Polly

by Freya North

  I can’t do it. I can’t make him stay. It’s too painful that he doesn’t want to, that it’s an issue at all. I thought he came here for me? Now he’s leaving because of me.

  She turns and faces away from the house, takes a few steps back along the path she’s just trodden.

  Come on, Polly – only a couple of chapters left and it is up to you entirely how they unfold, what will transpire, how it will end.

  Don’t pressurize me.

  Don’t be so dramatic. Just turn around and retrace your steps. Check the window and see if it’s open. Unpack for Max. Tidy up.

  The window is not locked and slides up with much less noise and difficulty than she anticipates. Polly springs herself on to the ledge and eases the mosquito frame open. It needs to come towards her and requires delicate balance and much breath-holding and lip-biting.

  She’s in. She’s in Max’s room or Great Aunt Clara’s room or her old room – wherever – she’s in. She cuddles the rucksack briefly before unpacking it as quickly as she can. It is not an easy task for each article of Max’s clothing requires deep inhalation and a prolonged press against her cheek. His shampoo and Bic razors were purchased at the airport. Way overpriced. He’s brought three novels, which Polly finds encouraging.

  But not enough boxer shorts – only four pairs. Does that mean his ticket was booked for tomorrow anyway?

  That’s rich, coming from the girl who gives preference to jars of Marmite over articles of her clothing when she packs for a whole term.

  But only four pairs? Of boxers?

  Yes, but look at all those socks.

  Please stay, Max.

  Do you want him to see you then? Tonight? Now?

  God no!

  Then hurry with your task.

  ‘I think I’ll turn in,’ Max says to Kate and Clinton, stretching his arms above his head and then letting them drop gently so that they fall as an embrace around Bogey.

  Quick, Polly.

  ‘Sure,’ says Kate.

  ‘Night,’ says Clinton.

  Hurry, Polly.

  ‘Night then,’ Max says to the couple he’s sure he’s known most of his life. They send him to bed with their effortlessly generous smiles.

  What? Hang on. Where’s my stuff? Shit, the window’s open – someone’s been in. Pinched it. Fuck. Of all the things – in this little one-eyed town. I don’t bloody believe it.

  Max stood in the room and puzzled over what could have happened, and when, and what to do about it, what to do next. Going through to the kitchen, to alert Kate, seemed logical.

  ‘Hey Max, insomnia already?’

  ‘Sorry Kate,’ said Max, scratching his head, wondering the best way not to alarm her, ‘Clinton around?’ Kate tipped her head and pointed to the ceiling. Right on cue, the sound of the shower whirred into action.

  ‘Max, you OK?’

  ‘I’m sorry to say this,’ Max said, placing a hand supportively on Kate’s shoulder, ‘but you’ve just been burgled. My stuffs gone.’

  ‘Burgled? Us? The Traceys? Here in Hubbardtons?’

  She shouldn’t be smiling – she’s going to be devastated. I haven’t even checked how much of my stuff has gone, let alone hers.

  ‘The window wasn’t locked – I have it open,’ Max apologized, ‘at night.’

  ‘Never is – always is,’ Kate confirmed. She slapped her knees. ‘Come, then, let’s go figure this out.’

  Max pushes open the door to Great Aunt Clara’s room and stands back so that Kate may enter first.

  ‘All seems OK,’ she says, circumnavigating the room and looking long and hard out of the window. (Max isn’t to know that she is merely breathing in deep wafts of clear night air while gazing at the shadowy humps defining her beloved plants.)

  ‘My stuff’s been swiped,’ Max says, holding up the clean palms of his hands for emphasis. Simultaneously, both he and Kate catch sight of a black strap trying to peep out unnoticed from under the bed. Max swallows the end of his sentence. Kate closes her throat on a swelling laugh.

  ‘Hold on,’ Max falters, venturing near it like it might very well be a snake. ‘Oh.’

  ‘Yours?’ Kate asks as Max draws the rucksack out and holds it, a look of utter bewilderment settling across his brow.

  ‘Um, yes?’

  ‘Night night, Max,’ says Kate lightly. She is well aware that he had packed. She also knows Polly very well.

  ‘No, but really – I mean, I was packed and, you know, ready to go. Why would they leave my rucksack?’

