Polly (7 page)

‘I'm sure you do,' Kate replied ingenuously.

It was the first occasion, since the journey from Boston, that Kate and Polly were alone for any length of time. Formal Meal, the faculty meeting and Kate's involvement with the local flamenco club had occupied them and kept them apart. Yet a quick, wide wave from Polly across the quadrangle; a brief exchange over the salad bar at lunch; a note from Kate, magnetized to the fridge by Mickey Mouse, offering Polly unrestricted access to her bicycle, saw a burgeoning fondness develop between the two. Now, they're making pie. Apple. Cherry. Blueberry. No bakewell. Baked beautifully.

This is Vermont, not Derbyshire. When in Rome – and all that.

‘Tell me about home, Polly, paint me a picture.'

‘Home,' Polly explained, taking Kate at her word and drawing a disproportionate plan in the flour, ‘is a small, rented flat with a patio and mad neighbours in leafy Belsize Park. That's in North London for your information.'

‘Neat,' Kate enthused.

‘Not very,' apologized Polly.

‘How mad?' Kate asked, eyes alive above a huge smile.

‘Absolutely bonkers,' Polly assured her.

‘Bonkers!' Kate declared, having her first taste of the word and finding it delicious.

They made pastry in silence for a while.

‘Home,' Polly started again, ‘is really a fat tom-cat called Buster and a darling boy called Max.'

‘Uh huh,' murmured Kate: an excellent phrase to elicit further details.

‘Yes,' said Polly quietly, ‘I've had them both for five years. In fact —' she started before a small voice warned her against continuing.

You can't tell her. You've no proof, remember.

(More to the point, Polly, you haven't clarified the situation with Max, have you?)

‘Uh huh,' Kate repeated as she pricked the top of the pies, ‘that must be kinda tough. I'll bet you're missing them both.'

With a degree of guilt which she covered with a hasty ‘Oh yes, of course', Polly realized that she had still been too busy to have actively missed Max. ‘He said he'd phone on Saturday. That's tomorrow.'

Only I hope he calls before the Blues Brothers evening starts at Finnigan's. (That's Finnigan House – senior male dorm. Everyone invited.) I'm on duty, you see. Me and Charle(s) and Lorna – she's lovely, I met her at lunch today. She teaches drama and voice. I think we're about the same age.

‘What does Max do?' Kate asked, genuinely interested.

Polly smiled. ‘You'd love him,' she said, ‘he's very artistic, very talented. Officially, he's a self-employed graphic designer, only he likes to be known as a freelance draughtsman.'

Kate nodded approvingly. ‘He sounds special. That right?'

‘Absolutely,' enthused Polly. ‘He is,' she said. ‘In fact —'

No.

Not yet.

Kate refrained from the uh-huh of encouragement that was on the tip of her tongue. Polly looked suddenly lost and lonely so she handed her the bowl of blueberries and changed the subject instead.

Saturday. School for Polly finished at two but she joined the other off-duty teachers and students to eat hot dogs while watching the senior boys in a football match. She had no idea what these extravagantly padded, already beefy boys were doing, but there seemed to be more rucks than rugger and much less fancy footwork than footie. The buttocks, however, were incomparably pert and neat and made the game a pleasure to watch. Even more so, once Kate had explained the rules in under a minute, with ketchup on her chin. Soon, Polly was cheering with the best of them, much to Jackson's delight.

‘So she
can
holler,' he mused through the side of his mouth and to no one, ‘and boy, can she
holler
.'

Polly returned to Kate's alone, forgoing the post-match refreshments and post mortem so she could guard the phone and leap on it as soon as it rang.

I'm going to say yes, you see. I'm going to accept his proposal. Then I can finally tell everyone.

The house, however, remained silent until Kate, Charle(s) and Bogey returned an hour later. Kate scanned Polly's face hopefully, so Polly shook her head and shrugged her shoulders with hastily employed nonchalance, offering to make tea for the troops. The phone rang as soon as she left it; she tried not to jump on it but failed. It was Clinton for Kate. Polly tried not to register her disappointment. She failed.

It's half past bloody six. That's half eleven over there. Where is he?

