by Freya North
‘Hell no!’ chided Kate, ‘you just look a little – well, little.’
It was lovely to hear the word pronounced with a click and roll of the tongue, without concession to one ‘t’, let alone two. Polly made a note to practise her pronunciation a li’le la’er.
‘You go on some kinda diet?’
‘Gracious no!’
‘You forget to eat?’
‘Honestly, I ate plenty.’
‘That guy of yours some lousy cook?’
‘On the contrary,’ remonstrated Polly, ‘I do declare!’
‘Well,’ said Kate, gouging a huge wedge from something brown and gooey, ‘wrap your lips around this and tell me all about your trip home.’
The snow, the brownies, Kate’s affection – Polly felt she was being wooed.
But now, I can be seduced without falling prey.
‘I’m going to marry Max,’ said Polly with a full mouth some minutes later, chocolate chips wedging themselves to her teeth while globs of marshmallow threatened to glue her jaws together.
See!
She masticated and hummed while Kate beamed her approval and congratulated her heartily.
‘That’s so so nice,’ Kate clapped, ‘Polly’s getting wed. You must bring Max over here some time.’
‘Certainly,’ said Polly, contemplating aside how she would have said ‘you bet’ if she was still back in London. Wondering, quietly, why she and Max had not arranged such a visit.
It’s not the right time. I’m working. Later, maybe.
‘You want to stay here tonight?’ Kate asked. ‘Move into Petersfield tomorrow?’
Polly accepted another monstrous portion of Kate’s heavenly concoction and thought hard while she licked and chewed.
‘Do you know,’ she said at length, smacking her lips and attempting to dislodge debris from her teeth with her finger and tongue, ‘if I stayed tonight, not only would I not leave tomorrow, I very probably would not leave at all.’
‘I’m cool with that,’ Kate smiled.
‘And so, no doubt, would my future Dorm Daughters be,’ Polly laughed.
‘Jeez,’ said Kate, holding her head in her hands, ‘can you only imagine! No problem, we’ll move you this afternoon – only come for dinner tonight, hey? You’ve already gotten a sneak preview of dessert.’
Petersfield House was a traditional, planked Vermont dwelling of three principal floors and a further floor converted from the attic. It was painted white; the window frames and bannister around the porch, blue-grey. The ground floor was taken by the McLellan family: Rick McLellan who taught science, Martha McLellan who taught computing and their toddlers Billy and Kevin who, in their infancy, had taught many a fascinated student how to change a diaper and make a lullaby effective. Up a floor to five bedrooms, three of them doubles, for the students; onwards to the second floor with the Dorm Mother’s apartment, the ‘easy’ room and the bathrooms; finally the top floor, divided into four single bedrooms of quirky dimensions and slanted ceilings, most usually given to seniors.
Polly had been shown her apartment at Petersfield House towards the end of the previous term but now, whitewashed (more of a lemon-vanilla wash) and sparkling, she felt she was viewing it anew. An ‘L’ shaped sitting-room with a tiny kitchenette and a picture-perfect view to Mount Hubbardtons led to a small double bedroom with a rather luxurious and large bathroom en suite. Polly loved it at once and went about unpacking, singing My My Hey Hey in a very passable Neil Young accent. She sang Sugar Mountain all the way through in honour of Mount Hubbardtons’ icing-sugar sprinkling while she arranged her books and cassettes on the shelves in the sitting-room. Unfortunately, she was humming Only Love Can Break Your Heart when she came across her framed photograph of Max but changed her tune at once to Heart of Gold, singing it melodiously while she placed the photograph by the bed and gazed on it a while.
With Marmite in my cupboards and my boy by my bed, this place is now home indeed.
Polly went to check the view from the bedroom window. It looked out across the hockey pitch to the gyms. And the athletic trainer’s surgery. She noticed in passing, that’s all.
I wonder who else’ll notice my haircut.
Term started with a great spewing of bag-laden children from an army of station wagons and Cherokee Jeeps.
‘Parents!’ Polly marvelled to herself, skipping downstairs. ‘Do you know, it didn’t really occur to me that my kids have parents. I thought of them as, I don’t know, autonomous – because we all live here together and don’t go home at night. But here they are with their other families, their life that stretches pre- and post-Hubbardtons Academy.’