  Kate comes back into the room, goes over to the warped chest of drawers and pulls at the top one. She has a good look. She beckons Max over. As he nears, though, he knows what he’ll find. His boxers, neatly folded. Pairs of socks nestling next to them. A drawer down, T-shirts and tops. He and Kate look over to the wardrobe and go to it together. Kate opens it and Max peers within. His trousers hang there. Shoes beneath them. He looks over to the small cupboard by the side of the bed. The three novels are laid neatly in a tiny spiral staircase.

  ‘Looks like she doesn’t want you to go,’ says Kate, patting Max’s shoulder and leaving the room.

  ‘I’m not going – well, not today,’ Max whispered up at Polly, standing beneath her window up at which he had just thrown a barrage of small stones to wake her. Polly gazed down at him and then glanced back into her room to locate her clock. It told her what she had already guessed from the silvery light and heavy dew; it was not yet six o’clock. She glanced in swift gratitude over to the memorial garden and then returned her gaze to Max.

  ‘Good,’ she whispered down to him, ‘glad to hear it. Want to come up?’

  ‘Better not,’ Max replied, his voice breaking through his whisper, ‘might get caught. Might get detention. Go back to sleep. I’ll call by later.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’ Polly asked.

  ‘Bit of sight-seeing,’ Max replied, ‘probably.’

  It wasn’t what Polly meant, but his answer was fine for the time being. At least he was staying. She watched him go and wasn’t too worried that he did not turn to wave. At least he wasn’t going. She returned to bed and hugged her pillow. Sleep caught up with her very quickly and she dreamt of Zoe.

  Polly, sorry only to leave a note but I had a bus to catch. I’ve gone – away but not home. Just gone for a little potter by myself. Vermont appears to be a place for space and solitude which is just what I need. So I’ve gone touring. I hope that you understand. I don’t want to go back to England just yet – so that’s something, hey? I’ll be thinking of you, of that you can rest assured. I am doing this for us. Anyway, I’ve never been to America …

  Max

  ‘No kiss?’ Polly said to herself forlornly, on finding the note slipped under her door when she skipped back to her apartment at lunch-time, all energy and hope.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Kate assured her later, by phone, ‘he’s left a bunch of stuff in the closet.’

  FORTY

  Max phoned, two days later, from Woodstock. Polly worked hard at sounding fresh, fun and friendly.

  He has to want to come back simply because he actively wants to be with me.

  ‘Hullo. I’ve had the most brilliant day down the Quechee Gorge.’

  ‘Have you? How lovely.’

  ‘Spectacular.’

  ‘Isn’t it! Where to next? You could go to Stowe – that’s where the Von Trapps live.’

  ‘No, I’m headed for a place called Waitsfield.’

  ‘Meant to be beautiful.’

  ‘Not been?’

  ‘No.’

  Silence. Polly racked her mind for some interesting little quip, some banal comment about weather, some easy little piece of trivia to bandy. Max, though, had other ideas and beat her to it.

  ‘Well, I’d better go – dimes don’t last very long. I’ll be in touch.’

  Was I chirpy enough? Why didn’t he stay on longer? Should I go and find him?

  Four days later, Polly received a postcard fr
om Max, from Montpelier. It was the first of ten that he was to send to her over the next fortnight.

  ‘He’s more of a Vermonter than you,’ Lorna teased, an evening soon after, whistling at the scene depicted on the postcard from Lake Willoughby.

  ‘Do you know what’s so odd?’ Polly said to her, taking the postcard and gazing on it, flipping it over and holding Max’s writing next to her cheek.

  ‘What?’ Lorna asked.

  The notion, though, had only just dawned on Polly and she was content to consider it by herself for a moment or two. Intuitively, Lorna realized, and busied herself looking through Polly’s tapes with well-contrived interest.

  ‘What’s odd,’ Polly began again, slowly, ‘what’s strange, is how the tables have turned.’ She went over to Lorna and regarded her tapes. She selected Blur for the resonance of the band’s name alone. ‘I mean, last term, Max wrote to me endlessly and I hardly replied. I felt powerful and in control. Now? Now he’s writing regularly again but I’m totally, I don’t know, at his mercy? He’s the one in control.’

  ‘And that’s something new?’

  ‘I suppose.’

  ‘Strange?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Polly quietly.

