Polly (33 page)

‘Nanny goat indeed,' the man chuckles, offering his hand in welcome and to aid Max to his feet, ‘I'm William Coombes.'

‘Max Fyfield,' says Max, grasping William's hand in more gratitude than he could know.

‘Your daughter?'

‘Genevieve,' confirms William, setting a slow passage back to the cottage, as if he always walks at that pace, regardless of whether his guest is blistered to buggery.

Max's feet are indeed burning but the downy grass underfoot, coupled with William's affability, seems to lessen the discomfort somehow.

‘I'm a potter.'

‘I'm a draughtsman.'

Their approval of each other's calling warranted a generous measure of whisky each, which they sipped amiably while watching Genevieve smear her supper over her face.

‘I read somewhere that babies have taste buds on their faces,' Max reasoned. William raised his glass.

‘Have you any kids?'

‘No,' said Max, ‘how long have you been married?'

‘Oh, I'm not married,' William said easily.

‘Single parent?' Max asked earnestly.

‘No. I'm incredibly unsingle, in fact. Just very unmarried too. You?'

‘Nope.'

It was the concerted way in which Max pondered into his whisky that decided William not to pry, but afforded him a glimpse to the possible reasons for his guest to have been pounding the cliffs and gazing far beyond the sea.

‘Where is your non-wife?' Max asked, his voice rough from a deep slug of liquor. He regarded his watch. Gone six o'clock.

‘She's at work. In St Ives,' William explained with touching pride. ‘She'll be home quite soon actually.'

‘St Ives,' Max mulled, wondering if it was where his Beetle was.

‘Doubt it – bastard to park there,' said William, somehow reading his guest's mind.

‘Will she mind me being here?' Max asked, looking around the kitchen and liking it. ‘The mother of your child?'

‘Chloë?' said William. ‘Not at all.'

‘Hullo?'

‘Hey Dom, it's me.'

Dominic covered the mouthpiece, mouthed ‘Thank you God' at the ceiling and grinned at Megan who smiled back, woozy with sleep. It was half eight on a Sunday morning, after all. Dominic cleared his throat.

‘You wanker, where the fuck are you?'

‘With friends,' his brother replied, not in the least offended.

‘I was coming on to the “with” part. How about the where bit?'

‘
Welsh
Where Bit?' Max joked.

‘You in
Wales?
' Dominic asked, stunned.

‘No,' said Max, knowing it too early for his brother to have noticed the pun, ‘Cornwall.'

‘What? I didn't know you had friends in bloody Cornwall. Didn't know you've ever been.'

‘Neither did I. And I hadn't.'

‘Oh God, you haven't joined some nutty cult or something?'

“Course not.'

‘You're not going to sea?'

‘Nope. Feet firmly on the ground – at last. Just having some space and peace. Staying with mates.' There was silence the other end. ‘No offence,' Max added quickly.

‘None taken,' said Dominic, offended. ‘Keep in touch, yeah?'

‘Will do,' Max assured him. ‘Oh, er, any news?'

‘No news,' said Dominic, peeling his ear for his brother's reaction; hearing nothing.

‘Right,' said Max. ‘Bye for now.'

‘Take care,' said Dominic.

‘Will do,' Max replied.

Dominic snuggled up against Megan, in whose embrace he could not doubt his standing nor the strength of her affection.

Max had been with William and his family for two days. They had retrieved his Beetle yesterday, after a short search, and it was now parked in front of the potter's cottage. They had been generous with their antiseptic and plasters, their home and their attention, and they had implored him to stay as long as he liked. Just then, he thought he very probably would.

Three days ago I did not know of the existence of this place, nor of its inhabitants. Now it feels more like home than any other place I've known. Apart from Polly's bosom. Shut it. Stop it. Block her out.

It occurred to Max, as he washed up from breakfast, that these were not merely people he had met; swiftly they had become much much more. He looked around. It was silent; serene. Chloë had gone to work and William had taken Genevieve to Tumble Tots before visiting an elderly potter with whom, he'd warned Max, he'd no doubt spend more than the prescribed morning.

