruity mess? A little bit of harmless swinging? Mixing if not matching? Musical affairs? Bed jumping and wife swapping? But no one's married here. Yet. Does that make it any less significant? Easier? Does that make it right? Or just not as wrong?

Hold on, I thought these four characters were besotted with their true partners? Fenton and Fyfield. Miss American Pie and her hunk of Chip. It might be an interesting notion in terms of our tale's plot – but what of the potential chaos in our characters' lives? We know these people. The thought wouldn't enter their minds, would it? Or if it did, if it crept in, it would be banished at once, of course. Or, if not quite
at once,
it would be considered carefully – and then rejected defiantly. Surely.

W
hile Jen cursed autumn for dressing the pavements in a lethal cloak of sodden leaves and for giving her a stuffy cold, Polly praised the fall frequently each day for its stunning blaze of cool fire. She was rarely without a smile or a spring to her step and her delight and her energy were infectious. Trudging across Hampstead Heath in its October livery of russets and browns was one thing, but jogging or cycling or sitting – just living – in Vermont, in a landscape which boasted every possible hue of red, orange and yellow was something else entirely.

‘Forget Keats!' Polly told her senior class, ‘“Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness”? I hardly think so. Don't take any notice of him – he never came to Vermont, you see. But if he had, class, how do you think he would have described it? Anyone? Don?'

‘Er, “season of pumpkin and palette of fire”?'

‘Good! Laura?'

‘“Trees clad the colour of passion; sun slumbering till spring”?'

‘Super! Kevin?'

‘“Fall: the sweep of flame that is the swansong of the maple.”'

‘Terrific! Gosh, look at it out there – come on, let's spend the remainder of the lesson outside composing odes.'

The Bench, Hockey Pitch

19th October

Darling Max,

My class are composing odes to the fall so I thought I'd do the same but in letter form to you. I've told the seniors to forget Keats – do you think that very wicked? But most of them are eighteen years old, so I'm sure they can handle such an order! I won't tell the juniors to do so as they're far too impressionable, and I can't instruct the freshers and sofs because I doubt they know who Keats is. I think the seniors feel liberated, relieved in some way – given
carte blanche
to shake off the spectre of hallowed literature, to praise nature in whatever terms they choose. They're picking some excellent ones too.

As you know, I don't believe in God, but I have to credit and thank some
thing;
whoever, whatever. As the fall has taken hold, it is as if some divine, huge power is laying their hand over the land in a slow, magical sweeping. Initially, just the fingertips of some of the leaves on a few of the trees were touched with crimson. Within a week, every tree had a flourish of copper or brass amongst the remaining green – as if a whole branchful had been given a celestial handshake. Now the maples are cloaked in incredible swathes of colours from the highest yellow to the deepest maroon; so vivid and bright that I don't know whether to weep or wear sunglasses. No mists, no mellow fruitfulness; instead an amazing clarity, crystal-clean light and a clear breeze. This land is rich indeed, for the leaves are made of gold, of rubies, of garnets. Ho! Sorry to prattle on in such syrupy terms, but I really have fallen under the spell of this place.

The only drawback is the Rodin Syndrome. Now that I have experienced the fall in Vermont, I fear any other autumn anywhere else will surely seem second-rate and mediocre. Rather like all other sculpture once the work of Rodin is known.

God, I wish you were here. It is absolutely beautiful but it would be even better if I could share it. I mean, I go jogging with Lorna and cycling with Clinton (I'm quite fit now – you'd love my tight butt) (that's American for firm bum) but what I crave is a long, loping walk with you.

Damn – time and paper run out on me – and my juniors are about to have the surprise of their lives: they're about to meet Chaucer and, while they adore my dulcet tones, I'm not sure what they'll make of my Middle English accent.

I love you, Max-i-mine. My own
‘verray parfit gentil knight',
I miss you. Write soon,

Polly.

PS. pis send more Marmite – Kate's gone crazy for it and is using it in everything – Bogey's food included.

‘Yeah, hello?'

‘Chip?'

‘Jen! How are you? Hey, it's great to hear from you. I was going to call you only there's a hockey tournament soon and suddenly the whole team have gotten aches and sprains.'

‘Hey, that's OK, I've been pretty busy too.'

‘So how's it going?'

‘Good, good – how's Hubbardtons?'

‘Pretty much the same. I think tomorrow'll be Mountain Day.'

‘Hey – isn't that classified information? Wish I could be there.'

‘You don't have some day similar, in London England?'

‘Nope. Nothing that comes close. Something called Mufti when the kids can wear their own clothes – but that's only the last day of term.'

‘Some way off.'

‘Sure is. You know, it's kinda weird living in someone else's apartment. There're these crazy women above me – one is old, Swiss and nutty as hell, the other's an out-and-out psycho. I haven't managed to come in without one or other noticing – so I'm either sworn at or asked the date, time and year and the whereabouts of some guy called Franz.'

‘Sounds entertaining?'

‘I guess. I think I prefer being Dorm Mother to ten girls though. So, have you met Polly Fenton?'