After Polly had poured cranberry juice instead of milk into the tea, Kate suggested, very kindly, why didn't
she
make the call and beat
him
to it?

‘Ain't nothing like making a man good and guilty,' she drawled like Mae West. ‘They usually repent extravagantly! Go on, I'm going to take a shower.'

It was seven o'clock. The Blues Brothers evening at Finnigan's started in half an hour. It was midnight in Britain.

Actually, one minute past. It's tomorrow. And Max said he'd phone me yesterday.

A strange voice, male and Scottish, answered the phone in England. Polly presumed she had misdialled so she hung up and rang again, staring at the number pad and speaking them out loud as she dialled. The same voice.

God, I hope everything's OK.

‘Er, hullo, is Max there? Max Fyfield.' There was interference on the line. She tapped the receiver against her hand. It wasn't interference, it was background noise. Music, muffled. Voices, many.

‘Hullo?' said the Scotsman.

‘Max Fyfield?' stressed Polly, trying not to shout. It sounded like the receiver was dropped. ‘Hullo?' she said. ‘Hullo? Max?'

Click.

The line was dead.

She dialled again, distressed and a little angry. Who was that man? How dare he!

‘Hullo?'

‘Thank God,' said Polly, eyes to the heavens, ‘Dom, it's me. Max there?'

‘Hullo? Oh Polly! Hi! Hold on.
Max
! Hold on,' said Dom, disappearing with an unpromising clatter to locate his brother.

‘Polly?'

‘Max – hullo, I was er. You said you'd –'

Suddenly she wanted to cry.

Don't be so silly.

Why do you want to cry?

I don't know. I don't want to be here. I feel frightened. It all feels too fragile.

‘Sorry,' Max rushed. ‘Oh God, so sorry. I, er, well actually I forgot. Hey
you
– get the Osmonds
off
the turntable!
And
Slade. Kool and the Gang can stay. Polly? There you are – I was going to call you earlier but Dominic had me running errands and opening wine. Dom!
Dom!
The chilli – the coffee table. God that was close.'

‘Max,' Polly asked, trying to control the shake in her voice, ‘what's happening? What's going on?'

I feel lonely. I'm frightened.

What of?

‘Dom has a few friends round,' Max explained lightly.

Precisely.

‘Anyone I know?'

What's wrong with that? Why do I feel shaky?

‘Er, don't think so.'

‘Meg?'

I can hear a woman laughing. He's just covered the mouthpiece with his hand. Why? Why's he done that?

‘Meg?' Polly repeated, staring around Kate's kitchen, the people on the fridge; realizing that she was, essentially, amongst strangers. Alone.

I'm alone. Over here. Over there. I just delude myself that I'm allowed into people's spheres, that they'll make me part of their world, their family.

‘Megan was here earlier but she had to leave as she was meeting Jen Carter for a drink.'

I've been replaced. Oh, most wicked haste.

‘Max – why didn't
you
phone
me
?' Polly consciously let slip into baby voice. ‘Like you promised?'

‘I'm sorry Button,' he said, his voice distant (
he sounds distant
), ‘I forgot. I was busy.'

No!

Yes – anyway, Polly, who is it who's been too preoccupied even to think of him much, let alone miss him at all? Were you expecting life in London to be frozen in time until your return?

‘Polly?'

‘Yes,' she said in a small voice, ‘I'm still here.'

‘I'd better go now, this isn't the best time for a chat, is it? There's chilli on the carpet and Dominic's off his face. God, he's out on the balcony. Doing opera. I must go – I'll call you soon, promise. 'Kay?'

‘'Kay.'

What else could she say?

‘Love you,' Max cooed.

Don't say that.

‘'Kay,' she said, chewing the inside of her cheek. She replaced the handset and stared blankly at the fridge of smiles.

‘You OK?' asked Kate, understanding now the provenance of Polly's deepening eye colour.

‘Yup,' said Polly, a little more croakily than she would have liked, ‘absolutely fine.'

Kate offered Polly a cherry tomato. She bit it and winced as the delicious, tart juice caused a stab of sharpness to zip along her jaw. She swallowed. Hard.

‘All set?' Kate asked.

