Polly (32 page)

‘Heck, it's early …' Bill reasoned, flicking his wrist to regard his watch while he sliced lime and raised an eyebrow at his brother.

‘And we ain't busy …' Marc colluded, humming thoughtfully into a menu.

They're talking about me,
mused Polly, wondering whether she could change her order for a Coke instead.

Now they're both coming over. Mind you, it is early and I am the only diner.

‘You English?' asked Bill, placing a cold bottle of beer right before Polly.

‘Yes,' Polly replied, smiling vaguely at the beer bottle.

‘Just arrived?' asked Marc, shifting the bottle to one side so as to place the menu directly in front of Polly.

‘Yes,' she confirmed, staring hard at the menu so as not to giggle.

‘Right,' said Bill, pausing, nodding, then returning to the bar.

‘Sure,' said Marc, nodding, straightening the salt and pepper pots before making a slow retreat. Polly appraised them in a glance: lean and fit physiques, each an easy six foot; skin and hair showing all the signs of vitality which a life by the sea bestowed. Thirty? Thirty-five? Twenty-eight? She wasn't sure.

‘You some kind of writer or artist?' Marc tested while he took her order.

‘No,' Polly told him.

‘Independent means?' he persisted, hands on nattily aproned hips.

‘I wish,' Polly laughed, liking him and his hips and his searching, mocha-coloured eyes.

‘I'm Marc,' he shrugged.

‘Hullo,' said Polly.

‘That's Bill,' he motioned with a flick of his head which implied the target wasn't worth much consideration.

‘Your
brother
,' Polly elaborated with a wry smile at Marc and a purposefully considered look in Bill's direction.

Marc twitched his face becomingly. ‘How d'you know? You a psychic or something?'

‘No,' Polly said, ‘but I can tell a brother and his sidekick.'

‘So,' said Marc, knowing it must be wit but not as he knew it, ‘you're a …'

‘Teacher,' Polly assisted. His eyes lingered involuntarily on her collar bone.

‘Sure,' Marc laughed as if it had been on the tip of his tongue. Her collar bone too. He bowed to Polly, hands still on hips, and, with a click of his tongue and a tip of his head, implored her to ‘enjoy'.

The slice of lime was on the tip of Polly's tongue and, though she had no idea what to do with it, she had even less inclination to ask. The lime was wedged into the neck of the bottle; a familiar sight from adverts at the cinema, but though such mini films extolled the beverage, they never quite explained the connection with the lime, what one was to do with it and how. Neither Marc nor Bill seemed to be watching and, in as nonchalant a way as possible, just in case they were, Polly made a swift attempt to sip the beer through the lime from the neck of the bottle. None reached her mouth though a cold fizzy streamlet coursed down her chin and along her neck.

Damn.

With what she hoped was panache, again lest it should be witnessed, she then forced the lime down the neck of the bottle and into the body of beer.

Ha!

However, when she attempted another swig, the lime blocked the flow and all Polly achieved was a dry and very audible slurp.

Bugger.

Marc and Bill looked over. Polly grinned sheepishly while they smiled broadly, a full quota of straight white teeth apiece.

‘My fault,' Bill insisted as he brought her another bottle with lime on the side this time, ‘the lime was too – you know, like, firm.'

Polly nodded and smiled in gratitude. Marc arrived, hot on Bill's heels, with vegetarian burritos and Polly nodded and smiled in gratitude some more.

They hovered until she sipped the beer and deemed it lovely, and tasted the burritos and proclaimed them fantastic. The brothers took this as a cue to draw up chairs and sit at Polly's table. They didn't ask. She didn't offer. She didn't mind. There was something ingenuous and warm about the men and she felt safe and comforted by their company.

‘Dig in,' she said, pushing her plate forward. They declined politely, munching away at a bowl of tortilla chips instead. Without consulting Polly, or offering her the consultation of the menu, they then brought a catering-size tub of chocolate-chip ice-cream to the table along with a jug of coffee.

‘Dig in,' said Marc, in a daft accent but with a lovely smile.

‘Dig in,' said Bill, in a daft accent but with a comely twinkle to his eyes.