  ‘I guess you’ve taken him for granted – or, at least, taken it for granted that you’re the kooky, over-emotional one, and he’s always to be the quiet soul that accepts you and excuses your temperament?’

  Polly felt hurt and defensive but she bit her tongue, perhaps for the first time, and thought hard instead of reacting immediately. Humble pie was stuck in her throat anyway. She could only nod. Lorna pulled Polly’s hair into a stubby pony tail, envying her its texture, its colour and sheen that any French polisher would be proud to reproduce.

  ‘I have to wait, I suppose,’ Polly said in a deep, hushed voice, ‘I suppose I just have to wait.’

  ‘You patient?’ Lorna asked while she continued to play with Polly’s hair, scooping it through her fingertips, upwards from the nape of the neck, watching it fall back gently right into place.

  ‘I’ll have to learn to be,’ Polly replied with her eyes closed. Weren’t mothers meant to stroke hair to comfort? She’d seen it on adverts, films, buses and park benches. She was enormously relieved that Lorna continued to do so, for she acknowledged with certain sadness that she had no alternative.

  Some days pass swiftly, others drag by, but Polly wears a brave face during them all. School is school and the daily routine, the fact that Polly has a timetable to follow, a role to fulfil, students dependent on her teaching, keeps her occupied and keeps her going. She loves George Eliot. She loves her job. She loves her students. Max has not phoned again. Lorna tells her not to worry, not to read anything by it, not to expect him to. Every night, usually in the bathroom and after she has cleaned her teeth, Polly recites to herself, ‘Well, he hasn’t phoned. I am not to worry. I must not expect him to.’ When she wakes, she reminds herself that Max has left much at Kate’s. (He’s left a lot at Hubbardtons too, Polly.) It’s reassuring. Kate has even invited her to peek in the closet for comfort.

  It does cross her mind that Max might return in body only and not in affection, that he will come back merely to pack up and leave.

  But I can’t afford to dwell on it. I prefer to read between the lines of his postcards.

  Max had been away for two and a half weeks when he phoned again. Lake Champlain. A phone box on the street outside the motel. The great expanse of water, walled by the distant Adirondacks on his left, Burger King on his right.

  ‘Hullo.’

  ‘Hey, Max.’

  Silence. Come on, speak. Chat. Talk. Say something. He’s in a phone box and dimes don’t last long.

  ‘Lake Champlain’s fantastic,’ he said, in a fairly monotone voice.

  ‘Wish I could be there with you,’ Polly said wistfully, though it came out suggestively.

  ‘No,’ Max warned, ‘I have to be here alone.’

  ‘Why?’ Polly squeezed out in a tiny voice, suddenly wanting banal chat and not a loaded conversation.

  ‘Because,’ Max sighed, ‘people who are supposedly madly in love shouldn’t even consider infidelity, let alone go ahead and shag rampantly.’

  Polly felt such a stab of pain that she was rendered speechless. Good job, really.

  ‘I don’t mean to be cruel,’ Max said, somewhat startled at the feeling of power.

  ‘’Sokay,’ Polly managed.

  ‘What I mean is, in my mind, marriage means fidelity – in spirit and body. I mean, commitment on any level necessitates faithfulness and trust. Yes? Polly?’

  ‘I’m here.’

  Would it help if I told you about Chip?

  Would that make it better for Max? Or just for you?

  ‘In case you’re wondering, it only happened once, Polly,’ Max said strongly, ‘but it certainly happened.’

  Polly held the receiver away from her ear, Max grasped his tight.

  ‘If it helps,’ he continued, ‘the act, the person, didn’t mean much at all. But,’ he cautioned, having listened carefully to Polly’s pause, ‘what actually happened, the fact that it did, means a hell of a lot, if you see. It changes what we had.’

  ‘The fact that it did happen,’ Polly quickly interrupted without knowing what she was to say next, ‘and that I know about it, and that you and I, well, you know, recently.’

  ‘Not a sentence, Polly, what do you mean?’

  ‘I mean,’ Polly continued, almost eagerly, ‘our relationship hit rock bottom, hey? Right down there,’ she elaborated, pointing for emphasis but with little point because Max of course couldn’t see. ‘But that’s good,’ Polly tried, ‘it means there’s now a flat base on which to build up again. The firmest of foundations. Do you see?’

