Polly

For Osi
Welcome to the family, sis!

Table of Contents

Pennies in a stream

Falling leaves of sycamore

Moonlight in Vermont

Karl Suessdorf & John Blackburn,
Moonlight in Vermont

I
f Polly Fenton had thought for one moment that a year in America was going to have serious ramifications for her accent
and
her relationship with Max Fyfield, she very probably would not be going. But the concept hasn't crossed her mind and so she is trading Belsize Park, London, for Hubbardtons Spring, Vermont, on a teachers' exchange programme.

Tomorrow.

Today, she must pack and prepare.

Currently, she is wrapping articles of clothing around bumper-sized jars of Marmite.

‘Look, Buster, I've never been to America,' she explains to her oversized ginger tom-cat who regards her reproachfully. ‘This is an
amazing
opportunity,' she clarifies, as much to herself as to Buster's withering yawn. ‘Max said so,' she furthers, looking at a photograph of him, clasping it to her heart before swaddling it in pairs of knickers and placing it in the suitcase.

Apart from Buster, Polly actually has everyone's blessing. The offer of the exchange wasn't even put out to tender amongst the school staff and when Polly asked Max what he thought, he declared, ‘Go West, young woman. Wow!'

Her friends have taken to talking to her in American accents, scattering twangy sentences with liberal dashings of ‘sonava', ‘goddam' and ‘gee'. Such supportive reactions have enabled Polly to feel just on the verge of rather excited about her year away. And why shouldn't she be? Her life in London is safe and lovely and she knows it will greet her as such on her return. And yet, over the last week and particularly today, on packing, those quivers of excitement are masking tremors of fear.

She is twenty-seven years old, petite in stature but large in character. Her dead straight, rich brown hair hangs in a neat, fringed bob, the gloss and hue of dark, clear honey (though she wishes it were a more Marmitey shade and sheen, of course). Eyes that are mostly rich hazel turn khaki in times of extreme emotion. They invariably change colour on a daily basis when some fact or fantasy subsumes her.

Presently, with some trepidation, she is rifling through her bathroom cabinet deciding what to take.

‘Do you know, I've never been away from home for more than a fortnight,' she says to herself, very quietly. ‘I haven't been apart from Max for more than four days – and then only twice in our five years.'

She sits on the edge of the bath and her eyes well army-issue green. Her throat is tight. Here it comes. She cries sharply for a few seconds until her throat loosens.

‘Oh dear,' she says, catching her breath and sniffing loudly, while a sorry smile etches its way across her lips. ‘That's better. Much better,' she laughs, as the ablutionary effect of the sob settles in and her eyes shine hazel. ‘Absolutely fine. Where was I?'

Though she taps her temples and scrunches her brow, she can't remember what she was to do in the bathroom so she returns to her bedroom and regards the open suitcase on the bed, gaping like a cavernous, ravenous mouth. She fears that once the lid is closed, the contents might be consumed. She giggles at her ludicrously active imagination developed, as a necessity, in childhood.

If you'd been brought up by an aunt who made Trappist monks seem fervent conversationalists, you too would turn to the most unlikely of objects for a chat.

Polly regards the suitcase, half tempted to take everything out and place it all back in her cupboard and drawers.

Do I really want to go? But, for a whole year?

Too late to back out now.

‘Is that enough Marmite? Have I packed enough clothes?'

Polly weighs the merit of another jar of Marmite against another pair of jeans, looking from one to the other, chewing her lip and procrastinating.

I'm going to the home of the Blue Jean – bloody brilliant!

I'm going away from the home of Marmite – why would I want to do that?

The clothing loses, easily, and the jar of Marmite is wrapped in a T-shirt currently lying unproductive in the suitcase.

She returns to the bathroom. Dilemma. To pack a half-empty bottle of shampoo or buy new. Where? At the airport? Or over there, in America?

‘Saved by the bell!' Polly cheers, straightening her brow and running away from the shampoo conundrum to answer the door.

‘Lalalalala-America!'

It's Max. Singing. He has a lovely voice. Polly throws her arms about his neck and buries her face there while he wraps his arms about her waist and lifts her up. They waddle through the communal hallway back to her flat.

‘Switch the light off, bitch!' comes the familiar tirade from Edith Dale, the old woman living on the top floor.

