Polly (31 page)

A relationship must be built on trust, on sharing, on honesty.

Megan's brow twitched. ‘What does she mean?'

‘I don't really know,' Dominic lied easily.

Sometimes it's kinder to be imperspicuous with the truth.

Max showed no one his letter from Polly. Not even us, I'm afraid. He hasn't spoken to anyone either. He has packed his Beetle and has already headed off to I don't know where.

The lovely evening summer breeze

The warbling of a meadow lark

Moonlight in Vermont

Moonlight in Vermont

Karl Suessdorf & John Blackburn,
Moonlight in Vermont

P
olly did not approve of the name Woods Hole; it was clumpy and prosaic. The harbour village, though arguably not picturesque enough to warrant a truly poetic title, was treating her well and she wished to raise it above the plain, ugly-sounding name it was known by. Consequently, as she picked at an oversized blueberry muffin while sitting on a bench near the quayside, she mulled over more agreeable, if less appropriate, names.

Vineyard's Reach perhaps? Because this is where one meets the boat to and from Martha's Vineyard. Or Cape's Gate, because you could call this the very base of Cape Cod. ‘Wood' is too dull, ‘Hole' sounds unpleasant. How about Timber Dell. Maybe not.

‘I'm waiting for Josephine, Miss.'

What? Who? Who are you? Oh. You want to sit down. Right here on this bench. My bench. But there's an empty one just there. Look. No? Never mind. Here.

With a little more drama than was perhaps necessary, Polly lugged her rucksack off the bench, propped it against her knees and smiled cursorily at the elderly man before focusing with intent on the blueberry muffin. She did not feel like talking. After all, she did not know a Josephine and she did not know this man.

‘She'll be on the next ferry,' he continued, thick-skinned but with conviction. Polly crumpled the muffin bag, wedged it nonchalantly between the slats of the bench, nodded politely and then busied herself scanning the horizon. She wasn't sure what for.

Certainly not for Josephine, whoever she may be.

‘Will you be taking the next ferry?' the man asked, his voice pleasant, lilting and light. Polly glanced at her watch. Yes, she was taking the next ferry but it was not due for another two hours.

Dilemma.

She wanted quiet.

She wanted to know no one.

But a question had been asked and it needed a reply. If she answered truthfully, she would have no excuse in leaving the bench, the man, Josephine. If she lied, then she had no reason to be sitting on the bench at all. If she lied, she would have to move before the ferry came in, before Josephine arrived. If she lied and moved, she would miss the ferry altogether. This man would have Josephine and she would have nothing but a two-hour wait until the next boat.

‘Yes,' she responded in a polite voice, inclining her head though leaving her eyes put, ‘I'll be taking the ferry.'

He nodded and seem satisfied. Under his breath and against the breeze he chuckled and it rather alarmed Polly. Her eyes disobeyed their surface indifference and cast themselves over to the man, cataloguing.

Elderly. Grandfathering age, she reckoned. Shabbily dapper, a slight frame enclosed neatly by a crisp brown suit, an open-neck shirt with just a glimpse of vest beneath. Shoes were slip-on and polished studiously, soles jet black, the tan uppers shiny, reflecting.

How his face belies this neatness; all wrinkled, warted and creased! Brow carved deep with the furrows of maybe seventy-odd years; under it, eyes blue and milky, heavily hooded by papery lids. White wire for eyebrows, unkempt and independent as tumbleweed.

Polly thought she'd snatched merely a furtive glance, but when his eyes met hers she realized she must have been staring quite a while. She smiled quickly and a little too widely, hoping it would deflect or serve as an apology. He returned it, and she saw how his teeth were good – his own, for sure; too idiosyncratic to be dentures, nicely overlapped here and there.

‘You know the Vineyard?' he asked. Polly shook her head keeping her manufactured smile in place. ‘Know the Cape?' he furthered. Polly twitched her nose and lips to say no. ‘Live in Boston?' he suggested, raising those eyebrows at her, imploring Polly to converse.

And would that be such a hardship? After all, with her muffin finished, there was little to do in the long wait for the ferry.

‘No, I'm not from America at all, actually. I'm English. I live in London, though I was born in Leicestershire.'

