Polly (41 page)

‘It was a lot of fun,' Kate responded, ‘your birthday was just an excuse.'

‘Yeah,' Polly rolled, as she had learned from the kids, ‘right.'

‘You want to come by and thank the artists for your card?' Kate continued. ‘Walls are done and we've started on the ceiling. It looks so good.'

‘Love to,' said Polly, ‘I have a free period before lunch.'

‘Did you see that guy?' Lauren asked Heidi, eyes agog.

‘Mrs Tracey's new assistant?' Heidi gasped, holding her heart. The girls licked their lips and offered silent prayers.

‘
See
him,' Zoe interjected, ‘I, like, had two classes with him. He is just
too
nice.'

‘What's his name?' Heidi probed.

‘Mr Fielding or something – I don't know, I was so gone, man,' Zoe responded, feigning a faint. The girls laughed.

‘Miss Fenton,' Lauren asked as their teacher came into the class room and started taking marked essays from her bag.

‘Lauren?' Miss Fenton replied.

‘You seen that new teacher? Know his name?'

‘No and no,' said Miss Fenton, ‘who and where?'

‘A guy,' said Heidi, ‘art.'

‘I think he's English,' Zoe furthered, ‘or Australian or something.'

‘Oh yes?' Miss Fenton said, handing back essays, ‘I'll check with Mrs Tracey later. These were diabolical.'

At ten past twelve, Polly made her way over the lawns to the art building. The main studio was empty, its walls defiantly white. The smaller studio was dark, with paintings by Manet projected on to the walls. The senior art history group sat in hushed reverence, witnesses to the execution of Maximilian; total silence save the whirr of the slide carousel. But no Kate.

Maybe downstairs, lots of wall space there.

‘Kate!'

‘Polly!'

They passed on the stairs, Kate appearing a little agitated and eager to continue her ascent.

‘I came to thank your class,' Polly said.

‘Go right ahead,' Kate said, looking steadily ahead of her, ‘I got to be some place else.' She laid a hand on Polly's shoulder and then used it to lever herself on up the stairs. Polly made her way down and could already see a snatch of colour-festooned wall before she reached the bottom step. As she approached the room, the colour was almost audible and the light emanating from it seemed to seep along the corridor in a prelude.

‘My God!' Polly exclaimed when she entered. ‘Wow!'

Students on stepladders, students kneeling on the floor, students under the trestle tables, all stopped to observe her; their paint-sodden rags, sponges and fingers suspended. ‘It's
mar
vellous,' Polly gasped, crouching a little to admire the decorated underside of the tables. ‘Wow. It's fan
tastic
.'

‘You like it?' asked a student, with a face almost entirely blue which he pressed against a small, bare patch of wall.

‘I
love
it!' Polly exclaimed, craning her head to admire the ceiling.

‘So do I,' said Max.

Max?

Max?

Where?

Here.

I'm here.

Though Polly locates his voice as being behind her, she stares fixedly ahead, concentrating hard on the abstract shapes on the wall in front of her, finding that they make far more sense than the fact that Max is here in this room now. Behind her. Just over there. Her heart seems to be racing a relay between her stomach and her mouth, not knowing where to settle or how to slow down. Her mind is racing too fast for her to catch hold of any sensible thought. She has no idea what to do. No idea what is happening to her. A hand is placed gently on her shoulder, close to her neck, a finger just missing the fabric of her T-shirt so that it alights on her skin. She knows the touch off by heart.

‘Polly?'

Gentle pressure from the hand encourages her to turn.

‘Max?'

It is.

Him.

Here.

‘Mr Fyfelt, can I, like, dunk my shoe in the paint? I think the sole will give great texture.'

‘Fyfield. And certainly you may – texture will give soul.'

‘Max?'

‘Mr Flyfield, what's the complementary colour of red? I forget.'

‘Fyfield. Green.'

‘Max?'

‘Mr Fryfeel, can I go to the bathroom.'

‘Fyfield, of course.'

‘Max?'

‘Polly.'

Kate appears and dismisses them with no more drama than if she had merely asked both of them simply to watch her class for a few minutes.