As she went to meet and greet, she thought how much smaller and younger the students appeared when seen alongside the adults who bred them.
‘Hey Miss Fenton, great hairstyle! Will you come meet my folks?’
‘Of course, AJ, it’ll be a pleasure.’
When AJ introduced her to his portly father and rather glamorous mother, Polly realized she had absolutely no idea of their surname. When she thought a little deeper, she found she didn’t even know what the A or the J stood for. Luckily, the indigenous geniality for which Americans are famed, and often unfairly derided, bowled in to the rescue.
‘Steve Harvey,’ AJ’s father boomed, brandishing a smile of an inordinate number of teeth, shaking Polly’s hand and squeezing her arm warmly, ‘An-th-ony has told us so much about you. This is my wife, Jenny.’
‘Jenny Harvey,’ smiled the wife, repeating the warmth of the greeting with just as many pearly teeth, and taking Polly’s free hand in both of hers, ‘An-th-ony’s nose has been buried in books the whole vacation.’ She whistled slowly in appreciation. AJ blushed and shuffled.
‘Jolly good!’ Polly declared, obviously to Steve and Jenny’s delight as they tightened their hold on her hands. ‘He’s a pleasure to teach and should do really well.’
‘Miss Fenton,’ AJ muffled once his parents had gone to shake Lorna’s hands, ‘please don’t call me An-th-ony, OK? I like being AJ.’
‘OK,’ said Polly slowly, ‘but I’ll seal my promise if you’ll tell me what the “J” stands for.’
‘Gawd, do I got to?’
‘You mean, “Dear Lord, must I?” And for that aberration, yes you must!’
‘Jerome. It’s Jerome.’
‘Jerome, OK, Jerome – but that’s a terrific name, couldn’t I call you by it?’
‘Please don’t. Just AJ?’
‘Want to know my middle name?’
‘Sure.’
‘Elizabeth.’
‘Wow! Like the Queen?’
‘One and the same.’
‘Cool.’
‘Yeah, so I guess on the whole they’re a good bunch – but, as I say, keep a watch on Beth and Johanna.’ Rick McLellan was advising Polly on her Dorm Daughters.
‘Beth who was caught smoking drugs,’ Polly reminded herself out loud.
‘That’s right, she’s on a S.A.P.,’ Rick confirmed.
‘S.A.P.,’ spelt Polly, closing her eyes and murmuring ‘Student Assistance Programme’ for confirmation. ‘And S.A.T.s,’ she continued, somewhat triumphantly, tossing her hair, eyes now open, ‘are Scholastic Aptitude Tests.’
‘You got it,’ Rick clicked his tongue, ‘but don’t ask me what G.C.S.E stands for – or why your private schools are public! Anyhow, back to Beth and the S.A.P. Drugs mean final probation status, straight up. She had to sign a contract with the S.A.P. and if she violates that – in any way – she’s out. She’ll continue to be randomly tested and evaluated by an outside counsellor.’
‘For a year,’ said Polly.
‘Yup, a year. Pretty pricey – random testing’s forty bucks a pop. Anyhow, she’s half-way through and she’s a good kid. She just made one emotionally and financially expensive slip-up.’
‘And Johanna?’ asked Polly, thinking that no doubt half the fifth and sixth forms at BGS would be on S.A.P.s if their extra-curricular activities we
re researched.
‘Johanna,’ Rick said carefully, ‘kinda likes the guys.’
‘Say no more,’ Polly laughed, accepting Rick’s invitation to join his family for coffee, and to teach his sons an English nursery rhyme.
There were twelve girls in her sitting-room, most taller than her. Polly recognized them all but knew by name only the five who were in her English classes. She had yet to put faces to the infamous Johanna and Beth but found she had guessed correctly once each girl had introduced herself.
‘Super,’ said Polly, asking Beth to pass the Coke around. ‘Well, as you know, I’m Miss Fenton – and I like to think that, as a teacher, I’m reasonable, fun and young. And I take absolutely no nonsense whatsoever, however inventive the excuse. Respect me and I’ll respect you. Cross the line, or ignore it – and I’ll have your guts for garters.’
The girls were stunned into a fear-drenched silence.
‘Our what for what?’ Jodie whispered, trying to see through Miss Fenton’s floaty skirt for hideous proof.
‘Exactly,’ Polly whispered back, drumming her fingers against her thighs. It was only when she winked, still straight-faced, that a hushed cycle of relief was exhaled. Polly smiled broadly. ‘Tell you what, once your rooms are shipshape, you can show me around and we can have a good one-to-one.’
The idea was met with approval and Polly noticed the girls looking around her apartment.
‘You can tell a lot about a person by the way they organize a room – and their belongings therein, of course.’
‘Yeah right!’ laughed Zoe, brandishing a clutch of Polly’s cassettes, ‘Fleetwood Mac – yes siree!’
Soon enough, all twelve girls were analysing Polly’s musical tastes and finding much amusement in the process; even greater entertainment in the results.
‘OK, OK,’ Polly said, ‘I’m unashamedly old and square.’
The girls observed her with sympathy. Most of them thought her quite stylish, in a quaintly English way, with her neat figure set off by her floaty skirt and black, skinny rib polo neck, her sweet face framed by her glossy, straight bob.
‘But,’ Polly continued, letting the silence hang until the girls’ attention was restored, ‘I am both teacher and Dorn Mum – and, for both, it is a prerequisite to be old and square. So, listen up while I run a few rules by you – OK?’
The girls gathered loosely around her while she discoursed about tidiness (brushing down her jumper for emphasis), study hours (nodding towards her old brass alarm clock), telephone permission (grabbing her own handset and holding it aloft) and exit passes (reading the rules verbatim from the guidelines issued by Powers Mateland).
‘Girls,’ Polly warned, ‘just remember your guts and my garters.’
All twelve observed her before nodding and saying ‘Sure, Miss Fenton’, practically in unison.
‘Lorna!’
‘Polly!’
Having seen each other at various distances during the day, this was the first opportunity they had had for a few minutes together so they grabbed each other and hugged in reunion. Lorna ruffled Polly’s hair, which she straightened immediately.
‘How was Christmas?’ Polly asked. ‘And the lovely Tom?’
‘Pretty cool,’ Lorna nodded, ‘both of them. And Max?’
‘Darling Boy,’ Polly proclaimed, ‘I’ve loads to tell you.’
‘Me too,’ said Lorna.
‘Why don’t you come up to my rooms during study hour?’ Polly suggested.
‘Just you try and keep me away!’ Lorna drawled. ‘Hey Chip!’
Where?
Oh yes.
‘Hey guys,’ said Chip, looking only at Polly, ‘how’s it going?’
‘Fine,’ Polly sang, disappointed that she’d noticed anew just how handsome the man was.
Merely an objective observation, come on now. And how come he hasn’t objectively acknowledged my new haircut?
‘Pretty good,’ said Lorna.
‘Cool,’ said Chip. ‘Great bangs, Polly.’
‘What? Did you?’ Polly retorted, at once flustered. Chip looked imploringly at her and then made a strange motion across his forehead. However, it took Lorna to tweak Polly’s fringe before she could make the translation.
He noticed!
‘How was your Christmas?’ Polly asked, eager to establish a casual and ordinary atmosphere to serve as a footing thereafter.
‘It was a lot of fun,’ Chip acknowledged. ‘How was it for you? In the orphanage?’
Polly punched him lightly on the arm and said her Christmas had been brilliant.
Chip looked up at the sky.
‘It’s gonna be one helluva season,’ he said to Lorna. ‘We gotta get Fen’un up on skis.’
‘Absolutely,’ Lorna agreed.
‘I’m game,’ chirped Polly, delighted to be called by her surname, especially with its ‘t’ being dropped. She accepted Chip’s slow, penetrating smile at face value only.
‘Hey, I gotta split,’ he said, ‘check you later.’
‘Later,’ Lorna replied.
‘Cheerio,’ said Polly.
‘Check you later – gee, that guy,’ said Lorna as she and Polly marvelled at the sight of him jogging across the hockey pitch. Lorna looked to Polly as if she was expecting some sort of answer.
‘Yes,’ Polly said.
‘Yes?’ Lorna queried.
‘Yes, he’s a nice bloke.’
‘He’s a danger,’ said Lorna with a light but knowing look. ‘Beware. Be wary.’
‘Me?’ Polly snorted.
‘Yes you,’ Lorna said, ‘it’s you he’d like to “check later”. I know what he’s like. And I know what he likes. And I know, too, that he always gets what he wants.’
