Polly (47 page)

‘No one's said so,' Jen assures her. They laugh, both aware of the dire consequences of the proximity of a term's end, let alone a year's end, on the girls' behaviour. They laugh again; both knowing full well that Polly will be at assembly at 8.40 Monday morning. Sitting, no doubt, by Megan.

‘So,' says Jen.

‘So,' says Polly.

‘You're back.'

‘I'm back.'

There is an awkward pause during which Jen wonders if she should say sorry. Should she tell Polly that she'd spoken to Chip? That she knew? For her part, Polly wonders whether she should assure Jen that everything is fine, that she holds no grudges, that she had slept with Chip anyway. The women finish the silence with a meek smile apiece. Jen shrugs and looks out of the dormer window over the rooftops of BGS.

‘Do you know Mister Benn?' Polly asks.

‘What, the big clock?'

‘No, no, not Big Ben,
Mister
Benn?'

‘That guy who creeps around the science block?'

Polly laughs and shakes her head. ‘We're deluged by your bloody
ER, Friends
and
Northern Exposure
– fine televisual viewing, I do concede – but you mean to tell me that Mister Benn has not made it across the Atlantic?'

‘Nope,' says Jen, ‘who the hell is he?'

‘Oh,' Polly replies, ‘just a chap on TV I think you'd like. We both have a lot in common with him.'

‘We do? Is he on video?'

Jen continues to look out of the window. The netball court cum tennis court cum playground. The tree sitting defiantly at its centre. She is looking forward to the space and structure of Hubbardtons.

‘It was – it was so—' Polly pauses, stuck for words, halted by the lump in her throat. ‘And I'm back now. And you're about to return, too.'

‘Polly,' Jen says, turning to her and regarding her unflinchingly, ‘I'm, like, sorry.'

‘For what,' Polly replies but not as a question at all. ‘You have nothing to apologize for. In fact, I thank you, Jennifer Carter. I wouldn't have wanted things to have worked out any other way,' she continues, with conviction. ‘Through experiences, one learns. And oh, how you grow from what you have learned.'

‘So so true,' Jen agrees.

‘Thanks for asking me,' Polly says, touching Jen's arm, ‘thanks for suggesting that we meet.'

‘Hey,' says Jen, holding up her hands in surrender, ‘thank you for coming – I'm so so pleased that you did. And thanks also for Buster – I'm going to miss him a lot.'

‘What a year,' Polly enthuses, ‘it was a bloody huge, brilliant year.' She sighs wistfully and very much in the past tense. In her mind's eye, the people who have inhabited her recent life stand in line. Kate with a jar of Marmite. Marcia with the CIA. Mikey McCabe – ha! remember him! Chip – whom she now had no need to forget. Her Dorm Daughters. Those brothers, in aprons, from the Vineyard. AJ in his baseball cap. Turned back to front. Lorna and her vibrator. Jackson. Powers. Laurel and Lauren in salopettes. Josephine in bronze. Charle(s). The men who gave her windfall apples. The sales assistants in Manchester. There they all stand, in a line, outside Jojo Baxter's unfinished house. It's a curtain call. They are as actors in a favourite play, one in which Polly had a bit part. They are taking a bow. And another. They exit stage left.

Polly blinks. She's in a music room at BGS that smells vaguely of gym shoes and toasted sandwiches. She's standing next to Jennifer Carter, who's a lot taller than her but completely on the same level. She stands alongside Jen, looking from the tiny window, sharing the view. Polly touches Jen's shoulder and then places the back of her hand gently against Jen's cheek. Jen takes her hand and holds it. They share a private, generous, congratulatory smile and bring their foreheads together.

‘What a year,' Polly marvels in a whisper. ‘Do you know, I wouldn't have had it any other way – because I certainly wouldn't be where I am now,' she says.

‘Exactly,' Jen marvels, liking it that they stand so close. ‘But, know what? If the opportunity arose, I sure as hell wouldn't do it again,' she adds, smiling broadly and nudging Polly.

‘God no,' Polly responds, her hands to her face, her eyes dancing and dark, ‘neither would I.'