He seemed delighted and tendered a slightly arthritic hand, liver spots and all.

‘You know, in all these years I never heard it said,' he chuckled, ‘I'd always presumed it was
Lie Sester Shyre
.'

Polly's smile became generous at once. ‘Not to worry,' she said, ‘I always thought Chicago was in the state of
Ill In Wah
.' He appeared quite happy with that.

‘
Ark Anz Us
,' she elaborated, tipping her body towards him.

‘
Bow Shomp
,' he countered, nudging Polly gently. They shared a little laugh which turned into a unified sigh at nothing in particular. The sea lapped lazily at the edge of the harbour, licking away at the concrete as if patiently attempting to naturalize it. It lulled them into a chatty silence for a while.

Here they are still. Polly rather likes this man, he reminds her that she is grandfatherless and she reckons he'd do the job very well indeed.

‘Well,' she says with an exaggerated look at her watch and a slap of her knees, ‘still an hour and a half to go. Would you like a coffee?'

‘Me?' He is absolutely staggered. Polly nods. He seems a little flustered and darts his eyes from her face to yonder and then back again. ‘Or maybe tea?' she suggests, ‘if you prefer.'

Do I not look kind and sincere?

‘Coffeecoffee,' he whispers, eyes wide as an eight-year-old's. Off she goes and orders. The vendor, who has obviously seen with whom she is sitting, shakes his head and smirks but proffers nothing more than two steaming cups. Polly finds it rather disconcerting so she looks over to the bench while she waits for her change.

She observes him with tenderness; lost at sea, waiting for Josephine to arrive.

They blow on their coffee and sip contemplatively, content now with each other's company. The man's spectacles and Polly's sunglasses have misted up; great blooms of fog with each blow into the cup. They agree, their voices apparently lubricated by blindness, that the coffee is very good. Polly tells him the blueberry muffin was so too; he says he knows.

‘Who is Josephine?' Polly asks in her Great British bid to make polite conversation.

‘Josephine,' he announces, ‘is who I am waiting for.' This is a little cryptic though his voice is nothing but loving.

I oughtn't to pry, being British and all.

‘Leicestershire,' he enunciates correctly in a nicely rounded way, repeating the word but enquiring no further.

‘I've sort of run away but not quite,' Polly suddenly hears herself saying, finding herself searching his face for approval or otherwise. ‘You know, things to think about. Not knowing where to start. Hoping this might be as good a place as anywhere.' His conciliatory nod is bolstering. ‘You know,' she continues, believing he very well might, ‘needing a little time. Some space. Escaping a mess of my own making really. Setting free; being released yourself. Seeing where you might wish to alight after a solitary journey?'

I'm rambling. Ssh. I should be saving up my thinking for some lonely, conducive beach. I can't start here, not in Woods bloody Hole.

‘Well,' the old man says, wiping his glasses on the knee of his trousers, ‘the Cape'll help and you're wise to be going over to the Vineyard. Yup.' He winks. Polly replies with a small grin.

And who is Josephine? Polly asks if she lives over on the island. The man's wince, however, cuts sharp, though he corrects it at once. ‘Not any more,' he says a little too lightly. ‘She's coming back now, on the ferry you'll be taking over there.' Polly nods liberally though she is none the wiser.

‘Is she your wife?'

‘No.'

Best not to pry.

Here she is! Bunting and all, smelling deliciously diesely, heaving herself to harbour.

‘Here she is!' Polly and the man exclaim to each other in a congratulatory sort of way. Polly wriggles in against her rucksack.

‘Can you see her?' she asks, watching his pale, dilute-blue eyes scan and scour the figures on deck, on the gangplank, ‘Josephine? Is she there?' But he is too busy combing the throng to answer.

Now the deck is deserted, the gangplank bare and the passengers have dispersed. Where is she? He turns to Polly. ‘I'm waiting for Josephine,' he tells her, failing in his legible wish not to appear disorientated and down. She shifts and shunts to redress the cut and strain of her rucksack. She feels concerned and she feels for him. She is cross with Josephine.