‘You can’t always –’ Polly began to sing. Lorna hummed alongside her and then they both devolved into giggles, lala-ing away.
‘Anyway,’ said Polly, ‘aren’t you forgetting Jen Carter?’
‘I’m not – but don’t put it past him to.’
‘Look,’ said Polly, ‘thank you for your concern. Chip Jonson is a really lovely chap and fiendishly good-looking too. But I have Max Fyfield. And I’m afraid poor Mr Jonson pales into insignificance in comparison. You really have nothing to worry about me. I’m sorted.’
‘That’s good,’ Lorna all but warned, ‘I’m pleased to hear it.’
‘You’ll be even more pleased,’ Polly said, ‘to hear that I’m going to marry him.’
‘Max?’
‘Max.’
SIXTEEN
When Polly had been back in England for Christmas, it had been easy to recall and denounce America a dangerous place fraught with emotional pressure, to blame it for her inner turmoil. It was only on returning that Polly realized the accusation could be more fairly levelled at her home country. Life in Vermont had slipped smoothly into a prosaic routine; though her days were fantastically full, they were relatively free of stress. Indeed, the most taxing thing to have befallen her so far was a return to Manchester with Lorna on their one free day off. The dilemma, over which she expended much energy and deliberation, was whether or not to buy the microfibre body from the DKNY outlet. She decided to be abstemious, and was resolutely so – until two miles out of town when she made a screeching U-turn, paid cash and said not to bother with a bag.
Of course, Polly fully empathized with the plight of her senior students studying for their S.A.T.s, consequently giving over much of her free time to extra lessons on Charles Dickens or the vagaries of punctuation. Similarly, she was accommodating to any of the Petersfield girls who required her advice, her English copy of Elle magazine, or merely her company. Often they came to her with a variety of problems which she found, to her pride and their relief, she could quite easily unravel for them. She had hated being at boarding-school when she was the pupil; it was thus heartening now to see how such an institution could really function, to contribute actively to its success, to be an essential stitch in its fabric.
A lovely, c
olourful American quilt.
Being Dorm Mother was long, hard work but rewarding too. Polly was on duty from eight in the morning until lights out at ten thirty at night, thirteen days out of fourteen. She enjoyed the company, she liked the daily routine at Hubbardtons, she loved eating in the dining-room surrounded by the din of animated chatter. She was a part of this special community. With its beautiful buildings ergonomically laid out, it was like living in a safe, hermetic village where the worries of rent and bills, neighbours and landlords, had no place. Most of all, Polly loved her students indiscriminately; those who shone academically, those who were the clowns of the class, those who tried so hard, those who just bumbled along. She was not prejudiced.
I am a teacher – how could I be? I love my students – I am a teacher, how could I not? They are my clutch, my brood.
Polly just about found time alone for long enough to write brief letters home. She had written to Max at length when she first arrived back but as soon as school was in session, she quite literally had to cut corners: for her second letter, she took scissors to the page and created a heart shape which she filled with sweet nothings because there was very little to recount anyway. This term, however, Polly felt no guilt about the briefness of her notes back to Max; though incredibly busy, she made the time to think of him, to repeat to herself that they would always be together. Her one letter to Megan merely compared and contrasted S.A.T.s with A levels, with a ‘P.S. Say hullo to Dominic’. Usually, she sent a message to him via her letters to Max, but she now felt shy and wary, fearing that if Max relayed her regards it might provoke Dominic to confide his doubts.
Dominic, Dominic – you had it all wrong. There was only ever your brother for me. No question of it, no question at all. Not any more. Not now.
And Chip? Chip Jonson continues to be, as Polly herself says, a very nice chap – she has taste and discernment and the determination not to be fooled by appearances alone. They have waved at each other from afar and Chip has been up to visit her on a few occasions. Though she has never been on her own, he has stayed long enough to enjoy a glass of Coke and light conversation with the goggle-eyed students and their glance-avoiding teacher. However, it is the fact that Polly is dodging eye contact, however subconsciously or conscientiously, that heartens Chip the most. He is now presented with more of a challenge than he would have anticipated, considering the state of affairs at the end of last term, but he doesn’t mind. He rather relishes the ingenuity he must now effect in setting his trap.