Polly (43 page)

‘Tell him you love him.'

‘I tried that,' said Polly, disappointed, ‘it didn't seem to make much of a dent in his armour.'

‘Nice analogy,' said Kate, ‘but you don't need purple prose, you need to yell it at him. Mad Max – swear to God, he is – and you can do something about it.'

‘How do you mean?'

‘Let him see you so broken. Jeez, make the guy guilty. Men like to feel that they must protect us weak little ladies – it's the caveman shit and all.'

‘Don't want to play games,' said Polly, hugging her knees. ‘This isn't a game.'

At last. Well done, Polly.

‘I know it isn't, and that's not what I mean,' Kate implored, crouching down and hugging Polly. ‘I think – and I only just met the guy – but I think he needs convincing. I think you gotta be a little, say,
creative
. I believe it's all there, in him, but he's taken a knock and you know guys, they go into that old self-preservation, I-don't-need-this-shit mode.'

‘Do you think so?' Polly asked, holding out her hand for Kate to hoick her upright. ‘Really?'

‘I know so,' said Kate.

‘You do swear a lot,' Polly marvelled.

‘What do
you
think?' Polly asks Lorna twenty minutes later, having recounted both her afternoon with Max, and Kate's visit.

‘Three things,' Lorna says, holding up a corresponding number of fingers. Polly's wide eyes encourage her to dispense with tea-making and cut straight to the point. She leads Polly from her little kitchen and sits her down on her couch. Lorna perches on her coffee table and leans forwards to Polly.

‘OK,' she says, ‘three things: one, I'm in no doubt that Max does indeed love you, and love you deeply.'

‘Yes?' gasps Polly as if it is the most fantastic, unexpected news ever.

‘I do. Know why?' Lorna asks, answered by Polly's vigorous head shaking. ‘Because he looked at me so so fondly all the way through Formal Meal.'

Oh yes? Bastard! I think he looked at Jen rather fondly too.

‘Idiot!' Lorna chides, mind-reading. ‘You know, it's like you want to love the people that love your partner, that your partner loves too?'

‘OK,' Polly concedes, ‘but what did he say? What d'you think?'

‘Well, I felt he wanted to find out all about me? While mentioning you at any opportunity. I think he wants to get a hold on your life here – how you are, and how you are taken – you see? Make sense?'

Polly nods and her face appears to have warmed up a tone.

‘Number two,' Lorna continues, ‘Kate is right. Heed her words.' Polly jumps visibly but Lorna doesn't stop to check why. ‘Kate is right,' she repeats with a shrug, ‘he needs convincing and you gotta be creative – it shows effort born out of love and conviction – guys really don't need much more, hey?'

Polly nods again and looks hard at the palm of her left hand, as if jotting down points one and two.

‘Three,' Lorna presses on, ‘finally. Last and not least – I want to show you something.'

She takes Polly to her bedroom, motioning in the direction of the chest of drawers near her bed. ‘Second down, left-hand corner.'

Obediently, Polly pulls the drawer but she sees only the neatest pile of crisply ironed T-shirts in the left-hand side. She looks over at Lorna, enquiringly. ‘Shit,' Lorna laughs, stamping lightly, ‘dig
deep,
girl.' Polly lifts one, two, three T-shirts. And then she sees it. Now she's smiling. Now she turns to Lorna and nods, a healthy grin lighting her face. She goes to Lorna and embraces her. They laugh.

Lorna has bought a vibrator. One of eye-watering proportions, no less.

‘'Sme.'

‘Polly Fenton!'

‘Is Dom there? You alone? Is it
Neighbours
?'

‘No – yes – no.'

‘How are you, Meg? I miss you. How am I?'

‘I'm fine – how
are
you? Any, er, news?'

‘What, like Max turning up out of the blue and into the heart of the Green Mountains?'

‘Mmm, that kind of news, yes.'

‘Max has turned up.'

‘No? Really!'

‘As if you didn't know, you dark horse – you and that bloke from
Holidays R Us
.'

‘Just helping out a friend – me and that bloke from
Holidays R Us
.'

‘Oh Meg, he's here and I love him.'

‘
Holidays R Him
?'

‘Max, idiot!'

‘You don't say? Hurray! Hullo? Where've you gone? Hullo?'

