Polly (42 page)

Feeling a little nauseous, Polly cursed Max's sense of duty, hating about him that which she had always admired.

Oh Christ, he's come here to dump me.

The notion chilled Polly so severely that she had to detour to her apartment for a jumper and was late for class as a result. She went in search of Lorna as soon as school finished. Lorna wore a maniacal smile and punched Polly quite hard on the biceps.

‘Yo Fenton! Guess who's on my table at Formal Meal?'

‘What?' Polly flustered. ‘No, listen, something's happened.'

‘You bet it has!' Lorna brandished.

‘No,' Polly almost shouted and continued without pause for breath, ‘it has, something really has happened. He's here. Max. Max is here. He didn't write and I wish he had. He's come from England. I want a letter instead, not him here. He's come over to, oh God, to finish. It. I know it. With me. You see? God. I want a letter.'

‘Hey hey,' said Lorna, ‘I know – I know.'

‘You do?' Polly wailed, ‘he
has
?'

‘Whoah! What I'm saying is that I know he's
here
because he's on Kate's table at Formal Meal and she's invited me too.'

‘You too?'

‘Yeah,' Lorna said with a shrug, ‘me.'

‘See,' Polly said forlornly, ‘see what I mean?'

Lorna embraced her friend. ‘Crazy bitch,' she said affectionately, ‘you're jumping to conclusions.'

‘Better than grasping on to false hope,' said Polly, suddenly wanting to hit Lorna.

Polly hardly ate at Formal Meal. She put on a passable veneer for her table and joined in the conversation perfunctorily. She found her eyes disobeying her orders, by constantly darting over to Kate's table, circumnavigating it clockwise until they alighted on Max who sat with his back towards her. She did not catch his eye once and the laughter trickling over from Kate's table unnerved her. As the hall emptied, she hung back because she supposed she ought to. To wait. Till eight. Somehow, in the mêlée, she missed Max entirely and was soon left with just a trickle of loitering students who did not notice her at all. She was overcome by a desire to be utterly alone, she did not want Max to be there, she did not want to know a Max Fyfield at all.

I think it would be safer not to, much less complicated – to be all by myself instead, all on my lonesome.

Returning to Petersfield House, she walked slowly, half hoping that Max would in fact be there, half hoping that he would not.

What is it that I want?

As she neared, however, there was no sign of him and he appeared not to be inside either. Polly found herself to be bitterly disappointed.

What is it that he wants?

The girls were making noisy use of the last ten minutes before study time, and Polly was able to creep to her apartment unseen. She phoned Kate.

‘Kate? Polly. Max there?'

‘No.'

‘Oh,' said Polly, ‘'kay.'

She hung up before Kate had the chance to tell her that Max was on his way over. Polly stuck her head out from her doorway and bellowed, ‘Study hour!' Her girls had never heard such a tone and they scurried to their work obediently. Polly shut her door and curled up on the couch, crying hard, wanting to cry silently, not wanting to cry at all; failing.

Fucking failing. What a fucking failure.

There was a knock at the door, to which she hollered ‘study hour'. A few moments later, however, another knock.

‘Study hour,' she whimpered under her breath, pulling herself up and sitting hunched, shoulders heaving. ‘It's bloody study hour,' she whispered, ‘go away and study.'

Knock knock.

‘Who's there?'

‘It's me. Max.'

‘Why are you crying?' he asks, tucking her hair behind her ear and letting his hand cup her head.

‘Don't know,' she sobs, taking her face away from the comfort of his chest only momentarily before barging it back, lest this should be the last time she can lie there.

‘You sad? Happy?' he probes, slipping his hands down on to her shoulders, the remembered feeling of their shape greeting him once more.

‘Yes,' she says, ‘and yes.'

‘Happy and sad?' he reiterates. ‘Me too.' They share a sigh and stand very still. They hold on to each other, tight; Max breathing deeply into the top of Polly's head, Polly burying her face against him. His arms around her, one hand enmeshed in her hair; her arms locked together around his waist.

God, this is too tempting.

I can't hold on tight enough. He'll slip away.

‘Shall we go for a walk?' Max asks, though he stifles a yawn and tells himself sharply that he is not tired.

