Polly

by Freya North

  ‘Can’t! Tell!’

  ‘No. More. Than. Twelve.’

  ‘Jee—’

  ‘And they’re all impeccably behaved. They’re even quiet before class!’

  ‘—zus. No wonder That Carter Woman looks so shell-shocked.’

  ‘Everything OK?’

  ‘If you call Upper Four OK.’

  ‘Say no more. What was for lunch today?’

  ‘Lunch? Pie and mash, or mashed ratatouille and mash. And some clumpy pink mash for pud.’

  ‘Do you know what I had? Ask me!’

  ‘I say, Miss Fenton, what did you have for lunch?’

  ‘I had Caesar Salad with a selection of cold cuts and a freshly baked roll.’

  ‘Stop, stop – that’s just not on.’

  ‘Well, I could have had vegetable burritos, if that makes you feel any better.’

  ‘No it bloody doesn’t.’

  ‘Or there again, chicken papardelle with tarragon cream. The Federal Government subsidizes the food while making guidelines about fat content and protein quotas.’

  ‘I’m weeping.’

  ‘That’s not all, Meg. There were four different types of coffee to choose from, and as many teas. And that’s not counting the decaffeinated or detanninized strains! All fresh, I hasten to add, and free. No plasticated liquid from vending machines here. And, do you know, we have those fantastic swirly machines with fresh juice churning around available to us. All. Day. Long.’

  ‘I’m over there!’

  ‘No you’re not,’ said Polly quietly, ‘you’re over there – over the sea and far, far away. I better go, Max’ll be waiting. Will you write?’

  ‘I have done already. Posted it at lunch-time,’ Megan paused and continued forlornly, ‘when I went to the newsagent for a chocolate fest in lieu of lousy lunch.’

  ‘Polly? Polly? You there? That you?’

  Speak some more. Let me listen.

  ‘Polly?’

  ‘Oh, Max.’

  They hung on to their respective receivers with eyes closed and hearts bursting. They could hear each other breathe. How fantastic.

  ‘I couldn’t phone till now,’ Polly explained, ‘I’ve had every minute organized.’

  ‘I know,’ Max soothed, ‘I’m sure. I imagined. What’s it like? School and where you’re staying?’

  ‘Lovely – everywhere and everyone. So friendly and welcoming. The school is magnificent and the children are a dream – only I hope I don’t wake up. I just talked shop with Megan so she’ll fill you in, if you like. How’s Buster?’

  ‘Fine, I presume – I haven’t heard anything to the contrary.’

  ‘Will you phone The Jen Carter Person and just double-check everything’s OK at the flat?’

  ‘’Course I will. Can I have your number there? Thanks.’

  ‘God, you sound so close it’s cruel.’

  ‘You in your pyjamas, Polly?’

  ‘No, silly, it’s only six o’clock here. In fact, I’m in a frock because it’s something called Formal Meal tonight.’

  ‘Which knickers are you wearing?’

  ‘Hold on a – let me check. The pair with the blue roses.’

  ‘Divine.’

  ‘Funny fellow.’

  ‘I miss you madly, Polly.’

  Oh my God, I haven’t actively missed you yet Max, because I haven’t actually had time to. That’s terrible of me.

  ‘Polly? You there? I was saying how I miss you.’

  ‘Do you?’ she said sweetly.

  ‘I do,’ Max confirmed softly, not registering Polly’s pause.

  ‘Oh dear! Do you know, I haven’t said “I do” to you yet, have I!’

  ‘No, actually, not in so many words. Do you still have your ring?’

  ‘Maximilian, would I mislay something as precious as that?’

  I must take it from the back pocket of my jeans and put it somewhere safe.

  ‘You’d better go, Polly. Better not take advantage of your hosts.’

  ‘’Kay. Will you phone soon? Will you phone on Saturday?’

  ‘Absolutely. Night night.’

  ‘Night.’