‘But – God – I don't think he wants me.'

‘Polly – silly – why come all the way over to see you then, twit?'

‘He is here, yes, but he isn't, if you see what I mean. He's distant like I've never seen him. That's new and frightening.'

‘Go on.'

‘He says we can't pick up where we left off – and we may have changed too much to make a fresh start. I think he wants to call it a day.'

‘That, Polly Fenton, is totally beyond my comprehension – knowing you both as well as I do.'

‘Really?'

‘Honestly.'

‘Then why is he packing as we speak?'

‘Because, Polly, you're not there
unpacking
his stuff and making him want to stay.'

‘I can't force him.'

‘No, it's true, you can't. But you
can
make him
want
to stay.'

‘Zoe?'

‘Hey, Miss Fenton.'

‘Studying OK?'

‘Sure.'

‘Am I interrupting you? Disturbing you?'

‘No, not really – you want something? I done something?'

‘Yes. No. I want to do something for which I need your help. It's highly illegal.'

‘I think you need Beth, don't you?'

‘No Zoe, it has to be you. I trust you, and only you, implicitly.'

Polly sat on the student's bed, reached for a very battered Mickey Mouse and hugged it close. Zoe twisted round in her chair and faced them both.

‘Shoot,' she said, intrigued and just a little uncomfortable.

‘I have to slip out for a mo' – can you hold fort?'

‘How long's a mo'?' Zoe asked, eyes sparkling but not quite able to conjure a convincing image of her teacher buying drugs down some gloomy alley – not least because there was a veritable dearth of gloomy alleys in Hubbardtons. ‘How long's a mo', Miss Fenton?'

‘Potentially,' said Polly cautiously, ‘the same length as a piece of string.'

‘Boyfriend?' Zoe asked quietly, knowing instinctively. Polly nodded. Zoe regarded her with sympathy and affection and awe. ‘Nice to be able to return the favour,' she said.

‘Thanks a million,' said Polly, ‘if anyone asks,
anyone
, I've gone to bed with a sodding headache.'

‘Sure,' Zoe shrugged, ‘sodding. No problem.'

‘I owe you one,' Polly told her, handing Mickey Mouse over.

‘No,' said Zoe, snuffling the toy's head, ‘you don't.'

Polly creeps her way through the unlit sections of the school grounds and takes the back route to Kate's. The light is on in Great Aunt Clara's room but it is also on in the kitchen and she doesn't want to be seen by anyone other than Max. She scurries over to Great Aunt Clara's window and looks in. No Max. There's no one there. But there is a bulging rucksack propped at the foot of the bed. Suddenly, Polly is subsumed with timidity and grief. Now she doesn't even want Max to see her.

I can't do it. I can't make him stay. It's too painful that he doesn't want to, that it's an issue at all. I thought he came here for me? Now he's leaving because of me.

She turns and faces away from the house, takes a few steps back along the path she's just trodden.

Come on, Polly – only a couple of chapters left and it is up to you entirely how they unfold, what will transpire, how it will end.

Don't pressurize me.

Don't be so dramatic. Just turn around and retrace your steps. Check the window and see if it's open. Unpack for Max. Tidy up.

The window is not locked and slides up with much less noise and difficulty than she anticipates. Polly springs herself on to the ledge and eases the mosquito frame open. It needs to come towards her and requires delicate balance and much breath-holding and lip-biting.

She's in. She's in Max's room or Great Aunt Clara's room or her old room – wherever – she's in. She cuddles the rucksack briefly before unpacking it as quickly as she can. It is not an easy task for each article of Max's clothing requires deep inhalation and a prolonged press against her cheek. His shampoo and Bic razors were purchased at the airport. Way overpriced. He's brought three novels, which Polly finds encouraging.

But not enough boxer shorts – only four pairs. Does that mean his ticket was booked for tomorrow anyway?

That's rich, coming from the girl who gives preference to jars of Marmite over articles of her clothing when she packs for a whole term.

But only four pairs? Of boxers?

Yes, but look at all those socks.

Please stay, Max.

Do you want him to see you then? Tonight? Now?

God no!

Then hurry with your task.

‘I think I'll turn in,' Max says to Kate and Clinton, stretching his arms above his head and then letting them drop gently so that they fall as an embrace around Bogey.