Polly dug in playfully, feeling flattered and pampered. ‘Where's the loo, please?' she asked, much to the brothers' unbridled amusement. When she returned, they were gone and her table had been cleared. She sat quietly, enjoying the peace. It was still light outside and she intended to stroll along the waterfront before she turned in for the night. The brothers were soon back behind the bar, observing her discreetly. Polly cleared her throat.

‘Can I have the bill, please?'

Bill came forward brandishing a triumphant grin.

‘Sure.' He sat down at her table again and stretched his arms leisurely above his head.

I love the inside of men's elbows.

Marc shuffled menus in the background in a noisy and supremely irritated way. Polly glanced at Bill, whose elbows were still on display and who was regarding her dreamily. She shot her gaze over to Marc to find thunder across his brow.

‘Oh God!' she exclaimed. ‘Ha!' Spontaneously, she held Bill's wrist, gave it a squeeze and burst out laughing. ‘Bill!' she wheezed, virtually out of control.

‘Yeah?' he said.

‘Can I have the Marc, please!' she squeaked, one hand at her nose in a futile attempt to gentrify her mirth. Marc came over. ‘I meant,' she stammered, gasping for air, ‘the, you know, whatsit.' Marc and Bill regarded Polly. ‘The thingummy,' she said while the brothers consulted each other silently, as if acknowledging the girl's glorious daftness and attractive incomprehensibility. ‘The, um, check!' Polly cried triumphantly, writing in the air illegibly with an invisible pen.

‘Sure,' Marc shrugged.

‘No problem,' said Bill.

Polly was still laughing hysterically, and snorting involuntarily every now and then, as the brothers left to prepare the bill. When they returned with it, they found her sobbing her heart out, her head buried into her arms across the table. They didn't say a word but drew chairs either side of hers. Her torso was shaking convulsively. Marc placed his hands over hers. Bill laid his arm about her shoulders. There they all sat until Polly was still. Tearstained, she raised her face eventually, sheepishly lifting the corners of her mouth. Bill and Marc tightened their clasps on her, blinked slowly and nodded sagely.

‘Sorry,' Polly croaked at last. She rummaged in her bag and brought out a tissue and her credit card which she placed with the bill and handed to Marc. They brothers took her sonorous nose blowing as a signal to leave her and see to the finance. They were back a few minutes later, returning her credit card.

‘We didn't want your money,' said Marc.

‘We only wanted to know your name, Miss P. E. Fenton.'

‘Polly,' she said holding a hand out to each man.

‘I have to cook tomorrow afternoon,' Marc apologized, ‘you want me to show you around in the morning?'

‘That would be lovely,' said Polly.

‘I got to fetch supplies in the morning,' Bill explained, ‘you want to go for a ride in the afternoon?'

‘That would be lovely,' said Polly, shaking hands formally as she bade them good night and left for her lodgings.

‘Teacher my ass,' said Bill kindly once Polly was out of sight.

‘Yip,' Marc agreed, ‘that's one soul searcher. Soon in the season, hey?'

‘Christmas comes early,' marvelled Bill.

‘Share?' asked Marc.

‘Sure,' said Bill.

Polly finished the Hershey Kisses when she returned. The chocolate, unnecessary even in a small amount on such a full stomach, made her sweat a little and a headache loomed. She interrupted the conversation between the two chairs, taking one to a sea-facing window which she flung open. There she sat, in the dark, until she wasn't sure when, listening hard to the universal language of the sea. Although acutely aware that there was turmoil in her life, Polly felt that the here and now was a safe and nourishing place to be.

M
ax had never been to Cornwall, which was precisely why he chose to go, much to the protestations of his Beetle and the utter exasperation of Dominic who had no idea of his brother's whereabouts. Dominic phoned the farm in Herefordshire where their childhood summers had been spent, also the cottage rental company in Wiltshire through which he and Max had organized great weekends; he phoned most of their London friends enquiring in a most roundabout way so as not to alarm them or inform them of more than was necessary and, in a final bid, he tried Max's art college friends who still shared the same student house in Birmingham, bought as a consortium and ever being renovated. Despite a sore ear and a soaring phone bill, Dominic was none the wiser two hours later. At precisely that time, Max was emerging from the sea, shaking water from his ears and shivering with delight as his wet body was licked all over by the constant breeze of early summer. He ploughed through the shallows and made for shore, boxer shorts gaping, nose running and eyes stinging; slightly breathless; exhilarated.