‘Er, Polly Fenton. No, no, I haven't as yet.'

‘Oh?'

‘No, I've been real busy.'

‘Sure. She's pretty.'

‘How do you know?'

‘I met her boyfriend and he showed me photos.'

‘She has a boyfriend?'

‘Yes. Chip?'

‘Yeah?'

‘You there?'

‘Sure.'

‘You went kinda distant.'

‘I was miles away, I was just – you know. I don't know, I'm bushed.'

‘Sure.'

‘So what's he like?'

‘Who?'

‘This boyfriend guy.'

‘Oh, he's really sweet and helpful – the boiler here's a little temperamental so he's going to have someone come fix it. He and his brother are making dinner for me and Megan this weekend.'

‘Great.'

‘Yeah. You want to know who Megan is?'

‘I'd love to but I gotta go – I have a kid for hydrotherapy in five.'

‘Sure. I love you, Chip.'

‘Love you too, Jen.'

Hampstead

Hallowe'en

Hullo Button,

Lovely to receive your letters – two arrived this morning though you sent them a week apart. Royal Mail – 1, USA Post – 0. You wrote beautifully about the fall and I wish so much I could share it with you. Maybe another year we could take our holiday there.

London is sludgy and slippery, and strolling over the Heath becomes a maudlin trudge without you, kicking the leaves, all rosy-cheeked and alive. There have been some great films on at the Everyman but all Dominic will be coaxed to see is
Die Very Hard 27
and
Star Trek 43.
Plebeian.

Work has been going well; some new commissions as well as potboilers from the faithful. I enclose photos and a Lottery ticket – the acquisition of both being highly traumatic so I hope you'll be grateful.

You'll never guess who I bumped into.

Jen Carter!

At Budgens.

You'll be pleased to hear that Buster is living the life to which he is accustomed: her shopping consisted of little else than tinned salmon and condensed milk. I popped back to the flat and, rest assured, all is neat and tidy, with Post-it notes still in place. I thought it would be friendly to invite her over for supper, along with Megan – such an evening will provide Jen with some company, Megan with some hope, and Dominic with a choice!

I'll report back with Technicolor detail!

Love and miss you intensely,

Max.

Kilburn

5 mins before
Neighbours

Pollyanna Fentonio,

You have written me but one letter.

A plague of itching upon you.

Yours sincerely,

Megan Reilly

PS. Affliction can be lifted for the price of a phone call. A long one. Soon.

‘Hullo?'

‘I'm sorry. Sorry. Very. Please forgive me.'

‘Are you itching, Fenton?'

‘Yes. Oh yes. Terribly. I beg of you, lift the curse!'

‘How long do you intend this call to last?'

‘Ooh, ten mins?'

‘Then you can itch away at your leisure.'

‘Fifteen?'

‘Done.'

Polly and Megan dissolved into a fit of giggles.

‘How's Kate?' Megan asked. ‘And the Japanese chap – Henry without the “y”?'

‘Kate is lovely,' Polly assured her, ‘Charle(s) is Chinese. And I've met a Megan, only she's called Lorna Hendry.'

‘Huh?'

‘A surrogate. For you. She teaches drama.'

‘Then she's only
acting
as your friend, you poor deluded soul.'

‘Charming.'

‘Aren't I just!' Megan chuckled and sighed Polly's name before filling her in on BGS gossip with no pause for breath.

‘How's Jen Carter shaping up?'

‘Surprisingly well – she's determined not to smile till half term but she's already having the last laugh as she's foisted e e cummings on to your A level group.'

‘Wow – they had trouble enough with Gerard Manley Hopkins!'

‘Talking of men,' Megan reasoned, in a very sober voice, ‘still no sight of Tom Cruise?'

Suddenly, a wave of excitement engulfed Polly; she didn't see it coming and wasn't sure quite how to ride it now it was here.

‘Not. As. Such,' she said, the sparkle to her voice loud and clear, an image of Chip filling her mind's eye. Megan whooped with expectant delight.

‘It was Mountain Day yesterday,' Polly continued, voice high and fast, ‘we were just settling down to some Oscar Wilde in earnest when the bell sounded four times.'

‘Ding a ling ling!' drawled Megan as she settled herself into the waft of cushions on her sofa.

‘It was all organized by the Athletic Trainer bloke – a day's outing in the mountains. The seniors go for a strenuous stomp to the peak of Hubbardtons, the juniors have a bracing walk half-way up, and the other years have more of a nature trek in the lower slopes.'

‘You?'

‘I was a bracing walker – it was a totally awesome day, believe me.'

‘
Totally awesome
– what kind of language is that, dear Fenton?'

‘
Touché
,' Polly mumbled a little embarrassed because it had actually felt rather nice to the tongue. ‘
Utterly wonderful
– that better? Anyway, it was the most perfect day for it – the colours here, Megan – God!'

‘God? You're a non-believer!'

‘I mean, God-the-colours-are-so-incredible.'

‘Totally awesome?'

‘Totally.'

‘And where does Tom Cruise fit in, might I ask?' Megan chastened. ‘Did you find him up a tree making syrup?'