Polly (34 page)

No one's phoned me.

That's because no one knows where you are.

There's no connection here with anything in my life.

That's what you wanted, what you've actively sought out.

I could do anything and no one I know would ever know.

That's right.

I could be murdered and no one I know would know. God, I'm desperately confused. No one is aware of that.

They might just as much presume you to be having the time of your life.

But I'm not.

How would they know?

Do they even care?

Polly!

I could have sex all night with Marc and Bill simultaneously and no one need ever know.

You could.

And it would be perfectly legit – Max having given me the shove.

You could see it like that.

I have absolute freedom at my fingertips.

You do.

It's an enormous responsibility.

It is.

Twenty-four hours later, and the very second that Bill's lips touched hers for the second time, Polly opened her eyes, pulled away and realized exactly what it was that she was doing.

‘I'm sorry,' Bill said, suddenly looking around him as if there might be spectators in the flower-strewn pasture he had walked Polly to that morning.

‘No,' Polly qualified, ‘
I'm
sorry.'

‘What for?' murmured Bill, pulling her close against him and bringing his head to hers again. Polly leant back until the two of them were posed in a tango-style clinch.

‘Please?' Polly implored. Gently, Bill set her straight. And then she set him straight. ‘I think you're completely gorgeous – stuff of my dreams – but there you must stay.'

Bill smiled slyly, plucked a long stalk of grass and, tracing it lightly over her nose and lips, said he had the power to make dreams come true.

‘It's just,' Polly said, pressing her hand against his chest to keep him at bay, ‘I thought I wanted it but I know now that I don't. Actually.'

Bill regarded her with an expression that blended hurt, irritation and persistent desire.

Oh God
, thought Polly fleetingly,
am I going to be all right here? Am I going to get out of this? Nobody knows where I am.

She stroked Bill's biceps in what she hoped was a soothing and non-sexual way. ‘Sorry,' she whispered, in what she hoped was a beguilingly sweet voice.

‘How come you changed your mind?' Bill cleared his throat and held her wrist, slipping his thumb along to the palm of her hand where it toyed with an invisible clitoris. Polly moved her hand until she was giving Bill a very English handshake instead.

‘I think I've broken up with my boyfriend,' she said, still shaking his hand.

‘You only think?'

‘I'm not sure – it appears it's up to him.'

‘So you rebounded all the way to the Vineyard? He must've screwed you something bad.'

‘Not really,' said Polly, smiling at a bizarre image of herself being catapulted across the Atlantic, before reflecting on the fact that Max had never screwed her, only ever made love to her.

‘You sure?' said a voice, bringing her back to the day in hand.

Oh. Bill. You.

‘About?'

‘Me?' he said, hands on hips, licking his lips leisurely, lasciviously.

Polly nodded apologetically.

‘If you guys have split up, what's the big problem?' Bill persisted, eyeing her tits and rearranging his balls most unselfconsciously. ‘No crime in it now – you being a single, free agent and all.'

‘I slept with someone else – a bloke in Vermont,' said Polly, hoping the statement itself would suffice, though Bill's lust-laden smirk told her otherwise. ‘And Max, my – shit, my
ex
– he slept with someone back at home,' she continued in a rush. ‘Not that she's from back home. She's my American exchange. It's horribly messy and all rather muddled. He doesn't know about me but I practically came across him.'

‘Whoah whoah there!' Bill laughed, holding his hands up in mock surrender, ‘that's some story.'

‘It's not a story,' Polly remonstrated, sucking down a sob.

Bill held his surrendering pose, backing away slightly. ‘Don't worry about it,' he assured her. A no-strings fuck was one thing – a knot of someone else's emotional baggage was another.

‘Sure?' Polly asked, relieved.

‘You bet,' he said, relieved.

‘He'd never know,' Marc said suddenly while he and Polly strolled through pine on the way to a beach later in the afternoon. Polly was quite taken aback as they had been chatting so nicely about inane things. ‘He needn't find out,' Marc said again, with more of a desirous growl this time, pulling her towards him and slipping one hand down to grasp her buttock. Polly wriggled but Marc held on tight.