Polly looks unhappy. ‘It's bloody study hour,' she cries, sobbing afresh. Max blots her tears with his thumbs.

He used to kiss my tears away.

Give him a chance, Polly.

‘Talk, then?' Max suggests before succumbing to a yawn of prodigious proportions. Polly smiles at him and gives a hearty sniff to wrap up her cry.

‘You're bushed, my boy.'

‘I am, I suppose,' Max concedes, rubbing his eye with the back of his hand like a child.

I love him. Oh I do. I want to tell him. I want to touch him.

Go on then.

‘Maybe you'd better go and have a long sleep.'

Oh, very romantic, Polly.

‘We could talk tomorrow. It's sports afternoon so I'm free.'

Good girl.

‘OK,' Max nods, ‘you're probably right. I wouldn't want to say something in a sleepy stupor that I might regret.'

What might that be?
wondered Polly, unnerved, as she showed him the door and bid him sweet dreams.

He was tender just now, wasn't he? That must mean that he wants me, that he wants to come back. That's why I could let him go and sleep, you see, because he'll be back tomorrow. He said so.

Polly took Max on a cycle ride to Grafton the following afternoon. The reason was twofold for she was as proud of her increased fitness as she was of the area in which she was living. Max was impressed by both and Polly liked the ambiguity contained in his frequently and breathlessly expressed ‘Beautiful!' Was it in reference to the sight of her pert bottom as she stood in her cleats and cycled up hill? Was it the hill itself? Was it the hill that made him sound breathless, or the sight of her? Whichever, Max seemed to be enjoying his afternoon.

That's the main thing. He'll stay.

They filled a basket from the Grafton Stores and cycled on out of town to the cheese factory where they bought a chunk of Vermont Cheddar. They pedalled on a few miles until they found a picture-perfect shaded dell near to where Saxtons River and Turkey Mountain Brook meet.

‘Fantastic names,' Max marvelled, unpacking the provisions and smacking his lips, ‘Turkey Mountain Brook.'

‘How about Pompanoosuc?' Polly suggested gaily, pointing it out on the map.

‘Pompanoosuc,' Max repeated in a very odd accent but with great rhythm. They laughed.

‘We could go to Dorset,' Polly suggested wide-eyed, ‘or Peru. There's Weybridge too – or perhaps you'd prefer Manchester?'

‘Manchester? I rather think not,' Max chuckled.

‘Sunderland?' Polly pushed, ‘Plymouth? They're all here, all in Vermont.'

‘Ottaquechee,' Max enunciated carefully, scrutinizing the map.

‘It's a river, a town and a gorge – pretty spectacular and not far from here,' Polly enthused. ‘Perhaps we could go. I'm off duty from four on Saturday.'

Max flopped down on to the grass and rested his arms on his knees, map open and dangling in his right hand.

Did he hear me?

Polly laid her hand on his shoulder, because just at that moment she was overcome with affection for him. His slightly startled reaction, however, made her pretend at once that she was seeking only balance and she gave a convincing wobble as she took off her shoes.

‘Harmonyville,' Max continued as if he hadn't noticed. Polly fell silent and cast her gaze over to him until he dragged his eyes away from the map and looked directly at her.

‘Harmonyville,' Polly said, in a quiet voice but strong. ‘You and I could live in Harmonyville.' Max looked a little confused and was about to return his attention to his current surroundings when Polly kept him focused. ‘We could inhabit Harmonyville, Max – because, do you know, I think it's probably as much a notion, a spiritual place, as a real town in Vermont, U.S. of A.'

‘Cheese?' Max offered, after a loaded silence during which he and Polly locked eyes.

‘Please,' Polly said, wondering if she was allowed to feel somewhat triumphant.

Because he didn't flinch, did he? He didn't frown or even look away. Harmonyville. He didn't disagree. That's it. We're going to live in Harmonyville.

They ate their lunch, dangling toes in the water and feeling the not unpleasant sensation of just damp moss blush through their shorts.

‘Polly,' Max said. Polly looked up. He cast his eyes away. She shuffled over to him.

‘Max?'