These are good friends and they are also my friends. I've been thinking how everyone back home is connected to me only via Dominic or Polly. Take the protagonists out of the situation and where would I stand? I'd not thought – I'd rather not. But here, I am accepted and liked just because I'm Max Fyfield. They are aware that I have a brother but they don't know him. I haven't mentioned Polly at all.

Cornwall has become Max's Vermont. I think it's healthy, beneficial, for Max to garner his own slice of anonymity. Here, he need be no one but himself; he can push the burden of his commitments and habits and the expectations of others to one side and lie down, unencumbered, on the cliffs. He's entitled to enjoy the here and now. He deserves to put Polly and London to the back of his mind. Let him imagine how good life could be for him right here, from this point forwards.

Max takes a cup of tea out to the garden, greeting Barbara cordially. The clarity of the morning promises a glorious afternoon.

I think I'll borrow William's bike and cycle into St Ives. Tell Chloë I'll fix dinner tonight. Pick up some wine.

The sea parades its unequalled collection of diamonds. Max believes they belong to him. Dream-soft clouds blush their way across an otherwise uninterrupted blue sweep of sky. Tiny wild violets sing out for attention and the faint scent of coconut comes in gentle wafts from the gorse. There is not a soul in sight. Max finds himself smiling broadly and it makes him laugh. He salutes the day with his mug of tea.

God, I feel good. This has provided me with the reality check I had no idea I so needed. Maybe I've felt where the buck stops. Maybe I've found where it is to start again. Good friends. A beautiful land. New beginnings.

O
n the Fyfield Scale of Looks, they rank high, very,
Polly thought on waking.
However, what they score in appearance, they forfeit in terms of Fyfield charisma.

She giggled and rose from the bed.

There again, which is the more preferable?

These, I'm afraid to say, are Polly Fenton's wakening thoughts.

Polly was excited and a little relieved that it was finally morning and a decorous time to rise. She had slept with the window open and the chill night air had woken her intermittently, during which times she had lain in the silence, half-focusing on the vague shadows of the room, still half-inhabiting dreams in which a blurred Max and Dominic were readily exchangeable for the vividly recalled Marc and Bill. She was looking forward to seeing the brothers again.

I know.

Polly really should be soul searching; deep in thought at the very least. Wasn't that the reason for her leaving England early, for coming to Martha's Vineyard in the first place?

It still is.

But it's easier to think about seeing Marc before lunch and Bill after?

Yes.

Is this just your impulsive nature, or is it cowardice?

Both. I freely admit it.

Devastated by Max's rejection, but simultaneously excited by this new attention?

Takes my mind off things.

I thought you intended your mind to be solely focused on ‘things', on what has happened, on what could be?

I'm not shirking. I've tried but thinking on it all too concertedly makes it irrevocably real.

So, instead, some strange reordering seems to have taken place within Polly's psyche and I think it probably happened while Marc and Bill solicited her, with their Hershey-coloured eyes, over the chocolate-chip ice-cream last night. Polly, it appears, has changed the way in which she views her past and considers her future.

Chip wasn't so much a crime I committed, more of an affliction.

I couldn't help it.

It wasn't really my fault.

You're deluded, but you're hardly going to hear me if you're not prepared to listen to yourself.

‘Lovely,' Polly said, tasting the cinnamon doughnut Marc had bought her, looking about her at the sweet gingerbread harbour houses of Vineyard Haven, candy coloured and made of confection surely.

‘Sure is pretty,' Marc agreed, tracing his eyes from Polly's, down her cheeks to her lips before taking stock of her as a whole, ‘and it sure beats Pittsfield.'

‘Pittsfield?' Polly asked, looking away while hitching up the sleeves of her T-shirt to her shoulders. Marc had done the same. It was not yet eleven but the sun was parading its warmth already. ‘What's Pittsfield?'

‘Not what but where,' Marc corrected. ‘It's my home town. Massachusetts.'

Polly tipped her head to regard him. ‘You're not an islander? Not a Vineyarder?'

Marc raised one side of his mouth into a wry smile. ‘Nope,' he said, ‘but I reckon another couple of years and I should achieve honorary status.'

