Polly

by Freya North

  ‘Bill told me,’ he continued, walking on, ‘about all the stuff going down? You and that guy? Sounds pretty shitty.’

  ‘I suppose it is,’ Polly said, flopping down on to the sand, lying on her side, propping herself up with an elbow.

  ‘So you came here to chill out?’

  ‘Suppose,’ said Polly, squinting under her hand and turning her head away from the sun and from Marc.

  ‘I won’t tell if you won’t,’ Marc said teasingly. Polly turned to him, he was leaning back on his elbows, pushing his hands into his jeans pockets, rearranging an impressive hard-on rather obviously. She turned away quickly, not knowing whether to be appalled or to giggle.

  ‘C’mon,’ he implored, ‘no one need know – ain’t that notion exciting?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Polly, holding tight on to his eyes, ‘very.’

  ‘There you go,’ Marc exclaimed in a very gravelly voice. Turning on to his side, he prised her legs apart with his knee and wedged it up against her crotch.

  Oh God: ‘Body on the Beach’.

  ‘I didn’t mean to flirt,’ Polly said, not daring to move. She shook her head, and then shook it again at herself. ‘Well, I did, I suppose. But now I don’t want anything more. Truly I don’t.’

  ‘Sure you do,’ Marc persisted, hovering a ready-cupped hand over her right breast.

  ‘I don’t, I assure you,’ Polly said, grabbing his hand and holding it steady. They lay quietly for a few moments, her hand against his wrist, his leg still between hers, then she tapped his thigh like a mother waking a child.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, opening her legs to free herself and sitting up, smiling at the sand and her silhouette. ‘But, do you know, I don’t want it. I did—’ she qualified somewhat hesitantly, tucking her hair behind her ears only for it to flop back, ‘I think. Yesterday – this morning even. With either of you – both of you, even. But I don’t now. I really don’t.’

  Marc grabbed his balls in a rough caress. Polly’s breasts heaved in momentary panic.

  Am I going to be OK?

  ‘Well, shit,’ he said despondently, adding a ‘y’ between the ‘i’ and ‘t’ for emphasis, shaking his head in frustration. ‘You sure?’ he tried, with a wheedling smirk, an obvious wink and a lot of lip-licking.

  ‘Perfectly,’ Polly confirmed. He regarded her sternly, observed her breasts remorsefully and finally gave a theatrical sigh in the direction of his cock. He stood up and helped Polly to her feet. They made their way back to his Jeep, Polly a few steps ahead of Marc.

  ‘Great ass!’ he tried, one final time.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Polly, over her shoulder.

  Marc held the door for her and then settled himself behind the steering-wheel. He slapped it hard. ‘Bang goes my bang,’ he rued. Polly jerked and regarded him warily. He was quick to smile broadly and put her at her ease. ‘I guess sucking face is out of the question too?’ he probed, nudging Polly gently in the ribs until she accepted his smile, his words and his intentions as harmless and convivial.

  Thank God.

  Well done, girl.

  Polly is out and about with the morning birds, having hired a bike, positively rickety, but fun all the same. Her boat doesn’t leave until this afternoon. It’s bliss to be by herself. She cycles along deserted lanes with the hush and rustle of the long grass damping down the sporadic squeaks and cranks of the bicycle. Her destination is Gay Head, about which Bill had waxed lyrical while purple prose had tumbled from Marc’s lips. She is nearing there now. And it is lovely, magnificent even. Polly feels good and solitary, as she hoped; alone but not lonely. She stands awhile and wonders if this feeling is the desired effect she has sought. She rather thinks it is. Pleased with her conclusion, she turns her interest outward. There is something over there, a statue perhaps. She nestles the bike down into an eiderdown of grass and explores on foot.

  Bronze. About four foot high, streaked and striated pale green-grey with the years. A little girl, about five years old, Polly reckons. The flutter of her pinafore dress caught motionless in bronze, a grasp of flowers in one hand, a hankie in the other. She wears little cobbley ankle boots, laced up tight and finished with a bow. Her face is not of anyone known and yet its inherent innocence seems to speak for all children. Polly catches her breath as the sightless eyes see right through her and beyond, way over the dunes, to the sea. And beyond.