‘I don't see how you think we can make a go of things. Do you really
believe
?'

‘Oh yes, I do, oh indeed, yes yes,' Polly rushed, almost before Max had pronounced his question mark. ‘Certainly. No doubt. I'm positive. Definitely.'

‘Hold on.' Max sounded a little irritated and his raised hand and diverted gaze compounded this impression. ‘We can't just pick up where we left off, can we?'

Polly's brain worked hard.

God. Quick, a question – quickly, answer him.

‘'Course we can,' Polly said urgently trying to turn a blind eye away from the jumble of images rampaging across her mind: Chip, England last Christmas, Jen in her flat, herself running in hysterics to Kilburn, Dominic's eyes seeing right through her, a BGS class room, Mount Hubbardtons in the snow, the taste of grits, the smell of Buster's cat food.

‘No,' she conceded quietly, ‘I suppose not.'

‘We can't,' Max stated, shaking his head resignedly, ‘just not possible.'

God. Quick, a solution – think of something. Change his mind. Reassure. Persuade.

‘New beginnings!' Polly chirped up, having blinked hard to dispel the intrusive images. ‘A new start, a new phase.'

Max looked at her, grazing his teeth along his bottom lip. She could not read what he was thinking and her inability to do so, as much as wondering what it was that he was thinking, unnerved her.

I don't understand. Last night he was all tenderness – now he's distant. What does that mean – what can and should I do? Beg? Why is he here? What does he want?

She shuffled over to him, sat on her heels and placed her hands on his.

‘I mean, think how young we were when we started out as a couple,' Max said clearly, ‘and, as Chloë pointed out, we've had no real obstacles to test us, for us to contend with, nothing that provides a yardstick of our strength, of our true worth as a couple.'

Who the fuck is Chloë?

Listen to him, Polly.

‘So now. Now? Well! Think about it, Polly. If we were to start afresh, might we not discover very different people from those we were so attracted to when we first started seeing each other?'

Polly looked away, desperate not to understand his point but knowing at once that what he had just said was horribly comprehensible and upsettingly, undeniably, pragmatic. A chipmunk appeared and seemed to smile at her. She looked back to Max and found him regarding her, as if in assessment. He shrugged and looked away.

Don't look away.

But I can't look at you.

Why not? Please do.

I don't want to.

‘I don't know, Polly,' Max continued, ‘but I
do
know that things happen for a reason. Maybe we were coming to a natural end and it was all just, well,
hastened
.'

‘But,' said Polly, the dawning of reality bringing with it a sensation of burgeoning panic, her heartbeat giving her a headache, ‘I
do
love you.' Max looked away quickly, as if she had said the last thing he had wanted to hear.

Tough. I am going to say it loud and clear.

‘I love you, Max Fyfield. I know I haven't treasured you enough. I want to be with you. Really I do.'

‘I loved you – what we had,' said Max, looking sad and worryingly resigned too.

‘Don't speak in the past tense,' Polly pleaded hoarsely, reaching out to him again. Max rose to his feet, though, and pulled his leg away from her just as soon as she'd encircled it with her arm.

‘I think I have to,' he said, ‘because, until I have a realistic sight of the tenable future – immediate and short term – I have no alternative.'

They cycled back in silence. Max leading the way.

K
ate rarely ventured deeper into the labyrinth of Hubbardtons Academy than the Art faculty and the dining hall, which were set conveniently on the periphery. That night, however, she strode to Petersfield House with purpose. She knocked on the door to Polly's apartment and entered without waiting for a response.

‘Polly?'

Kate marched in and out of the kitchenette and the sitting-room before coming across her, sitting in a hunch with legs akimbo, just outside her bedroom door.

‘Polly? You OK?'

Polly raised a pale face and nodded unconvincingly.

‘Listen, hon, you get yourself up, you hear? He's talking about leaving tomorrow and you have to save the day.'

‘I can't.'

‘Don't be so goddam defeatist. Yes you can. You have power. You are a woman.'

Polly looked at Kate suspiciously, wanted at once to giggle and sing her words à la Whitney Houston, but she knew fundamentally that Kate was wise and that her wisdom came from knowledge through experience.