Читать книгу Polly - Freya North - Страница 12

If it had been Megan Reilly, and not Polly Fenton, who was at Hubbardtons, she would have swiftly traded ten Tom Cruises, and gladly forfeited the hope of Dominic Fyfield, for even a chance with Chip Jonson. But for Megan, who is in London, in the staff room, listening to Jen drone on about how wonderful her boyfriend Chip is, the man is merely a name. And a seemingly daft one at that.

Polly has not yet met him, for if an athletic trainer rarely has reason to venture from the gym complex, seldom does he need to cross right over the playing fields to the main school buildings. And four days into her stay, Polly would be unable to locate the gym or the drama building and has no need, as yet, to visit either. She has now met her junior and senior students and has begun to weave her infectious love of literature and language deep into the fabric of her classes. She’s had no need to holler for Jackson Thomas, much to his chagrin. He hopes to grab her off duty, off her guard (just grab her, really), at the House Raising this coming Sunday. They’ll be building a house for Jojo Baxter, who teaches journalism and hockey. Everyone’s invited. Polly’s been invited. She’s looking forward to it very much.

‘They’ll build a whole house? In a day?’ she said to Kate, incredulous.

‘Yup,’ Kate confirmed as if there was nothing untoward about the concept at all, ‘I’m down to bake pies. You want to help?’

‘Absolutely,’ said Polly, ‘I could make a bakewell tart.’

‘I’m sure you do,’ Kate replied ingenuously.

It was the first occasion, since the journey from Boston, that Kate and Polly were alone for any length of time. Formal Meal, the faculty meeting and Kate’s involvement with the local flamenco club had occupied them and kept them apart. Yet a quick, wide wave from Polly across the quadrangle; a brief exchange over the salad bar at lunch; a note from Kate, magnetized to the fridge by Mickey Mouse, offering Polly unrestricted access to her bicycle, saw a burgeoning fondness develop between the two. Now, they’re making pie. Apple. Cherry. Blueberry. No bakewell. Baked beautifully.

This is Vermont, not Derbyshire. When in Rome – and all that.

‘Tell me about home, Polly, paint me a picture.’

‘Home,’ Polly explained, taking Kate at her word and drawing a disproportionate plan in the flour, ‘is a small, rented flat with a patio and mad neighbours in leafy Belsize Park. That’s in North London for your information.’

‘Neat,’ Kate enthused.

‘Not very,’ apologized Polly.

‘How mad?’ Kate asked, eyes alive above a huge smile.

‘Absolutely bonkers,’ Polly assured her.

‘Bonkers!’ Kate declared, having her first taste of the word and finding it delicious.

They made pastry in silence for a while.

‘Home,’ Polly started again, ‘is really a fat tom-cat called Buster and a darling boy called Max.’

‘Uh huh,’ murmured Kate: an excellent phrase to elicit further details.

‘Yes,’ said Polly quietly, ‘I’ve had them both for five years. In fact —’ she started before a small voice warned her against continuing.

You can’t tell her. You’ve no proof, remember.

(More to the point, Polly, you haven’t clarified the situation with Max, have you?)

‘Uh huh,’ Kate repeated as she pricked the top of the pies, ‘that must be kinda tough. I’ll bet you’re missing them both.’

With a degree of guilt which she covered with a hasty ‘Oh yes, of course’, Polly realized that she had still been too busy to have actively missed Max. ‘He said he’d phone on Saturday. That’s tomorrow.’

Only I hope he calls before the Blues Brothers evening starts at Finnigan’s. (That’s Finnigan House – senior male dorm. Everyone invited.) I’m on duty, you see. Me and Charle(s) and Lorna – she’s lovely, I met her at lunch today. She teaches drama and voice. I think we’re about the same age.

‘What does Max do?’ Kate asked, genuinely interested.

Polly smiled. ‘You’d love him,’ she said, ