Polly

by Freya North

  ‘I think we should take time out.’

  No no no! Not that. You didn’t just say that, Max. ‘Time Out’? What? The phrase is too American for you. So you didn’t just say it. You didn’t mean it.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Polly – I think we need some space. Don’t you?’

  No no.

  ‘No no.’

  ‘I think you do.’

  ‘I don’t, Max. I don’t. Everything will be fine. I forgive you – everything. I just want it to be like, to be like. Just – be. Don’t look at me like that.’

  ‘Look, I just feel we need time apart to work out why what happened happened. You cannot forgive me so easily, or so quickly.’

  ‘I can – believe me, I just can.’

  ‘Polly – how on earth can you? I went with another woman.’

  He’s looking at me like I’m an idiot. He seems irritated with me. Mustn’t sound desperate.

  ‘Doesn’t matter how, I just can. It doesn’t matter – honestly. What happened. Doesn’t matter.’

  She’s not thinking straight. And she must.

  ‘Yes, but it does, Polly. In five years, my eyes had never wandered – let alone my affection. Certainly not my hands. Never my commitment. I never even wondered. Certainly never desired. And suddenly I’m having sex with another woman.’

  Don’t say that. You don’t sound like Max. I don’t want to hear.

  ‘There’s something behind it, Polly – come on. You’ve been different too. There’s something there. Or something not there. I don’t know. And that’s what we need to ascertain.’

  Heed Kate’s Words.

  ‘No no. Doesn’t matter, darling boy. Forgive and forget. I can do it, Max. Done it.’

  ‘How can you forgive me so easily.’

  HKW.

  ‘Because I want to.’

  ‘Why?’

  HKW. HKW.

  ‘Because.’

  ‘Because what?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘What do you mean “nothing”?’ Max said, the irritation in his voice loud and clear.

  ‘I mean I understand. And everything. So, let’s just move on.’

  ‘How can you understand? Hey?’

  Heed Kate’s Words. Heed Kate’s Words. Heed them. Hard.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘But Polly – I can’t move on. Not yet. I’m sorry. I don’t believe in your forgiveness. Just yet. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Max. Max.’

  ‘Don’t cry. Please don’t cry. It doesn’t help.’

  ‘But I want to marry you, Max. And you me. You said so. You asked.’

  ‘Maybe it was rash. I mean, all of this has happened only since marriage has been mooted.’

  ‘Stop it. You sound so – hard.’

  ‘I’m having to be, Butt— Polly. There’s no way I’m going to marry you, feeling like this – about myself, about us. Absolutely no way.’

  ‘What. Are. You saying?’

  ‘I’m saying that we need time apart.’

  ‘No we don’t.’

  ‘Polly. Jesus. I need time apart. Space. I don’t want to be with you just now. I can’t. I want to be on my own for a while. Without you. I’m sorry. And I’m sorry if you think I’m a bastard. I’m not. I think it’s for the best.’

  ‘What can I say? Can’t I say something? Do something?’

  ‘Nothing, actually.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘No.’

  Please don’t say no.

  What did they look like as they spoke? What did they do?

  Max sat still and looked at Polly directly, scouring her face and trying to lock on to her darting, smarting eyes. Polly fidgeted; changed position on the settee, sat cross-legged on the floor, fiddled with the rim of her sock, scrutinized the freckle pattern on her left arm, paced over to the patio door and pressed her body against it. As Max made to leave, he kissed Polly’s forehead and told her that, believe it or not, he loved her. She tried to hurl her body against his, to hold on tight for ever and ever, to make the moment last, to make him stay. But Max held her wrists and kept her from him, keeping his lips against her forehead all the while. His eyes closed throughout, not that Polly could see. She tried to make Max hold her hand. Max merely allowed her hand to rest over his. He couldn’t hold hers, he didn’t dare; he’d never let go if he did.

  Max realizes that he has to let go. He sees how he and Polly have drifted until just their fingertips have been touching, and then not all the time. He realizes how easy it had been for him to have been pulled away. By Jen, though might it have been by whomever? Led to somewhere different. He thinks he probably would like to be back with Polly but he knows it will entail a journey. He needs to rest a while, to prepare. Find a map. A compass.