  Polly walked slowly to her room. She went to her jeans and slipped her hand into the back pockets. And then those at the front. She fell to her knees and walked a methodical circle with her hands around the chair over which her jeans lay. She looked under the bed. And in the bin. And in the pockets of her other jeans. And in her jacket pocket. She looked behind the bedside table. She went to the bathroom and searched through her toilet bag. She went back to the bedroom, bit her nails and her lip and muffled a strangled yelp by hurling herself on to the bed. Burying her face into the pillows she sobbed. She bit, she hit them. She cursed herself. She stabbed at the bed with her fist. She cursed Great Aunt Clara. She swore profusely. She all but wore herself out. Finally, she sat cross-legged on the bed, snorting through a heavy nose and rubbing hard at itching eyes.

  I can’t have lost it!

  It seems you have.

  I haven’t even said yes, yet, I haven’t said ‘I do’.

  It seems you haven’t.

  Max, who’s been at the centre of my world, is offering me lifelong security, he’s going to provide me with my own family at last. And I haven’t even bloody accepted his offer. I can’t tell anyone I’m engaged unless I’ve formally agreed to be. I can’t tell people unless I have a ring to show them. As proof. And I can’t tell Max that I’ll marry him if I have to tell him that I’ve lost his ring.

  You haven’t even told Megan yet, either, have you? Wonder why. No time to think on it now. Wash your face and make haste for Formal Meal.

  ‘Jennifer Carter speaking.’

  ‘Oh, um, hullo, er, my name’s Max Fyfield – I’m, er, Polly’s—’

  ‘Sure! Max, hi there, nice to speak to you.’

  ‘I just thought I’d give you a bell to see if you’ve settled in OK? All all right with the flat?’

  ‘Everything’s cool here, thanks. Your Polly’s left me these little notes every place. Feel like I know her.’

  ‘And Buster? He’s OK? Not terrorizing you? Just roar at him if he is – and ignore him if he replies.’

  ‘Buster’s adorable. He’s on my lap right now.’

  ‘Ah, super. Polly will be pleased. Have you met Megan Reilly yet?’

  ‘Sure, she’s shown me round the school and has been real sweet.’

  God, how Megan’ll cringe if she ever hears such terminology!

  ‘Great, great. And how was school? Those girls can be a handful. An excess of intelligence and money, I fear.’

  ‘I think,’ said Jen, ‘that we have arrived at an understanding.’

  ‘Good, good,’ stumbled Max, ‘well, I just phoned to see that everything’s tickety boo.’

  ‘What’s that? Tickety boo? Ha!’

  ‘Yes, ha! I’m glad you seem to have settled. Do call if you need anything.’

  ‘Sure. Many thanks, Max.’

  ‘Bye then.’

  ‘Bye now.’

  Jen heaved Buster so that he stood on his hind legs on her lap.

  ‘All I need,’ she told him, ‘to make my picture perfect, is one Chip Jonson.’

  SIX

  If it had been Megan Reilly, and not Polly Fenton, who was at Hubbardtons, she would have swiftly traded ten Tom Cruises, and gladly forfeited the hope of Dominic Fyfield, for even a chance with Chip Jonson. But for Megan, who is in London, in the staff room, listening to Jen drone on about how wonderful her boyfriend Chip is, the man is merely a name. And a seemingly daft one at that.

  Polly has not yet met him, for if an athletic trainer rarely has reason to venture from the gym complex, seldom does he need to cross right over the playing fields to the main school buildings. And four days into her stay, Polly would be unable to locate the gym or the drama building and has no need, as yet, to visit either. She has now met her junior and senior students and has begun to weave her infectious love of literature and language de
ep into the fabric of her classes. She’s had no need to holler for Jackson Thomas, much to his chagrin. He hopes to grab her off duty, off her guard (just grab her, really), at the House Raising this coming Sunday. They’ll be building a house for Jojo Baxter, who teaches journalism and hockey. Everyone’s invited. Polly’s been invited. She’s looking forward to it very much.

  ‘They’ll build a whole house? In a day?’ she said to Kate, incredulous.

  ‘Yup,’ Kate confirmed as if there was nothing untoward about the concept at all, ‘I’m down to bake pies. You want to help?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Polly, ‘I could make a bakewell tart.’

  ‘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 wa
s, 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.