  Is it you?

  Yes, it is me.

  Josephine.

  1950–1956.

  So she was six. Polly bows her head in respect and bewilderment and wonders why she is so close to tears. She looks about her and spies primula, cow parsley and some plain but pretty grasses. Gathering them together, she binds them as best she can.

  Here, Josephine, for you. From him.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Polly asks Marsha later, bags at her side, ready to settle her check having returned the bike and washed her face, ‘could I ask you something?’ she ventures, knowing full well that she can because Marsha is amenable and chatty and has looked after her well these past few days.

  ‘Sure, hon,’ the landlady says, ‘go right ahead.’

  ‘Who’s Josephine?’ Polly asks in quiet tones, ‘who was she?’

  Marsha appears frozen in time and caught in remembered grief. She shuffles a little and asks ‘Josephine?’, but Polly knows full well that she knows who she means. ‘Little Josephine Bauer?’ Marsha asks quietly through slanted eyes; testing, perhaps.

  Polly nods, as if she knew her surname all along. ‘Who died. When she was six.’

  With a tired, sad shake of her head, and a swipe of hands over her apron, Marsha gazes at a point not yet visible to Polly and speaks.

  ‘Little Josephine Bauer – a prettier petal you could not have found. Always full of joy – folks even nicknamed her Joysephine, you know, like a New Yorker would? She found a boat. I mean, hell, they’re not hard to find, this being an island and all. But, though we drum it into all our kids not to horse around in the water, somehow this boat was just too pretty for the little girl to resist. She wanted to follow her daddy to work. Wanted to go over to the Cape. It wasn’t a sea-worthy vessel, just a small boat for rivers and ponds, the type for playing in of an evening. Honey, Fate had moored it loosely in a little cove – and where was the Lord when Josephine climbed in? That’s what I want to know. I still ask. Where was He? Only the boat was found. We searched for days. For months. Some folk are still searching.’

  ‘Waiting for Josephine,’ Polly murmurs; ‘poor little mite,’ she says, cringing at how insufficient it is.

  ‘Her pop, old Sam Bauer, well, it drove him out of his mind and right off the Vineyard,’ Marsha continued while swiping Polly’s credit card through the machine. ‘His waking hours became Pain, his sleep Purgatory. His heart all but died. He’s never returned. Please sign.’

  Polly signs and embraces Marsha instinctively. It is time to go.

  Sam, Sam, why didn’t I stay? Take the second boat which Josephine would not have been on anyway?

  Polly is sailing back now, anxious to see the land loom for she knows who will be waiting.

  I’ll wait for Max.

  They are nearing the harbour and Polly’s eyes dart agitatedly to locate him. She can’t yet see him but she knows he will be there, waiting. Like he was yesterday. And the day before. And the day before that, when she had waited with him. She feels wretched that she is just one of the many passengers causing him torment for not being Josephine.

  There he is, over there. In blue today, a hat too. Older, more fragile than I remember; really so papery.

  Polly smiles in his direction, trying hard to hold on to his pale eyes. He is too involved, searching for someone else, to recognize or even notice her.

  I can hear him now and I don’t want to.

  ‘I’m waiting for Josephine,’ he says to no one in particular.

  Polly’s eyes prick so she shields them with sunglasses. She turns her head away and merges anonymous, useless, with the crow
d.

  Maybe the next ferry.

  She walks on without looking.

  THIRTY-TWO

  When Polly left Martha’s Vineyard early, convinced that her true home and heart could only ever be with Max, Max himself had been in Cornwall for five days and had started to take great interest in the property pages of the local paper, placing the tip of a felt pen gently against the newsprint every now and then and watching the red dot blot.

  ‘Are you looking to rent or buy?’ William asked him, as he laid the table for lunch and removed a peeled clove of garlic away from Genevieve’s eager reach.

  ‘I know a gorgeous sail loft in Downalong that’s available,’ Chloë added, tucking her wayward corkscrew curls behind her ears so she could bend low over the soup to taste it.

  ‘To rent or buy?’ Max asked.

  ‘Rent,’ Chloë said.

  ‘Shame,’ said Max.

  Soup was dished out and contented slurping confirmed its excellence.