  Polly thinks it’s an easy, logical solution to forgive Max. We know that repenting and atoning for her own actions will be far more difficult. Therein lies the key – until she has, there is no way Max can believe in her forgiveness. It strikes her too that he has not formally apologized for his own actions and, though she is relieved that he is not blaming himself, and though she firmly believes it is indirectly her crime, her fault, that caused him to stray, she is worried by it too.

  Did she drive him away?

  Did he enjoy it?

  Does he want to do it again?

  Is that what he wants?

  Maybe not Jen specifically – but there again, not Polly either?

  Belsize Park

  8th April

  Darling Megan,

  Please don’t think me a coward for writing rather than phoning or visiting. Well, maybe I am a coward but I feel, for the first time in my life, an overwhelming need for space and distance. How odd, when I am at my most lonely, most aware of how alone I am in the world, I have also an insatiable need to be on my own. I was horrified when Max came to me this morning and asked for the same. But, a few hours and many tears later, reluctantly I suppose I can see some sort of sense in it.

  I am acutely aware of your blossoming relationship with Dominic and am terrified that my current situation might make you, or him, or you both, back off. Please don’t. I adore you both and want only for your happiness.

  I can’t write. I’d only ramble on. Anyway, I have a plane to catch. I’m going back to the States early. I don’t think I really want to but I wouldn’t trust myself not to pester Max if I remain in London. Here, the pain of him being so near yet so far is hideously intense. So, I’m off.

  I want him, Megan, of that I’m sure. At the mo’, though, he doesn’t know quite what he wants. That hurts. I really don’t want him to be hurting. But I really can’t bear the thought of him not wanting me.

  I’ll be in touch. Promise. Love me, Meg, have faith in me and keep your fingers crossed for me. Hey?

  Polly

  PS. Could you look after Buster till term starts?

  Belsize Park

  8th April

  Dear Dom,

  You know me well. You know what I mean.

  Making your brother happy for the rest of his days will be my life’s ambition. Promise. Believe me.

  Polly

  Megan showed Dominic Polly’s letter to her. He read it, he absorbed it. He couldn’t not let Megan see Polly’s letter to him.

  A relationship must be built on trust, on sharing, on honesty.

  Megan’s brow twitched. ‘What does she mean?’

  ‘I don’t really know,’ Dominic lied easily.

  Sometimes it’s kinder to be imperspicuous with the truth.

  Max showed no one his letter from Polly. Not even us, I’m afraid. He hasn’t spoken to anyone either. He has packed his Beetle and has already headed off to I don’t know where.

  SUMMER

  The lovely evening summer breeze

  The warbling of a meadow lark

  Moonlight in Vermont

  Moonlight in Vermont

  Karl Suessdorf & John Blackburn, Moonlight in Vermont

  TWENTY-NINE<
br />
  Polly did not approve of the name Woods Hole; it was clumpy and prosaic. The harbour village, though arguably not picturesque enough to warrant a truly poetic title, was treating her well and she wished to raise it above the plain, ugly-sounding name it was known by. Consequently, as she picked at an oversized blueberry muffin while sitting on a bench near the quayside, she mulled over more agreeable, if less appropriate, names.

  Vineyard’s Reach perhaps? Because this is where one meets the boat to and from Martha’s Vineyard. Or Cape’s Gate, because you could call this the very base of Cape Cod. ‘Wood’ is too dull, ‘Hole’ sounds unpleasant. How about Timber Dell. Maybe not.

  ‘I’m waiting for Josephine, Miss.’

  What? Who? Who are you? Oh. You want to sit down. Right here on this bench. My bench. But there’s an empty one just there. Look. No? Never mind. Here.

  With a little more drama than was perhaps necessary, Polly lugged her rucksack off the bench, propped it against her knees and smiled cursorily at the elderly man before focusing with intent on the blueberry muffin. She did not feel like talking. After all, she did not know a Josephine and she did not know this man.

  ‘She’ll be on the next ferry,’ he continued, thick-skinned but with conviction. Polly crumpled the muffin bag, wedged it nonchalantly between the slats of the bench, nodded politely and then busied herself scanning the horizon. She wasn’t sure what for.