Quick, Polly.

‘Sure,' says Kate.

‘Night,' says Clinton.

Hurry, Polly.

‘Night then,' Max says to the couple he's sure he's known most of his life. They send him to bed with their effortlessly generous smiles.

What? Hang on. Where's my stuff? Shit, the window's open – someone's been in. Pinched it. Fuck. Of all the things – in this little one-eyed town. I don't bloody believe it.

Max stood in the room and puzzled over what could have happened, and when, and what to do about it, what to do next. Going through to the kitchen, to alert Kate, seemed logical.

‘Hey Max, insomnia already?'

‘Sorry Kate,' said Max, scratching his head, wondering the best way not to alarm her, ‘Clinton around?' Kate tipped her head and pointed to the ceiling. Right on cue, the sound of the shower whirred into action.

‘Max, you OK?'

‘I'm sorry to say this,' Max said, placing a hand supportively on Kate's shoulder, ‘but you've just been burgled. My stuffs gone.'

‘Burgled? Us? The Traceys? Here in Hubbardtons?'

She shouldn't be smiling – she's going to be devastated. I haven't even checked how much of my stuff has gone, let alone hers.

‘The window wasn't locked – I have it open,' Max apologized, ‘at night.'

‘Never is – always is,' Kate confirmed. She slapped her knees. ‘Come, then, let's go figure this out.'

Max pushes open the door to Great Aunt Clara's room and stands back so that Kate may enter first.

‘All seems OK,' she says, circumnavigating the room and looking long and hard out of the window. (Max isn't to know that she is merely breathing in deep wafts of clear night air while gazing at the shadowy humps defining her beloved plants.)

‘My stuff's been swiped,' Max says, holding up the clean palms of his hands for emphasis. Simultaneously, both he and Kate catch sight of a black strap trying to peep out unnoticed from under the bed. Max swallows the end of his sentence. Kate closes her throat on a swelling laugh.

‘Hold on,' Max falters, venturing near it like it might very well be a snake. ‘Oh.'

‘Yours?' Kate asks as Max draws the rucksack out and holds it, a look of utter bewilderment settling across his brow.

‘Um, yes?'

‘Night night, Max,' says Kate lightly. She is well aware that he had packed. She also knows Polly very well.

‘No, but really – I mean, I was packed and, you know, ready to go. Why would they leave my rucksack?'

Kate comes back into the room, goes over to the warped chest of drawers and pulls at the top one. She has a good look. She beckons Max over. As he nears, though, he knows what he'll find. His boxers, neatly folded. Pairs of socks nestling next to them. A drawer down, T-shirts and tops. He and Kate look over to the wardrobe and go to it together. Kate opens it and Max peers within. His trousers hang there. Shoes beneath them. He looks over to the small cupboard by the side of the bed. The three novels are laid neatly in a tiny spiral staircase.

‘Looks like she doesn't want you to go,' says Kate, patting Max's shoulder and leaving the room.

‘I'm not going – well, not today,' Max whispered up at Polly, standing beneath her window up at which he had just thrown a barrage of small stones to wake her. Polly gazed down at him and then glanced back into her room to locate her clock. It told her what she had already guessed from the silvery light and heavy dew; it was not yet six o'clock. She glanced in swift gratitude over to the memorial garden and then returned her gaze to Max.

‘Good,' she whispered down to him, ‘glad to hear it. Want to come up?'

‘Better not,' Max replied, his voice breaking through his whisper, ‘might get caught. Might get detention. Go back to sleep. I'll call by later.'

‘What are you going to do?' Polly asked.

‘Bit of sight-seeing,' Max replied, ‘probably.'

It wasn't what Polly meant, but his answer was fine for the time being. At least he was staying. She watched him go and wasn't too worried that he did not turn to wave. At least he wasn't going. She returned to bed and hugged her pillow. Sleep caught up with her very quickly and she dreamt of Zoe.

Polly, sorry only to leave a note but I had a bus to catch. I've gone – away but not home. Just gone for a little potter by myself. Vermont appears to be a place for space and solitude which is just what I need. So I've gone touring. I hope that you understand. I don't want to go back to England just yet – so that's something, hey? I'll be thinking of you, of that you can rest assured. I am doing this for us. Anyway, I've never been to America
…