Once dry and dressed, Max strode out over the cliffs, believing his legs could take him wherever he wanted to go right there and then. The blisters, however, an estimated five miles later, came as something of a nuisance. He continued on, telling himself that pain was gain and likening himself to a self-flagellating monk.

If there was something ablutionary about the discomfort, there was also a certain catharsis in unleashing a torrent of fulminations into the privacy and vastness of the landscape about fifteen minutes later, when he could hobble no more. Easing his shoes away, Max peeled his socks back gingerly and invited the sun and wind to soothe the sores. There he sat, near the edge of a cliff, watching the fulmars and gulls, glancing every now and then at his shredded feet, not really thinking about anything but feeling quite peaceful; pleased that he should be.

Unbeknown to Max, he was being watched intermittently from the window of a nearby cottage. He had not seen the building, partly because its vernacular provided a certain camouflage, partly because his focus had been commanded exclusively by the sea. Nearing tea-time, however, Max was observed with his head in his hands, his shoulders slumped, obviously oblivious to sea and surroundings. The kettle in the cottage was put to the boil; a tea bag, a splash of milk and three sugars were placed in a capacious handmade mug.

‘Afternoon.'

Max lifts his head from his hands, turns his cheek and, without eye contact, nods cursorily in the direction of the greeting.

Piss off.

‘Cuppa?' enquires another voice.

What? Shut up.

Immediately, Max feels a hard nudge to his back, as if being reprimanded for his surliness. He twists his torso and regards the intruders. A man, perhaps his age, a toddler with a freckle-spattered face and a riot of deep auburn curls, and a goat who looks rather as he remembers his grandmother: tottering and with a good beard.

‘Afternoon,' the man repeats.

‘Tea?' the child asks while the goat stares at Max icily, lest he should chance upon further ungrateful thoughts.

‘Afternoon,' Max responds to the man. ‘I'd love a cup of tea,' he smiles at the child. ‘Hullo,' he doffs his head to the goat.

‘Gar bra,' says the child seriously.

‘That's nice,' Max replies, not understanding a word but presuming his phrase to be the most suitable response.

‘She said “Barbara”,' the man explains to Max, ‘the goat.'

‘Right,' Max laughs a little, ‘the goat. Called Barbara. Right.'

The man hands Max the mug of tea and then squats on his heels, squinting out to the sea, expertly absorbed in his own thoughts. The goat ambles away a polite distance to urinate. The girl flops down on to the grass next to Max and lays her tiny, pudgy hand on his thigh.

‘'Sot,' she warns him sternly, eyeing the mug, ‘blow.'

Max blows and then takes a sip. It is scalding indeed, and very sweet. Nectar.

‘Where've you come from?' the man asks, having let Max sip in silence for a decent period during which he chanced upon the state of the stranger's feet, ‘John o' bloody Groats?'

‘Feels like it,' Max said, before conceding London.

‘You walked? From London?'

‘No no, I drove. I left at four. Ay Em. Oh God, to – I don't really know where. I found a nice beach and swam this morning. What's the time?
Five?
Shit.'

The child fixes Max with a stern look.

‘Sorry,' he says, pushing his fingers lightly through her curls while she shakes her head furiously and laughs.

‘Where's your car?' the man asks.

‘No bloody idea,' Max replies immediately, looking vaguely to his left, aware that no amount of brain racking will help him remember.

‘Where are you staying?' the man furthers.

‘Er—'

‘We have room – stay with us,' the man continues nonchalantly. Max, conditioned in London reserve, shakes his head.

‘Nah,' he says, ‘I'd better find my car and make tracks.'

‘With those feet!'

Everyone regards Max's feet, including the goat who has returned from her ablutions.

‘Stay with us,' the man repeats with a shrug, ‘we can find your car in the morning.'

‘You sure?'

‘Sure.'

‘Well, if you're sure. That would be great. Thanks.'

‘Yee ha!' the girl cries and scampers off, pursued by the goat.