I
travelled in the United States by myself over the summer of 1991. Alongside hoping to bump into Kevin Bacon, I had a lot to think about. Was it really a good idea to ditch the PhD I was all set up to do simply because, on a whim, I'd secretly started writing a novel (which later would be become my first,
Sally
)? In California, it seemed like a great idea. By the time I'd reached Chicago, I declared myself nuts – who on earth lands a publishing deal?! Crazy girl! Of
course
I'd continue with my studies! It would pave a career path for myself in Art History – my long-standing passion. My focus and intent were strengthened in New York and I spent much of my time there in the museums and galleries thinking, this is my world. I could envisage myself as a dusty academic vividly. I liked being tucked away in libraries, I loved being absorbed into the paintings that captivated me. No question about it. I'd research and write my doctorate on the
Rappel a l'Ordre
in Post War British Art. That's what I'd do. It was expected of me. It made sense.

And then I went to New England. Loved Boston – loved the architecture, the culture, spent hours in the Museum of Fine Art and the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum leaving only limited time to window-shop Newbury Street and Copley Place. My next stop was Vermont. I was heading for Ludlow. Because I was travelling by bus, I needed a place where the youth hostel was walking distance from the bus stop. My last few weeks were all planned. I'd skip over to Martha's Vineyard for a while, then head up to Vermont, have a quick look around and then return home to London, to bang on the hallowed portals of the Courtauld Institute just as soon as term began. However, I then met Laura. Laura said, don't go to Ludlow – go to Saxtons River and stay with my sister Mary. Does the Greyhound bus go to Saxtons River, I asked? Nope, said Laura, but it stops at Bellows Falls and Mary'll meet you there.

It was a little like deciding to change from blonde to brunette overnight – in my twenties, if a whacky idea came along, I'd simply run with it. Within a couple of days, the Greyhound deposited me by a giant Airedale called Bogey and his owner, the ever-smiling Mary. Had I really never met this woman before? Hadn't I known her my whole life? Mary's house was effervescing with warmth – and brimming with people. Art teacher at the prestigious Vermont Academy, Mary had gathered the younger members of staff to welcome the English girl who was stopping by for a while and an impromptu party was soon underway.

My time in Saxtons River was tremendous fun, friendships were quickly formed and I soon became part of their community. I'd spend my days cycling – so mesmerized by the beauty of the location that I'd rack up the miles without noticing, returning often at dusk to then hang out and make merry with this great bunch of people. A tiny little thought popped into my head one day, as I crossed a covered bridge and chatted with an old boy who told me to help myself to his windfall apples. I thought, I could set a novel in a place like this – about a girl who trades her life in Old Blighty for an adventure in New England.

I was a month too early to see the Fall. I'll come back, I thought, I'll definitely come back. It was almost time to leave for home and I knew three things for sure. I wasn't going to meet Kevin Bacon. I wasn't going to do my PhD. I was going to return to England to finish my novel because now I knew I had other books to write. One about a girl called Chloë who'd travel around the four countries of the UK during the four seasons of one year. And one featuring a girl called Polly who'd embark on a life-affirming teachers' exchange programme to a school in Vermont.

After four years beavering away,
Sally
was complete,
Chloë
was half written and Polly was still firmly in my mind's eye, her bags packed, desperate to go. Rejections from publishers and agents had come in thick and fast but in January 1996, the unbelievable happened – not only had I an agent, but suddenly I had a publishing contract for three novels. I wrote to my friend Mary:
guess what! I'm coming back!

That Fall, a month or so before
Sally
was first published, I was back in Saxtons River – notepad and Dictaphone to hand, author's cap on. I cycled all over the place. I partied. I interviewed students and teachers alike. I went to a real house-raising. And I worked. If Polly was to be teaching here, then I had to as well. Mary organized for me to assist in a handful of pottery classes – I just about pulled it off not letting the students realize I was only one step ahead of them.

I thought, you're going to love it here, Polly old girl – a whole year to spend in such a wonderful place with such extraordinary people.

Freya North
Spring 2012

Freya North is the author of 12 bestselling novels which have, in a career spanning 16 years, been translated into many languages. From teenage girls to elderly gentlemen, Freya's novels have won the hearts of legions of readers worldwide. In 2008, she won the Romantic Novel of the Year Award for
Pillow Talk
and was shortlisted for the RNA Contemporary Romantic Novel Award 2012 for
Chances
.

At school, Freya was constantly reprimanded for daydreaming – so she still can't quite believe that essentially, this is what she is now paid to do. She was born in London but lives in rural Hertfordshire with her family and other animals, where she writes from a stable in her back garden.

To connect with Freya and hear about events, unique competitions and sneak previews of what she's writing, join her at
www.facebook.com/freya.north
or log onto
www.freyanorth.com
and find out more.

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Sally

Chloë

Cat

Fen

Pip

Love Rules

Home Truths

Pillow Talk

Secrets

Chances

Rumours