  ‘Are you leaving London,’ Chloë started tentatively, ‘because you want to live in Cornwall—’

  William finished her sentence for her: ‘Or are you buying in Cornwall so you don’t have to return to London.’

  ‘Ay, there’s the rub,’ Max said, nodding slowly and concentrating hard on the salt and pepper which were contained in the tiniest bowls he had ever seen.

  And there’s the nub, William and Chloë told each other in silent glances.

  ‘No hassles this end,’ William assured Max, passing him more bread and butter.

  ‘You stay as long as you like – we love having you, you’re part of our family,’ Chloë added, giving him a gentle poke in the ribs.

  ‘She’s called Polly and I love her and I hate her and I’ve no fucking idea what to do,’ said Max loudly, poking Chloë back before taking another slice of bread.

  Whether in utter pity for his plight, or pure disgust at his language, Genevieve suddenly threw up copiously. A flurry of activity followed. Only once the three adults had brandished damp cloths and sympathy, and Genevieve had fallen asleep while William carried her upstairs, were they able to retire to the sitting-room with huge portions of treacle tart and a mammoth scrabble session. Max’s revelation was left well alone.

  ‘Polly,’ Chloë said quietly in the garden two days later, as if considering the aural qualities of the word alone.

  ‘Fenton,’ Max elaborated, taking the hammer from Chloë and fixing the gate himself with a couple of very forceful, well-aimed clouts.

  ‘Does Polly Fenton know you’re in Cornwall?’ Chloë persisted with effective artlessness.

  ‘Nope,’ said Max, bashing fence posts that were just fine. Gently, Chloë took the hammer from him and gave it to Genevieve who lugged it off to the studio where her father was at his potter’s wheel. Chloë and Max heard a faint ‘Ow – careful!’ from William, and they laughed.

  ‘Shall we go and see what the sea’s up to?’ Max suggested.

  ‘Heavens,’ Chloë said with elaborate gravity, ‘I haven’t checked on it since yesterday lunch-time. We must. Quick.’

  They walked with purpose through the garden and out to the cliffs beyond.

  ‘Well, that’s a relief,’ said Chloë, regarding the shimmering water below. They sank down on to a knoll of downy grass and watched the gulls play.

  ‘Peregrine!’ Chloë gasped.

  ‘Where?’ Max replied, swivelling his neck and searching hard.

  ‘Gone,’ said Chloë.

  ‘What the fuck am I going to do? Jesus. Fuck it,’ said Max.

  ‘Get a cure for your Tourette’s?’ Chloë reprimanded gently.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Max with a shrug, ‘I don’t really swear much, actually.’

  ‘Just on special occasions?’ Chloë asked with kind leniency.

  ‘Special,’ Max said softly.

  ‘Want to talk?’ Chloë asked.

  Max snorted again, shook his head and regarded her directly. ‘That’s what I usually say – I’ve never been asked that question because I’ve never needed it.’ Chloë cocked her head and nodded, to comfort and encourage. ‘Know something?’ Max continued, holding on to her eyes in earnest. ‘People presume me to be stronger than perhaps I am. “Want to talk?” – those words! How often have I offered them to a troubled friend with a beseeching face? And how great is the responsibility to be good old strong Max!’

  Chloë looked at him and nodded her head. ‘Well?’ she said.

  ‘Well what?’

  ‘Talk? Want to?’

  He smiled at her with gratitude laced with an air of resignation. ‘I am not allowed to feel weak. Not me.’

  ‘Allowing yourself to feel vulnerable is a massive statement of strength,’ Chloë responded, laying her hand on his shoulder. ‘Do you denigrate your friends for being feeble when they come to you in times of need? Do you denounce them as weak? Is weakness a failing?’

  ‘A friend in need—’ Max started, ‘is a burden!’

  ‘Bollocks!’ Chloë exclaimed to Max’s surprise. ‘And I rather think you’d employ that very word if one of your friends said that to you.’ With that, she evidently found something of utmost interest on the horizon and Max was afforded a few moments’ reflection.

  ‘Chloë, I wouldn’t know where to start,’ he said resignedly, his head dropping visibly under the weight of it all.

  ‘Try a single word,’ she suggested.

  ‘Difficult.’