Oh God. I can just see it: ‘Corpse in a Copse'. Maybe if I just let him kiss me, he'll let me survive.

She allowed Marc to kiss her; her lips, though, remained staunchly motionless. No amount of his energetic tongue-dabbing could alter that. It was rather a turn-off.

‘Beach?' said Polly, swiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

‘Sure,' Marc replied, running his tongue along his teeth and then offering his hand which she studiously ignored. He ran the back of his hand along her hair and Polly praised its inherent gloss that caused Marc's fingers to slither off it so quickly.

‘Bill told me,' he continued, walking on, ‘about all the stuff going down? You and that guy? Sounds pretty shitty.'

‘I suppose it is,' Polly said, flopping down on to the sand, lying on her side, propping herself up with an elbow.

‘So you came here to chill out?'

‘Suppose,' said Polly, squinting under her hand and turning her head away from the sun and from Marc.

‘I won't tell if you won't,' Marc said teasingly. Polly turned to him, he was leaning back on his elbows, pushing his hands into his jeans pockets, rearranging an impressive hard-on rather obviously. She turned away quickly, not knowing whether to be appalled or to giggle.

‘C'mon,' he implored, ‘no one need know – ain't that notion exciting?'

‘Yes,' said Polly, holding tight on to his eyes, ‘very.'

‘There you go,' Marc exclaimed in a very gravelly voice. Turning on to his side, he prised her legs apart with his knee and wedged it up against her crotch.

Oh God: ‘Body on the Beach'.

‘I didn't mean to flirt,' Polly said, not daring to move. She shook her head, and then shook it again at herself. ‘Well, I did, I suppose. But now I don't want anything more. Truly I don't.'

‘Sure you do,' Marc persisted, hovering a ready-cupped hand over her right breast.

‘I don't, I assure you,' Polly said, grabbing his hand and holding it steady. They lay quietly for a few moments, her hand against his wrist, his leg still between hers, then she tapped his thigh like a mother waking a child.

‘Sorry,' she said, opening her legs to free herself and sitting up, smiling at the sand and her silhouette. ‘But, do you know, I
don't
want it. I
did
—' she qualified somewhat hesitantly, tucking her hair behind her ears only for it to flop back, ‘I think. Yesterday – this morning even. With either of you – both of you, even. But I don't
now
. I really don't.'

Marc grabbed his balls in a rough caress. Polly's breasts heaved in momentary panic.

Am I going to be OK?

‘Well, shit,' he said despondently, adding a ‘y' between the ‘i' and ‘t' for emphasis, shaking his head in frustration. ‘You sure?' he tried, with a wheedling smirk, an obvious wink and a lot of lip-licking.

‘Perfectly,' Polly confirmed. He regarded her sternly, observed her breasts remorsefully and finally gave a theatrical sigh in the direction of his cock. He stood up and helped Polly to her feet. They made their way back to his Jeep, Polly a few steps ahead of Marc.

‘Great ass!' he tried, one final time.

‘Thanks,' said Polly, over her shoulder.

Marc held the door for her and then settled himself behind the steering-wheel. He slapped it hard. ‘Bang goes my bang,' he rued. Polly jerked and regarded him warily. He was quick to smile broadly and put her at her ease. ‘I guess sucking face is out of the question too?' he probed, nudging Polly gently in the ribs until she accepted his smile, his words and his intentions as harmless and convivial.

Thank God.

Well done, girl.

Polly is out and about with the morning birds, having hired a bike, positively rickety, but fun all the same. Her boat doesn't leave until this afternoon. It's bliss to be by herself. She cycles along deserted lanes with the hush and rustle of the long grass damping down the sporadic squeaks and cranks of the bicycle. Her destination is Gay Head, about which Bill had waxed lyrical while purple prose had tumbled from Marc's lips. She is nearing there now. And it is lovely, magnificent even. Polly feels good and solitary, as she hoped; alone but not lonely. She stands awhile and wonders if this feeling is the desired effect she has sought. She rather thinks it is. Pleased with her conclusion, she turns her interest outward. There is something over there, a statue perhaps. She nestles the bike down into an eiderdown of grass and explores on foot.