‘Why don't I take the next ferry? I could wait with you,' she suggests in a sing-song sort of way.

‘No no!' he counters politely, ‘the Vineyard awaits
you
– it's where you need to be, having come from Leicestershire and all.'

‘Well, if you are sure, but it wouldn't be any trouble, I should enjoy your company a while longer.'

‘Really, Miss. Go. I'm waiting for Josephine, she'll be here soon. Perhaps on the next ferry.'

Polly shuffles and then wishes him well. He says ‘good luck' and takes her hand in both of his but his eyes are elsewhere, watery and pale, forever scanning.

The distance between them is chugged away and Polly calculates that she must now be just one of many hanging over the railings waving the harbour farewell under a bellow of foghorns and the calling of gulls. She watches his figure diminish and a part of her wants to be back with him, on the bench, sharing gentle half-silence. But she is keener to find her own aloneness out on the island. Resolute, she turns her back on the land and tries to breathe normally against the buffeting, salty gusts.

Anyway, no doubt Josephine just got up late and missed the boat.

The degree to which American society is orientated towards the car saw Polly taking an
en suite
room at a pretty guesthouse in Oak Bluffs for less than the price of a Youth Hostel experience ten miles away. She
was
headed for the Youth Hostel, for she had deemed a certain frugality necessary for constructive soul searching. However, there was no bus to the hostel and a taxi there would add twice the price to that of the accommodation itself. When Polly realized that the cost of bike hire on top of the hostel tariff amounted to a dollar more than a guesthouse, she swiftly ditched the notion of dorms and duties for the promise of comfort, privacy and breakfast at Laverly's Lodge.

After all, it'll be much, much easier to gather my thoughts and see through to my soul after a good night's sleep and a hearty breakfast.

‘Hi honey, you want to stay?' asked a plump woman in a sequin-encrusted T-shirt, ‘I have a real pretty room available.'

The room really was pretty; oak floorboards, walls a gentle blue, a plump bed, windows on three sides with sea views from two, and a pair of chairs set as if deep in conversation.

‘It's perfect,' Polly enthused, ‘I'll take it.'

‘Well, isn't that nice?' the landlady beamed. ‘I'm Marsha, honey.'

‘With the CIA?' Polly asked.

Look where I am, Max. Oh, I wish you could see me. Wonder where you are. Are you trying to imagine? Like me? Hope so.

This is something of a first, Polly. You didn't seem to think of Max at all when you arrived at Hubbardtons. You didn't seem to think much of Max, full stop. All you thought was that he'd be there, back home, for you, whatever you thought, dreamt or did. So why should he hear you now? Your modified thinking might just be happening too late. Anyway, why should he listen at all?

Shut up. I'm speaking to Max. I've just been for a stroll around the village and now I'm back in my room. You'd look fine in this room, Max. It's breezy and sunny and summer is coming into focus. I think I'll hire a bike tomorrow. I think I'll go to the little tapas sort of place for supper. Maybe not – I've bought a bumper bag of Hershey Kisses from the gas station. It's strange chocolate, not unpleasant but decidedly un-Cadbury's too. Who says that kisses look like this?

Oh my God, Max, might we never kiss again?

‘Hi.'

‘Hullo.'

‘Want to eat?'

‘Please.'

‘Sure. This table OK?

‘Lovely, thanks.'

‘Can I get you a drink?'

‘Please. Um, beer.'

‘Sure. I'll go fetch the menu.'

I don't really drink beer – but didn't Kate say it's life saving?

No, Polly, she said it was life changing.

‘Cute,' Marc informed Bill, with a faint pelvic thrust, as he placed Polly's order for a beer and fetched a menu. Neither waiter nor barman (brothers, and joint owners too) were used to seeing a lone female of Polly's calibre sitting at the window table quite so early in the evening or the season. Though year round, solitary women came to eat at their establishment, the age of such patrons invariably amounted to more than Marc and Bill's years combined. The brothers had become adept at distinguishing between writers, artists and women of independent means but, while they were sure that this young thing fitted into none of these categories, so too were they puzzled as to who and what she was. And why, of course, she was here.
Here
here: in Martha's Vineyard and at their restaurant.