  Certainly not for Josephine, whoever she may be.

  ‘Will you be taking the next ferry?’ the man asked, his voice pleasant, lilting and light. Polly glanced at her watch. Yes, she was taking the next ferry but it was not due for another two hours.

  Dilemma.

  She wanted quiet.

  She wanted to know no one.

  But a question had been asked and it needed a reply. If she answered truthfully, she would have no excuse in leaving the bench, the man, Josephine. If she lied, then she had no reason to be sitting on the bench at all. If she lied, she would have to move before the ferry came in, before Josephine arrived. If she lied and moved, she would miss the ferry altogether. This man would have Josephine and she would have nothing but a two-hour wait until the next boat.

  ‘Yes,’ she responded in a polite voice, inclining her head though leaving her eyes put, ‘I’ll be taking the ferry.’

  He nodded and seem satisfied. Under his breath and against the breeze he chuckled and it rather alarmed Polly. Her eyes disobeyed their surface indifference and cast themselves over to the man, cataloguing.

  Elderly. Grandfathering age, she reckoned. Shabbily dapper, a slight frame enclosed neatly by a crisp brown suit, an open-neck shirt with just a glimpse of vest beneath. Shoes were slip-on and polished studiously, soles jet black, the tan uppers shiny, reflecting.

  How his face belies this neatness; all wrinkled, warted and creased! Brow carved deep with the furrows of maybe seventy-odd years; under it, eyes blue and milky, heavily hooded by papery lids. White wire for eyebrows, unkempt and independent as tumbleweed.

  Polly thought she’d snatched merely a furtive glance, but when his eyes met hers she realized she must have been staring quite a while. She smiled quickly and a little too widely, hoping it would deflect or serve as an apology. He returned it, and she saw how his teeth were good – his own, for sure; too idiosyncratic to be dentures, nicely overlapped here and there.

  ‘You know the Vineyard?’ he asked. Polly shook her head keeping her manufactured smile in place. ‘Know the Cape?’ he furthered. Polly twitched her nose and lips to say no. ‘Live in Boston?’ he suggested, raising those eyebrows at her, imploring Polly to converse.

  And would that be such a hardship? After all, with her muffin finished, there was little to do in the long wait for the ferry.

  ‘No, I’m not from America at all, actually. I’m English. I live in London, though I was born in Leicestershire.’

  He seemed delighted and tendered a slightly arthritic hand, liver spots and all.

  ‘You know, in all these years I never heard it said,’ he chuckled, ‘I’d always presumed it was Lie Sester Shyre.’

  Polly’s smile became generous at once. ‘Not to worry,’ she said, ‘I always thought Chicago was in the state of Ill In Wah.’ He appeared quite happy with that.

  ‘Ark Anz Us,’ she elaborated, tipping her body towards him.

  ‘Bow Shomp,’ he countered, nudging Polly gently. They shared a little laugh which turned into a unified sigh at nothing in particular. The sea lapped lazily at the edge of the harbour, licking away at the concrete as if patiently attempting to naturalize it. It lulled them into a chatty silence for a while.

  Here they are still. Polly rather likes this man, he reminds her that she is grandfatherless and she reckons he’d do the job very well indeed.

  ‘Well,’ she says with an exaggerated look at her watch and a slap of her knees, ‘still an hour and a half to go. Would you like a coffee?’

  ‘Me?’ He is absolutely staggered. Polly nods. He seems a little flustered and darts his eyes from her face to yonder and then back again. ‘Or maybe tea?’ she suggests, ‘if you prefer.’

  Do I not look kind and sincere?

  ‘Coffeecoffee,’ he whispers, eyes wide as an eight-year-old’s. Off she goes and orders. The vendor, who has obviously seen with whom she is sitting, shakes his head and smirks but proffers nothing more than two steaming cups. Polly finds it rather disconcerting so she looks over to the bench while she waits for her change.

  She observes him with tenderness; lost at sea, waiting for Josephine to arrive.