  Shit, this is all too much for a phone call. His money’ll run out. Can’t we talk about landscape and all things touristy.

  ‘Money’s run out,’ Max lied, not that Polly could know. ‘I’ll be in touch.’

  Polly listened thoughtfully to the tone buzzing through from the receiver for a few moments longer.

  I hope it came out right. I hope he understands. I hope it’s given him hope. I hope he’s coming back soon. I hope I’m allowed to hope.

  Max had been gone three weeks and Polly had suffered a fifth consecutive postcardless morning, when he returned to Hubbardtons just as suddenly as he had left. Polly was filling her plate from the salad bar at lunch-time when she looked up to see Max standing by the dining hall doors. In a bit of a blur, she handed her plate to whoever was on her right and walked through the tables to him. No one really noticed, apart from the sophomore with the plate of salad, who was unsure whether he was to guard it for the teacher or eat it himself. Lorna and Kate were sitting together at the far end; they had seen but they kept their gaze studiously diverted. Zoe had seen too, but took it as her duty to distract her fellow diners. Jackson saw, and was so despondent that when he swore quietly to himself, it came out as a rather loud ‘Sheeyut’. Powers Mateland watched Polly, noted her expression, looked over to Max and was intrigued. Teachers have lives, teachers have feelings, teachers can exist without school.

  ‘Hullo,’ Polly said.

  ‘Hiya,’ said Max, slinging his thumbs into the band of his jeans.

  ‘Want some lunch?’ Polly asked him, wanting to touch him.

  ‘Not hungry. Thanks.’

  She took her hand to his arm, stood on tiptoes and kissed him lightly on the cheek. Powers observed everything from the corner of his eye – a skill honed by teachers and perfected by headmasters and deans.

  ‘How are you?’ Polly asked Max, at once transported away from her current surroundings and back into the safe world of her relationship. ‘You look well – tanned and sparkly.’

  Max returned her kiss, his hand momentarily cupping her head. Heaven.

  ‘You look tired, my girl.’

  Am I? Your girl?

  ‘Am I? I mean, I am – it’s exams soon.’

 
‘Teaching this afternoon?’

  Polly nodded.

  Bugger, here I am. And that’s what I do.

  ‘Maybe we could meet up this evening?’ Max suggested. ‘If you’re off duty?’

  ‘I’m not, I’m afraid.’

  ‘It’s just – well, I’m going home tomorrow night.’

  No!

  He can’t.

  Please no.

  Oh God.

  ‘I’ll think of something,’ Polly says. ‘I’ll think of something,’ she repeats, not sure who it is she is trying to convince. Max nods and leaves her.

  ‘Where are we?’ Polly asked her class while staring distractedly out of the window. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Chapter 70?’ Laurel said helpfully.

  ‘Middlemarch?’ Heidi prompted, as the class passed concerned glances around furtively, like an illegal note or a bag of candy, carefully out of the sight of the teacher.

  ‘Miss Fenton?’

  Polly dragged her attention back, thumbing through her copy of Middlemarch.

  ‘Ah yes, who wants to read? AJ? Please do.’

  ‘You want me to read the little poem at the top too?’

  ‘Of course!’ Polly exclaimed with an irritated tut she regretted at once but did little about. ‘How many times have I told you – all of you – that those lines are often as loaded as the prose which follows?’

  AJ read, smarting a little.

  ‘Our deeds still travel with us from afar,

  And what we have been makes us what we are.’

  Polly went quite cold.

  ‘Say that again,’ she said quietly. AJ read it again, a slight shrug to the tone of his voice.

  ‘Once more?’ Polly requested, going over to the window so that she could see the sky while she listened hard. AJ obliged, his tone changing as he grasped the point of the verse.

  ‘Pretty cool,’ AJ said.

  ‘Beautiful,’ Laurel added.

  ‘Neat,’ elaborated Forrest.

  ‘Real wise,’ Heidi nodded.

  ‘Isn’t it just,’ Miss Fenton confirmed and praised her class, ‘absolutely perfect?’

  It’s not about apportioning blame. Myself. Max himself. Chip or Jen. What has happened has made me into the woman that I am. What has passed sees me now as someone ready for commitment, who’s evolved from a self-centred girl wanting to play out fantasies. The experience of it, the lessons I’ve learned, will aid me in my journey hereafter.