Bronze. About four foot high, streaked and striated pale green-grey with the years. A little girl, about five years old, Polly reckons. The flutter of her pinafore dress caught motionless in bronze, a grasp of flowers in one hand, a hankie in the other. She wears little cobbley ankle boots, laced up tight and finished with a bow. Her face is not of anyone known and yet its inherent innocence seems to speak for all children. Polly catches her breath as the sightless eyes see right through her and beyond, way over the dunes, to the sea. And beyond.

Is it you?

Yes, it is me.

Josephine.

1950–1956.

So she was six. Polly bows her head in respect and bewilderment and wonders why she is so close to tears. She looks about her and spies primula, cow parsley and some plain but pretty grasses. Gathering them together, she binds them as best she can.

Here, Josephine, for you. From him.

‘Excuse me,' Polly asks Marsha later, bags at her side, ready to settle her check having returned the bike and washed her face, ‘could I ask you something?' she ventures, knowing full well that she can because Marsha is amenable and chatty and has looked after her well these past few days.

‘Sure, hon,' the landlady says, ‘go right ahead.'

‘Who's Josephine?' Polly asks in quiet tones, ‘who was she?'

Marsha appears frozen in time and caught in remembered grief. She shuffles a little and asks ‘Josephine?', but Polly knows full well that she knows who she means. ‘Little Josephine Bauer?' Marsha asks quietly through slanted eyes; testing, perhaps.

Polly nods, as if she knew her surname all along. ‘Who died. When she was six.'

With a tired, sad shake of her head, and a swipe of hands over her apron, Marsha gazes at a point not yet visible to Polly and speaks.

‘Little Josephine Bauer – a prettier petal you could not have found. Always full of joy – folks even nicknamed her Joysephine, you know, like a New Yorker would? She found a boat. I mean, hell, they're not hard to find, this being an island and all. But, though we drum it into all our kids not to horse around in the water, somehow this boat was just too pretty for the little girl to resist. She wanted to follow her daddy to work. Wanted to go over to the Cape. It wasn't a sea-worthy vessel, just a small boat for rivers and ponds, the type for playing in of an evening. Honey, Fate had moored it loosely in a little cove – and where was the Lord when Josephine climbed in? That's what I want to know. I still ask. Where
was
He? Only the boat was found. We searched for days. For months. Some folk are still searching.'

‘Waiting for Josephine,' Polly murmurs; ‘poor little mite,' she says, cringing at how insufficient it is.

‘Her pop, old Sam Bauer, well, it drove him out of his mind and right off the Vineyard,' Marsha continued while swiping Polly's credit card through the machine. ‘His waking hours became Pain, his sleep Purgatory. His heart all but died. He's never returned. Please sign.'

Polly signs and embraces Marsha instinctively. It is time to go.

Sam, Sam, why didn't I stay? Take the second boat which Josephine would not have been on anyway?

Polly is sailing back now, anxious to see the land loom for she knows who will be waiting.

I'll wait for Max.

They are nearing the harbour and Polly's eyes dart agitatedly to locate him. She can't yet see him but she knows he will be there, waiting. Like he was yesterday. And the day before. And the day before that, when she had waited with him. She feels wretched that she is just one of the many passengers causing him torment for not being Josephine.

There he is, over there. In blue today, a hat too. Older, more fragile than I remember; really so papery.

Polly smiles in his direction, trying hard to hold on to his pale eyes. He is too involved, searching for someone else, to recognize or even notice her.

I can hear him now and I don't want to.

‘I'm waiting for Josephine,' he says to no one in particular.

Polly's eyes prick so she shields them with sunglasses. She turns her head away and merges anonymous, useless, with the crowd.

Maybe the next ferry.

She walks on without looking.

W
hen Polly left Martha's Vineyard early, convinced that her true home and heart could only ever be with Max, Max himself had been in Cornwall for five days and had started to take great interest in the property pages of the local paper, placing the tip of a felt pen gently against the newsprint every now and then and watching the red dot blot.