‘Hullo, hullo? What is the noise please? Is it Sunday?' asks Miss Klee, the frail Swiss woman who lives on the floor above Polly.

‘It's Monday, Miss Klee, the eighth of September,' a muffled Max informs, Polly still clasped on to him, while he flicks the hallway light back on.

Back in Polly's flat, Max sets her down. She goes over to the French doors, sighs at her minute patio and then returns to him.

‘I don't want to go, I don't want to go,' she whispers, drumming her fists lightly against his chest. ‘Tell me I don't have to!' she pleads. ‘Tell me to stay.'

Max holds her wrists and lays her hands either side of her face. ‘Daft thing,' he says with affection, noting her eyes are currently a very sludgy green. ‘Of course you're going. It's an amazing opportunity.'

‘A-
maze
-ing,' Polly repeats ruefully. ‘Will you miss me?' she implores, scanning Max's face which she knows off by heart, wondering how on earth she'll cope without easy access to it over the next year.

‘Will you
miss
me?' she asks again, this time pouting becomingly.

‘Just as much as you'll miss me,' Max assures, pressing his finger gently on the tip of her nose. Her eyes smart with tears but she swallows them away for the time being.

‘Packed?' he asks, ‘ready?'

‘Yes,' says Polly in a small voice, ‘and no.'

‘Clothes as well as Marmite?'

‘Yes,' Polly replies, ‘and yes. The jars would crack otherwise, wouldn't they? Come and see.'

The lid on the suitcase had fallen closed and, as she lifted it, Polly wondered whether the contents would be entire, or half eaten.

‘Absolutely fine,' she said, on close scrutiny.

‘Hey?' said Max, casting his eyes away from the rattle of hangers in the cupboard, the hungry shelves.

‘Oh, nothing,' Polly smiled.

‘Come here, Button,' he said quietly. She went over to him and slid her fingers into the front pockets of his trousers.

‘Why do you call me Button?' she asked for the thousandth time. Max replied with his thousandth shrug. They heaved the suitcase from the bed and curled up together in the impression it had left.

‘Can't I pack you?' Polly asked, walking fingertips over his face.

‘You'd have to forego a lot of Marmite,' Max qualified, taking her hand and kissing the palm.

‘Do you know, I don't think I can live without either of you,' said Polly honestly, folding her fingers lightly over his nose.

Lazily, Max travelled his hand over her body, admiring, as ever he did, her petite frame. Max knelt up beside Polly and looked down upon her.

Polly Fenton. Like a figure ‘2', folded like that. Just us two, too. I must soak it all up. Commit it all to memory, although I don't doubt absence making my heart all the fonder. Strange, though.

Polly had placed an arm across Max's knees, her hand patting his stomach.

‘I'm going to America,' she told him quietly, as if for the first time. ‘Can't wait,' she said, eyes wide. ‘Don't want to go,' she continued, eyes wider still, khaki flecking across them as he watched. Max laughed softly through his nose and bent low to kiss her forehead. Suddenly her arms were around his neck and, though it threatened to break his back, he let her kiss him as if she would never stop. Dozens of feathery lip pinches, like popcorn popping, one after another after another, small and involuntary noises accompanying them. It made him smile but still she continued, kissing his teeth now instead. He pulled away, cocked his head and observed her, returning his lips to hers and just pressing against them, no puckering, while privately asking himself ‘Is she really going?'

Max placed his arms either side of Polly's head and straddled her. He dipped his upper body low, like a press-up, and kissed her nose. He continued these press-up lip-presses, alighting on her forehead, her cheek, her left eye, her chin, her nose, her right eye, her forehead again. As he neared her nose for the third time, she held his face gently and greeted his lips with hers. A long, soft kiss, soon enough a deeper kiss; eyes open and so close that they blurred; passion and love legible regardless.

Up they sat and undressed themselves, like they always did. You touch me while I touch you, like we always do. Under the covers. Cuddle sweetly, kiss lightly. Kiss with tongues. Move closer and grind subconsciously. Fondle her breasts. Feel his cock. Finger her sex. Sidle down his torso and then suck him. Hear his breathing quicken. Good. Flip her over and lick her. Enough. Cover her. Enter her. Hold his buttocks. Kiss his neck. Squeeze her nipples. Kiss. Smile.

Moan. Move.

Swap places.

Move. Moan.

Swap again.

Silence.