by Freya North
Chip Jonson might not subscribe to monogamy or fidelity, but is it not merely opinion and society which extol and validate these principles as virtues, and condemn those who refute them as immoral? As sinners?
Can’t certain sins be fun too?
And, ultimately, edifying?
Chip means no harm, he simply loves sport.
‘It’s like fishing,’ he muses to himself, having bandaged the last limb for the afternoon, ‘I’m just the guy who lays the bait – the decision whether or not to take it is out of my hands. Women get hooked – and I reckon they enjoy the exhilaration of the reeling in and all. Being admired. Finally, being released.’
He looks out of the window and observes the third-floor bedroom window at Petersfield House. In the corner of his surgery, his beloved fishing rod is propped. Near to it, a picture of him; in shorts, bare-chested, hair tousled, lips in a broad smile and biceps taut as he holds aloft a twelve-pound salmon for the camera and posterity.
‘I always release what I catch,’ he says quietly as he ventures to the photograph to scrutinize the precise details. ‘When I let that fish go, it just hung around in the shallows, quite happily, before making for home.’
Ah, but if you saw a most beautiful salmon swim so near to your bait, circle it even, but then decide to swim away, would you not cast your line again? And again?
Christ, that would be some fish – sure I would!
Polly came across Zoe who was in tears and utterly inconsolable. She had popped back to Petersfield in the lunch hour and, from her bathroom, heard the sound of crying from the floor above.
‘Zoe,’ she said gently on discovery, ‘poppet, what ever is it?’
‘Leave. Me. Please,’ the girl stammered through her sobs.
‘Hey,’ Polly soothed before continuing carefully, ‘you simply can’t weep all by yourself – what a dreadfully lonely thing to do.’
This raised the corners of Zoe’s mouth slightly but Polly’s warm smile in return served only to replenish the tears.
‘Come, come,’ she said, kneeling in front of the girl, ‘I can’t have my Dorm Daughter so forlorn.’
Polly laid her hands softly on the heaving shoulders and the gesture, combined with her persistent tenderness, caused Zoe to sink into her embrace and really let go. Polly encouraged the girl to cry, comforting her with a host of soothing, maternal locutions until the sobbing subsided and the child was still.
‘I’m sorry,’ Zoe sniffed, ‘I, like, trashed your shirt.’
‘Blimey, don’t worry about this old rag,’ Polly exclaimed, regarding the sodden patch on her shirt before lying, ‘I’ve had it yonks.’
‘You’re so funny,’ Zoe smiled through the blur of her tears.
‘That’s better,’ Polly praised. ‘Now, share your problem and I promise you, though it may not be solved, it will certainly be halved.’
‘I don’t know,’ Zoe faltered.
‘I do,’ Polly stressed.
‘I guess,’ Zoe responded, regarding Polly warily as if to make absolutely sure. Polly shuffled on her knees around the girl and then sat beside her, their backs against a wall adorned with photographs of Zoe’s pets.
‘I say,’ said Polly, nodding towards the opposite wall which was smothered with posters of the leering, posturing Guns & Roses and other motley crews, ‘if we’re going to snuggle down to a heart to heart, I’d rather our backs were to that wall. They’re deliciously frightening. They’re making me feel rather faint!’
‘They’re the only men in my life,’ rued Zoe bitterly.
‘Fine,’ Polly announced, ‘we’ll stay put and try not to be distracted.’
‘They’re the only men in my life,’ Zoe repeated, imploringly. Polly took it as her cue.
‘Boyfriend trouble?’
Zoe nodded.
‘You know I’ve been, like, seeing Jim? Broad?’
‘Is he?’
‘Jim Broad, Miss Fenton.’
‘God, yes of course, my Thursday morning set.’
‘Anyhow, I found out that he was – you know – like, going with Tammy over the vacation?’
‘Where to?’
‘No. You know – like, making out?’
‘Out. Oh. I see. Hang on, Tammy? Scott? She’s in my Wednesday juniors?’
‘Yeah. Slut.’
‘Hey!’
‘Well she is.’
‘Go on—’
Zoe continued rapidly, with the inflection typical of American teenagers – raising the tone at the end of almost every sentence into a question of sorts. ‘Jim says to me it was just, like, a thing – you know? A one off? He swears it meant nothing? Before, during or after? Crying and all? I go, so how come you did it then? He goes, I dunno? It just kinda happened. I say, so what now? He goes, I love you? And all that shit—’
‘I beg your pardon.’
‘Excuse me. So he says, like, how he feels for me? And that he doesn’t want anything to change? He goes, she didn’t mean shit to him? Excuse me. But, you know? Do I believe him? Like, can I? How can I ever forget?’
‘How do you feel, you yourself?’
‘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 doe
s 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.’
SEVENTEEN
‘God,’ 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.’
