Polly (20 page)

‘I don't know, you know?'

‘Rejected?'

‘Sure.'

‘Cross?'

‘Ma'am, I'm
mad
.'

‘Insecure?'

‘You bet.'

‘Untrusting?'

‘Yeah. But, you know, most of all: hurt? I'm hurting so goddam much it's making me throw up.'

‘You poor, poor bunny.'

It was all Polly could reasonably say. She hugged the child, stroked her hair and kissed the top of her head while making soothing noises; staring over to bare-chested Bon Jovi and thanking whoever that she'd nipped whatever it was, or could have been, in the bud.

‘Hullo, Chip,' says Polly, returning to Petersfield from coffee with Kate. It is ten to eight at night, study hour starts in ten minutes.

‘Hey Fen'un,' says Chip.

Snow has been falling for most of the afternoon and is deliciously crunchy underfoot. Now, at night, it casts a silver luminescence while wrapping silence around the land like a duvet.

‘Man, you're one busy woman,' he exclaims.

‘Tell me about it,' Polly responds kindly, deciding to forgo an analysis of Chip's hermaphroditic allusions. She looks at her watch. ‘I'd better rush,' she says, waving her thumb in the direction of the front door, ‘study hour and all that.'

‘Your watch must be fast,' says Chip, looking at his, ‘it's not yet five of eight.'

‘I'd invite you up,' Polly says, ‘but I've a heap of marking, plus Jane Laskey is coming up for a blitz on Dickens' characters as victims of circumstance.'

‘Sounds like a bunch of fun,' Chip nods, wedging the toe of his boot into the snow.

‘Oh,' Polly responds ingenuously, ‘it's more than fun, it's wonderful.'

‘You should see Hubbardtons at this time of year, at night, when there's snow.'

‘Which?' Polly laughs, ‘mountain, river, town or general store?'

‘The river,' Chip laughs back, ‘I know this place, about a mile off? It'll be looking so pretty. You want to go some time?'

‘I'd love to,' Polly says.

Maybe Lorna would like to come along too.

‘Cool,' Chip responds.

‘Only I doubt that I have some time – I hardly have
any
time!' Surreptitiously, Polly gathers a fistful of snow from the gate behind her.

Poor bloke. Now that I'm holding the reins, I feel a little sorry for him and his futile wooing. Maybe I'll make a snowball and lighten the tone.

Chip shrugs and smiles and pulls out his trump card, ‘Listen, I've not had the chance to tell you, but I have some news.'

‘Oh yes?' Polly says, furious that her heart has picked up its beat a little.

‘Yup,' Chip confirms, thrusting his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

He does look great in jeans – it's an objective observation, I'm allowed to notice, that's all.

That's all? Yes, Polly. No doubt he's sure to look even greater without them, judging by that comely faded patch down one side of his flies.

Oh, drop it.

‘Go on,' Polly says, ‘tell me. Wait – you're getting married!'

‘Married?' Chip protests, looking utterly horrified. ‘Hell no. I'm
leaving
.'

‘Leaving who?' Polly asks, livid at her heartbeat.

‘Who?
Where,
more like. Here,' Chip explains, ‘Hubbardtons.'

‘Hubbardtons?' Polly gasps, drawing on the ‘h' as if she is about to choke.

‘School, town, river, moun'ain, general store – yes siree.'

‘Crikey,' says Polly who doesn't really know what to say or think or feel.

‘I'm going to Chicago.'

‘Crikey.'

‘Athletic Trainer for one of the major colleges.'

‘Wow. When?'

‘Next term,' Chip announces. ‘That makes this my last term after six glorious years at the John Hubbardton Academy.'

‘Crumbs,' says Polly, making a strong effort to conjure an effortless-looking smile to mask any signs that her brain is doing overtime.

‘Hey,' says Chip, nodding towards the house, ‘it's eight. You'd better go.'

‘God, yes,' says Polly.

‘I'll catch you later, hey?'

Polly nods. Chip turns and saunters away.

‘I say,' Polly calls after him just before he's out of earshot, ‘congratulations!'

He holds up a hand and walks backwards for a few steps, the moonlight and the silvering from the snow catching his features and making him look truly godly. He turns and walks on. Polly lets her snowball drop to the ground. She treads it in as she turns for the house. She's freezing. Her fingers ache. Here's Beth.