  ‘Another?’ she persisted.

  ‘Polly.’

  ‘Fenton?’ she asked, as if to double-check as much as to elicit.

  ‘Yup,’ Max confirmed.

  After half an hour, Max could manage sentences of four to five words. An hour later, he had furnished Chloë with all the facts, and quite a few of the associated feelings.

  ‘What is it that you want, Max?’ Chloë asked.

  ‘I want to feel strong again – because, and it’s bloody difficult for me to admit, I was weak – weak-willed.’

  ‘And strength comes only with solitude and a small Cornish cottage all to yourself?’

  Max did not respond. He stared down at the sea and imagined he saw dolphins.

  Yes, actually. Maybe. I like being here. Away. I like it that Polly’s not here – I like it that I’m so much more than just her boyfriend and Dominic’s brother here.

  ‘What is it that you’d like to happen?’ Chloë asked after a careful silence.

  ‘She’s extraordinary,’ said Max, as if it was quite a reasonable answer to Chloë’s question.

  ‘You want to be back with her,’ Chloë said quietly, as a statement.

  ‘America has changed her,’ Max said despondently.

  ‘You sure?’ Chloë probed, ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘How would you know?’ Max retorted, snatching at the grass and finding it too short and tenacious to pull up. ‘You don’t even know her.’

  ‘No,’ Chloë conceded measuredly, ‘but I have a hunch that it might only be a phase, a temporary aberration. It’s not America’s fault – though her being there may have expedited it. Anyway, what about bad patches in the past? How did you deal with them?’

  Max jerked and frowned. He had no answer. Chloë laughed. ‘You hadn’t encountered any bad patches before?’ she said incredulously.

  ‘No,’ Max said slowly, suddenly just as incredulous. ‘No. I suppose not.’

  ‘Might not this be all it is?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he shrugged, a certain light now filtering from behind his eyes and smoothing the creases on his brow. ‘How would I know? What I do know is that my proposal of marriage – too bloody hasty in retrospect – seems to have had the opposite effect of the secure, happy-ever-after seal I presumed it was to provide.’

  ‘But marriage aside, Max,’ said Chloë, physically brushing the notion away, ‘are you content to let the relationship lie – more than lie, die completely? Without finding out? Without another try?’

  ‘No!’ Max exclai
med, holding hard on to a tuft of grass to steady himself against a strong sensation of falling. ‘But look what I’ve found out.’

  ‘Well,’ Chloë triumphed, ‘I think you’re extremely lucky that, in all your years together, this is the first bad phase. Heavens, boy, seal it up and use it as a stepping stone to a higher plane – use the knowledge, the experience, to strengthen your relationship from hereafter.’

  ‘You sound like a preacher,’ Max teased, running his fingers through the grass as he did Polly’s hair.

  Just as shiny. As soft. But green, of course.

  ‘Well,’ said Chloë, plucking a single blade with ease and sucking its sweet shoot, ‘if proclaiming what you believe is preaching, then yes, I bloody well am.’

  ‘Don’t swear.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘How do you know?’ Max asked, regarding her slyly, ‘how can you be so sure?’

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘About all – this—’ he said, waving his hands impatiently and pulling a rather fetching grimace, ‘stuff. You know: love, loss, loathing, lust, and all the other “L”s in between?’

  ‘How do you think?’ Chloë laughed. ‘From experience, of course.’

  Max looked at her, stupefied.

  ‘Experience?’

  ‘Heavens, I had practically packed my bags for Scotland, never wanting to see William again and vowing only ever to use plastic crockery – that’s how bad things had become.’

  ‘You and William?’ Max stared at her, his eyes darting all over her face in utter disbelief.

  ‘The Max and Polly of West Penwith,’ Chloë shrugged. ‘Us. The very same.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Max.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Chloë.

  ‘Um, exactly what?’ Max asked after a pause.

  ‘Doesn’t that make you feel better, more positive, hopeful?’

  Max considered quietly before humming and nodding and beaming a strong smile at Chloë which she had hitherto never seen, but of whose existence and capability she had remained quietly confident. Max stood up and breathed operatically. He turned to Chloë and held his hand out for her. She took it gladly and he shook it gratefully.