  They blow on their coffee and sip contemplatively, content now with each other’s company. The man’s spectacles and Polly’s sunglasses have misted up; great blooms of fog with each blow into the cup. They agree, their voices apparently lubricated by blindness, that the coffee is very good. Polly tells him the blueberry muffin was so too; he says he knows.

  ‘Who is Josephine?’ Polly asks in her Great British bid to make polite conversation.

  ‘Josephine,’ he announces, ‘is who I am waiting for.’ This is a little cryptic though his voice is nothing but loving.

  I oughtn’t to pry, being British and all.

  ‘Leicestershire,’ he enunciates correctly in a nicely rounded way, repeating the word but enquiring no further.

  ‘I’ve sort of run away but not quite,’ Polly suddenly hears herself saying, finding herself searching his face for approval or otherwise. ‘You know, things to think about. Not knowing where to start. Hoping this might be as good a place as anywhere.’ His conciliatory nod is bolstering. ‘You know,’ she continues, believing he very well might, ‘needing a little time. Some space. Escaping a mess of my own making really. Setting free; being released yourself. Seeing where you might wish to alight after a solitary journey?’

  I’m rambling. Ssh. I should be saving up my thinking for some lonely, conducive beach. I can’t start here, not in Woods bloody Hole.

  ‘Well,’ the old man says, wiping his glasses on the knee of his trousers, ‘the Cape’ll help and you’re wise to be going over to the Vineyard. Yup.’ He winks. Polly replies with a small grin.

  And who is Josephine? Polly asks if she lives over on the island. The man’s wince, however, cuts sharp, though he corrects it at once. ‘Not any more,’ he says a little too lightly. ‘She’s coming back now, on the ferry you’ll be taking over there.’ Polly nods liberally though she is none the wiser.

  ‘Is she your wife?’

  ‘No.’

  Best not to pry.

  Here she is! Bunting and all, smelling deliciously diesely, heaving herself to harbour.

  ‘Here she is!’ Polly and the man exclaim to each other in a congratulatory sort of way. Polly wriggles in against her rucksack.

  ‘Can you see her?’ she asks, watching his pale, dilute-blue eyes scan and scour the figures on deck, on the gangplank, ‘Josephine? Is she there?’ But he is too busy combing the throng to answer.

  Now the deck is deserted,
the gangplank bare and the passengers have dispersed. Where is she? He turns to Polly. ‘I’m waiting for Josephine,’ he tells her, failing in his legible wish not to appear disorientated and down. She shifts and shunts to redress the cut and strain of her rucksack. She feels concerned and she feels for him. She is cross with Josephine.

  ‘Why don’t I take the next ferry? I could wait with you,’ she suggests in a sing-song sort of way.

  ‘No no!’ he counters politely, ‘the Vineyard awaits you – it’s where you need to be, having come from Leicestershire and all.’

  ‘Well, if you are sure, but it wouldn’t be any trouble, I should enjoy your company a while longer.’

  ‘Really, Miss. Go. I’m waiting for Josephine, she’ll be here soon. Perhaps on the next ferry.’

  Polly shuffles and then wishes him well. He says ‘good luck’ and takes her hand in both of his but his eyes are elsewhere, watery and pale, forever scanning.

  The distance between them is chugged away and Polly calculates that she must now be just one of many hanging over the railings waving the harbour farewell under a bellow of foghorns and the calling of gulls. She watches his figure diminish and a part of her wants to be back with him, on the bench, sharing gentle half-silence. But she is keener to find her own aloneness out on the island. Resolute, she turns her back on the land and tries to breathe normally against the buffeting, salty gusts.

  Anyway, no doubt Josephine just got up late and missed the boat.

  The degree to which American society is orientated towards the car saw Polly taking an en suite room at a pretty guesthouse in Oak Bluffs for less than the price of a Youth Hostel experience ten miles away. She was headed for the Youth Hostel, for she had deemed a certain frugality necessary for constructive soul searching. However, there was no bus to the hostel and a taxi there would add twice the price to that of the accommodation itself. When Polly realized that the cost of bike hire on top of the hostel tariff amounted to a dollar more than a guesthouse, she swiftly ditched the notion of dorms and duties for the promise of comfort, privacy and breakfast at Laverly’s Lodge.