‘You're late,' Polly all but barks, ‘study hour started five minutes ago.'

‘G
od,' Polly whispered, alone at last in her apartment, ‘bugger.' She went to the fridge and looked at the contents, closed the door, opened it and looked inside again. She slammed it shut. ‘Shit.' An unopened envelope next to the phone caught her eye. ‘Fuck.' It was a letter from Max. It had arrived that morning and she'd been saving it for the precious, private minutes which precede switching the light off on the day. She took the envelope and regarded it close to. She knew that handwriting so well; confident, sloping and regular.

Like his walk.

Open it, then.

‘I can't bloody open you,' she murmured to the envelope, ‘not tonight. Not now. Bugger.'

‘Miss Fenton?'

Polly jumped.

‘Christ, Zoe!'

‘Sorry. I just wanted to say, like, you know, thank you? For today? I appreciate it.'

‘Don't mention it.'

‘Well, thank you.'

‘It's a pleasure.'

‘Night, then.'

‘Night.'

Poor Zoe. Poor poor girl. What are you thanking me for? I'm going to let you down so badly. Shit.

Sleep didn't do much good. By the next morning, Max's letter remained unopened and the light of the new day was certainly not clear: fresh snow was falling and swept a blanket of greyness over everything. Polly, still incapable of much speech other than monosyllabic fulminations, set her classes to read in silence while she gazed out of the window and swore to herself.

Shit.

But surely this is precisely what you wanted – temptation to quite literally vanish?

Fuck.

Where's the Polly who was so resolute about what she wanted and what she was and was
not
going to do?

Fuck.

Precisely.

Shit.

Maxmaxmaxmaxmaxmaxmaxmaxmaxmax – remember?

‘Hey, Fen'un!'

Wank.

‘Hullo, Chip.'

‘You free tonight?'

‘Actually, yes I am.'

‘Go for a walk? See the river?'

Bugger.

‘Lovely.'

Fuck.

‘Say eight?'

‘Eight.'

Oh God.

Lorna was building a snowman, assisted by a posse of focused freshmen and the McLellan toddlers.

‘Hi there,' she said as Polly trudged over to her.

‘And I thought I was incognito,' Polly responded, her face partially swallowed by a swathe of black wool, her figure camouflaged by the umpteen layers of clothing that the weather decreed.

‘How's it going?' Lorna asked, patting a clump of snow between her mittened hands and handing it to Polly to put where she liked.

‘Fine, fine, yup,' said Polly, adding the snow to the belly of the snowman.

‘Really?' Lorna pushed. Polly's silence was disconcerting. Lorna regarded her looking away, looking wretched.

‘OK you guys,' she said to the sculptors, not daring to take her eyes from Polly, ‘I'm putting Bob in control, let's give this guy a head now, hey? I can see you all. All the time. I'm just going to talk through some business with Miss Fenton.'

There's nothing to talk through. It's none of your business.

‘Hey honeychild, what's up?'

‘Nothing.'

‘Bull shit.'

Polly regarded Lorna. Lorna's face exuded concern.

For me.

‘Spanner in the works,' said Polly with a shy smile.

‘What in hell's name does that mean?' Lorna pressed, hugging her arms about herself and sniffing through her reddened nose.

‘Chip's leaving,' Polly said expressionless, standing very still. She took her arms out to the side and then let them drop back down. She looked away.

‘I know,' Lorna shrugged while her eyebrows danced and she scoured Polly's face. Lorna knew of Chip's thinly veiled overtures to Polly, but she had no reason to even touch on the thought that Polly might have been beguiled.

Hey hey, imagination, whoah! Come on! I know all about Max. And Polly's like me. Even more so – she's engaged.

‘But,' Polly started afresh, ‘I mean. Fuck it. Nothing.'

‘Fenton!' she exclaimed, having never heard the girl swear and finding that it did not become her. Polly shook her head, stamped in the snow and looked way out beyond Lorna's field of vision. Her eyes smarted and blazed khaki.

‘So what that he's leaving?' Lorna continued lightly. ‘You can learn to ski before he goes?'