‘Do you know,' Polly replied, ‘I think I'll give it a miss. Jet lag, you see. And building a house tomorrow – have to be strong, hey!'

‘Well,' cautioned Kate, ‘I don't think you can give it a miss. You're on duty, Polly. That's your job. That's what you're paid for. That's why you're here.'

Kate didn't tell her that it wouldn't be a problem for another teacher to stand in. She didn't tell her because she didn't want Polly not to go. She thought Polly ought not to be alone. Not on her first Saturday night in America. She hardly knew the girl, not properly. But she knew her well enough to see that loneliness was uncharted anathema to Polly Fenton. Kate cared.

So Miss Fenton went through the motions of being a teacher that night. She knew the film well, having seen it many times at university, and knew what to heckle and when to sing. But though she did so at all the opportune moments, gaining much admiration from the students in the process, there was no passion behind it and she felt no fun. She could have talked to Lorna, really she could. Really talked. She'd have liked that; Lorna too, hopefully. But she couldn't because it was so noisy. And she was on duty.

What is it, Polly? What, exactly, has unnerved you so?

It feels too far to be safe.

How do you mean?

It's new. I've never not been near him. We've rarely done things apart. ‘While the cat's away', hey?

How about ‘absence makes the heart grow fonder', surely?

More like ‘out of sight, out of mind'. I must be losing mine. I don't know, do you know I just feel – uneasy. All of a sudden. I suppose I just presumed all to be so secure. After five years, you slip into an easy routine. Or is it complacency? I'm not going to say ‘yes'. I'd better not. Not for a while.

Power game?

Safety net.

Fighting sleep, Polly forced images of Max to assault her instead. Max drunk. Max stoned. Max having a brilliant time without her. Max necking someone, tall and blonde. Max's mind being utterly devoid of Polly.

She'd never done this to herself before.

She'd never seen Max like that.

What are you doing, Fenton? That's not Max – not Max at all.

Look what Sunday has brought – a breathtakingly beautiful morning. Polly slept well, eventually, and her fears that smiling would elude her entire stay have proven unfounded: she grins broadly at the morning. Dew covers the lawn in a sweeping kiss and the very tips of just one or two leaves on each maple tree wink a crimson preview to Polly. New England. Vermont. Fall. How lucky.

Trading Old for New.

‘Just you wait,' says Kate, pushing a mug of erbal tea (most definitely no ‘h') into Polly's hands, ‘another four weeks and man, you'll weep!' They sip and sigh awhile.

‘All set?' Kate asks.

‘Won't I need a hammer?' asks Polly. Kate laughs and gives her a quick, spontaneous hug.

‘Nope!' she declares, ‘that's for the guys. You know there won't be one nail or screw used, just oak pegs?'

How could Polly know? She's never been to a house raising before.

Can a scent be deafening? Technically, probably not; grammatically, debatable too. However, it occurs to Polly, as she and Kate stride towards the site, that it is the most appropriate word to use.

The scent of pine is deafening.

Definitely; it is deafening and divine.

The pine, not yet seen, has been felled, planed and is ready to be made into a house.

From the right-hand fork at the end of Main Street, a small, well-maintained lane leads off it to the right. It continues severely up hill; over the petticoats and on to the very skirt of Mount Hubbardtons. Not that John Hubbardton was a cross-dresser, of course; it's merely the price he must pay for having a mountain previously known as Sister Mountain renamed in his honour. After half a mile, a dirt track leads off the lane and it is here that we catch up with Polly and Kate. Kate is telling her all about Jojo Baxter but Polly can hardly hear her for the scent of pine. She closes her eyes and breathes deeply. It's so heady. She stumbles as she goes. Kate links arms with her. For support.

‘Are these my Queens of Tarts?'

‘Hey Jojo!' Kate sang, loading all the tarts on to Polly's already laden arms so she could embrace Jojo. ‘How's it going?'

‘Good, good. You must be Polly? Hi there, I'm Jojo. I'm starving and we've hardly gotten started. Save my soul and send me to heaven: blueberry, cherry
and
apple?
Queens
of Tarts, queens!'

Polly fell for Jojo immediately and knew instinctively that they'd see eye to eye – not least because they were absolutely the same height.