Off you go, both of you.

M
mm. Lovely. Can't you just see it? Max and Polly lying on a river bank, running fingers through downy grass and through each other's hair. So very Hollywood. Max and Polly gazing at the stunning landscape and deep into the soul of one another. Listen to the emotive, syrupy symphony in the background. Max and Polly kissing so gently in the privacy and protection of the maples. This is the stuff of Oscars. A lovely, cosy closing of our story at the very least. Max and Polly taking a moonlit walk, hand in hand, eyes locked into each other; smiles lit by their own brilliance and echoed by the platinum grin of a new moon. Fairy-tale magic. Max and Polly laughing. Happy, both of them. Together again. Happy now and happy ever after.

I love you.

And I love you.

The end.

Almost.

Not quite.

Not just yet.

Polly had no idea what to do once she and Max had left the art building. She didn't know where to look, what to say, how to feel or why, in the first place, Max was actually here.

Can you believe it? He's come! To me. I've had a glance or two but I'm too butterfly-flustered to gaze on him and really catch his eye. But I have more than caught his eye, haven't I – because he's all the way over here to be with me. Funny, but now that he's here, in Hubbardtons, he looks much taller somehow – I suppose I've been recalling him as more of the boy back home. Certainly not the man here now. Ssh! He's going to speak. He's taken my wrist – oh, blissful day!

‘Go for a walk?' Max suggested. Polly nodded and set off in the direction her feet were already pointing. Conveniently, it took them out of the school grounds and along a narrow, steep lane, densely wooded.

‘Surprised?' Max asked.

‘Very,' said Polly, encircling both hands around Max's wrist.

‘Stunning round here,' said Max in a flat voice at odds with his remark, ‘I can see why you feel so settled and at home.'

‘Settled?' Polly barked inadvertently, off her guard, quite taking Max aback.

Why are you here?

Maybe I wish I wasn't.

‘Sorry,' Polly rushed meekly and walked on.

Oh God. There's an atmosphere – it's heavy and fragile simultaneously. What do I do now?

‘Max?' she asked, stopping suddenly, now holding his right forearm between both her hands, tugging slightly. ‘You here? Why are you here?'

‘Don't really know,' he replied, his honesty slicing through Polly like a blade. He pulled his arm so that his hand caught hers and yet she was powerless to keep a hold.

‘Oh,' said Polly, out of bewilderment, desperation; walked on because she didn't know what else to say. She held out her hand without looking at Max and her heart crept back up her ribcage when he decided to take it. Within seconds, holding hands felt very odd, palms were uncharacteristically sweaty and neither of them held on very tight; as if too much pressure might indeed be too much pressure, as if touching with any conviction might be tempting fate or heading for disappointment.

Has he something to tell me? Good news or bad?

The path ended and pastureland opened in front of them. A fence. A gate. A felled tree trunk placed conveniently a few yards on. Down on it they sat and concentrated hard on the beautiful view.

‘I'm sorry I didn't see you before you went,' Max said, regarding Polly who stared straight ahead of her, a vague smile fixed safely to her lips.

‘Are you?' she said.

‘No,' Max replied, with the same cutting honesty – the quality Polly loved best about him but now wished he lacked. ‘Not really. I couldn't have.'

‘'Sokay,' said Polly, employing her trademark brightness to mask deep hurt. ‘Don't worry. I understand.'

‘Do you? Well, I think we need to talk,' Max said cautiously, ‘—although I don't really think we could have
then
, if you see.'

‘No,' Polly concedes, ‘and yes.'

‘But now I'm here, I haven't a clue what to talk about.' Max chuckled softly, rose and stood with his back to Polly, looking at Vermont. Polly cupped her eyes and observed him.

New shirt. Nice. Suits him. Can't believe he's here. What does he want?

‘What do you want,' Max asked, turning to her, towering over her, ‘Polly Fenton?'

Polly couldn't reply for she had no voice and no true notion of the answer.

‘Go for a walk?' she tried. Max smiled quickly but kindly and dropped to his heels. One hand splayed over the grass for balance, the other lolled over his knee. Though she scoured his face, his gaze remained fixed on a point beyond the mountains. Polly looked at his fingers instead but realized with some horror that the very sight of them made her want to cry. She blinked fast.