'Cos that's why you're upset, right?

‘Skiing, yes yes,' Polly said, forcing a smile.

I can't tell you. I can't do this to you. Nor to your Tom. Nonsense. I'm being greedy and weak. What I mean is, if I told you, no doubt you'd rightly admonish and reject me. But friends are my family, always have been and always will, so I can't afford not to have you all in my life.

‘I can teach you to ski,' Lorna shrugged, glancing at the snowman and pleased with the proportion of his developing head.

‘I'm just being daft,' Polly said quickly. ‘I have a letter from Max.'

‘Everything OK?' Lorna asked, suddenly alarmed and slightly embarrassed that she had touched on inaccurate conclusions.

‘I haven't read it yet,' Polly said.

‘You haven't?'

‘Haven't had time.'

‘A-ha! You want me to take your study hour, Polly? Free up some time for you tonight?'

Polly smiled back. ‘I'm off duty tonight, as it goes.'

‘Cool,' said Lorna, ‘you want come over?'

Polly declined.

Lorna understood.

No she doesn't.

Lorna returned to her snowman and gave him her scarf.

Polly burrowed her face deeply into hers.

Can't talk to Lorna. Shit.

Polly was to meet Chip at the church which marked the fork in the road at the end of Main Street. She met Kate on her way, swaddled from recognition if it hadn't been for the faithful Bogey by her side.

‘Polly, hey there,' said Kate, shifting her brown paper sack of Hubbardtons groceries. They greeted each other in what they presumed to be the middle of the road, though snow's unifying blanket blurred the distinction between street and sidewalk. In the still, freezing air, the smell of fresh bread was vivid and told Polly in no uncertain terms that she had not eaten since lunch.

‘You OK?' Kate asked, observing Polly's look of hunger and confusion.

‘Yup.'

‘You coming or going?'

‘Going,' said Polly, looking towards the church, ‘for a walk.'

‘It's a beautiful evening,' Kate said in agreement, ‘you warm enough?'

‘Yup.'

‘You want company?'

‘I have company,' said Polly slowly, looking again towards the church; looking hungry and confused again.

‘I can't guess who,' said Kate with a twinkle to the eye. Polly regarded her with a disconcerted jerk. ‘You OK?' Kate repeated. Polly slumped her stiffened shoulders and shook her head. ‘What's up? You want to talk?' Polly let her eyes close briefly while she nodded and then shook her head vehemently instead. Kate took a bite from the French stick and motioned for Polly to do the same. She did so gladly and praised the respite it provided for her to chew instead of talk.

‘So?' Kate prompted.

‘He's leaving,' Polly said, looking Kate straight in the eye.

‘Yeah, I heard,' said Kate, ‘that's just too bad.'

‘Do you know, if he had been staying, I'd have been OK. I'd have been safe,' Polly announced. Kate tilted her head to ask for more. ‘If he was staying,' Polly elaborated slowly, looking again towards the church, ‘I could remain resolute. And strong. From necessity.' Kate tipped her head the other way, nodding slightly. ‘But he's going,' Polly reiterated, ‘and I'll never see him again. And that's a bloody dangerous notion.'

‘You bet,' said Kate, grasping Polly's sentiment and taking hold of her arm as she did so.

‘He's going,' Polly announced, regarding Kate full on, ‘for good. And that very fact provides one huge safety net.'

Kate agreed by humming, softening her gaze but not leaving Polly's eyes.

‘You see, whatever happens,' Polly continued, ‘between now and then – he'll go.'

‘Make hay while the sun shines?' Kate asked through the corner of her mouth and then smiling benevolently.

‘Make out while the snow falls,' Polly retorted with an air of resignation and a passable American accent, regarding Kate watchfully, ‘more like.'

Hang on, she's not judging me? Why not? How is it that I feel calm and lucid though I am confessing my intentions out loud? Excuse me, but how did she even know that we're talking about Chip when we've not mentioned names.

‘Kate?'

‘Polly?'

‘Chip?' said Polly as a slight question. ‘Yes?'

Kate winked and clicked her tongue approvingly.

‘How did you know?' Polly marvelled. ‘Did you guess? Was that difficult? Am I wicked? Or just transparent? Are you disappointed?'