Polly was at once disappointed and yet intrigued, realizing she had presumed Marc and his brother to be somehow part and parcel of some Vineyard Experience; laid on for her, placed there for her delectation and company.

‘How did you come here?' she asked. ‘Was it the draw of Martha's Vineyard specifically, or merely the desire to leave Pittsfield?'

‘Boat,' Marc shrugged, regarding her wryly.

Polly twitched her nose and raised her eyebrows, glimpsing brain behind the brawn now that she had Marc out in the open and away from his double act; a depth behind his eyes that the restaurant lighting and her self-preoccupation had prevented her seeing the night before.

‘Via Brown,' he continued.

‘Brown what?' said Polly.

‘Brown, Rhode Island,' Marc replied.

‘
Brown
Brown?' Polly asked, trying not to sound incredulous or look too impressed.

‘An Ivy League kinda green, actually,' he qualified with a smirk.

‘Blimey,' said Polly, as much at Marc's clever quip as at his hallowed alma mater.

To her delight, conversation and smiles flowed easily from Marc while she was able to deflect questions which threatened to burrow too deep. He had majored in Political Thought, but running a restaurant was a long-held goal and an honoured promise to his late Italian grandmother. No, Polly wasn't much good at soccer. Yes, she was enjoying her stay. He had lived on the island for six years and intended never to leave. No, she hadn't seen much of the United States at all. He had. Maybe she'd spend a week or two touring once term ended. Had she returned early precisely to visit the Vineyard? Sort of. He had travelled Europe extensively, but he'd never been to England. Maybe he'd come and visit the UK – you. That OK? Perhaps. Did she miss home? Was she content over here? Wasn't it unsettling to trade jobs and countries just for a year?

No. No. And no.

‘Do you know, I like it here,' Polly told Marc, now sat up high next to him in his Jeep, while they drove slowly through stately Edgartown, ‘I like the people and the pace.'

‘It's a pleasure to have you,' Marc said, wondering at what speed to pace his seduction while Polly wondered quite when he was thinking of having her. The salacious smile which met her when she cast a glance over to him quite took her off her guard. It seemed to steep everything in reality and the familiar scent of danger came seeping through. She wound down the window, gulping fresh air, concentrating hard on the surroundings instead, wondering where Carly Simon lived.

It came as no surprise to discover, striding along Catama beach that afternoon, that Bill had studied History at Harvard; though it was a revelation to learn that, at thirty, he was actually two years younger than Marc.

‘That's cos I'm worldly wise, Miss Fenton, and my brother's grossly immature.'

‘I beg to differ,' Polly enunciated sweetly, knowing Bill would like the sound of it. ‘I think your brother's jolly nice,' she said, looking to see whether Bill liked the sound of that so much.

What are you doing, Polly?

I don't know really.

‘Yeah?' said Bill, holding out his hand to help Polly over a dune.

‘You're not too bad yourself,' she furthered, facing the sea with her hands on her hips, her eyes closed because she did not need to see that Bill certainly liked the sound of that. She drank in the fortifying sea air in deep, measured breaths and wondered quite what it was that she was going to do.

Polly returns to Laverly's (armed with a large bag of 90 per cent fat-free sour-cream-and-chive flavour potato chips, a litre bottle of caffeine-free diet Coke), she sits on the swing on the veranda passing time with an elderly artist who spends each spring on the island. They are interrupted by Marsha who informs the gentleman that there are two telephone messages for him. They part, bidding each other a pleasant evening.

Polly goes directly to her room and sits quietly on the edge of her bed, her legs swinging. She retrieves a jar of Marmite and smears generous daubs over the potato crisps with her finger. She munches thoughtfully and swigs the caffeine-and-sugar-depleted Coke directly from the bottle. She goes over to the window without the sea view and cranes her neck in a futile bid to locate the boys' restaurant. She knows where it is. She knows that it is there. She just can't quite see it. Just beyond her field of vision.

She looks down below. The swing on the veranda remains empty and almost motionless. She can hear vacuuming. It's a little irritating. She goes to the bathroom and regards the taps. She needs a bath. She doesn't want one just yet. She sits on the edge of the bath and squeezes a tiny glob of toothpaste on to her tongue to counteract the pervading potency of the Marmite.