Can't cry, he might back off – but it might make him come closer. Don't know which any more. Too much of a risk.

‘What do
you
want?' she asked Max quietly, hoping he wouldn't reprimand her for answering a question with a question.

‘I don't know,' he said openly, taking his seat again beside Polly on the tree trunk. He looked at her. ‘But I
am
over here,' he said, ‘in Vermont. With you.'

Yes!

‘Yes,' she marvelled, ‘you are.'

‘And I wouldn't be if—' he pondered.

Oh thank God, darling Max.

‘—if nothing meant anything any more,' Polly finished for him, with a premature tone of triumph.

‘I suppose so,' said Max. Polly sensed his shy smile but she dared not catch his eye.

‘Yes,' said Polly. Very slowly she tiptoed shy fingers over his arm and walked them lightly down to his wrist. ‘Hullo Max,' she said, making no attempt to mask the crack in her voice. Max looked out over Vermont again.

God, this could be so easy. She's so tempting. It could be so difficult.

There was so much to talk about that he could find nothing to say. ‘You staying long?' Polly asked to a shrug from Max. ‘Where are you staying?'

‘With your friend Kate,' Max replied.

‘In my bedroom?' Polly asked lightly.

‘Great Aunt Clara's,' Max corrected, ‘I believe.'

‘Yes,' Polly confirmed, ‘Great Aunt Clara's.'

This is horrendously awkward. What I really want to do is leap up and spin around and sing ‘You're here, Max, you're here.' But, do you know, something's holding me back. Him. I don't think he wants me to.

‘Listen, I have to make a move, I have a class,' Polly apologized, cursing the sight of her watch.

‘Of course,' said Max, checking his.

You could always bunk off. I mean, Megan did. That's how I'm here. Prioritize, hey? Shouldn't you stay with me so we can try to talk a little more? I'm being manipulative. Her love for her job was one of the qualities I most admired in her.

‘Walk with me?' Polly held her hand out a little way.

Oh God, you paused, Max. Say ‘yes' right now, say you'll walk with me. Please want to.

‘I think I'll stay here – if that's OK – jet lag busting,' Max said, rolling his sleeves up and turning his face, eyes closed, to the sun.

‘'Kay,' said Polly, shuffling a little and wondering about the penalty for a teacher skiving a class.

Go on, do it.

Can't.

‘See you later?' Max said, eyes still closed but face inclined a little in her general direction.

‘'Kay,' said Polly. ‘It's Formal Meal tonight, though.'

‘OK,' said Max.

‘After?' Polly suggested. ‘Eight-ish? Better go.'

‘Have a good afternoon.'

‘You too.'

‘Bye now.'

‘Bye then.'

Polly felt most disconcerted as she wound her way back down to the school. She felt physically winded and held a hand to her diaphragm. She felt exhausted; the huge surge of hope that had nourished every cell in her body and filled her soul when she realized Max was in Vermont had suddenly drained away. Now she felt depleted, like a ragdoll in need of more stuffing. Because of course, Polly often gallops headlong to conclusions, leaping up and grasping at threads she is convinced are as strong as ropes, without really assessing the true facts often staring her in the face. That's why she falls. So far, she's always bounced. Maybe she needs to crumple so she can actually pick herself up. Predictably, Polly had decided in an instant that if Max had flown across the Atlantic to come to her, surely it could mean only one thing. A modern knight coming for her, coming because of her – his shining armour and his powerful white steed updated to twentieth-century aeronautical engineering. So what? The romance of it all was intact. Until, of course, Max started speaking.

He seems distant – and yet he is here.

Yes he is, Polly, and yes he is. Polly, of course, knows nothing about Max's journey to Cornwall, and the discoveries he made there.

Why didn't he want to walk back with me?

Polly doesn't know of Max's ambivalence on the flight over.

He says we should talk – but what about? If he was going to end it all, would he go to all this trouble? And expense? Wouldn't just a call or a letter do? No, that's not his style.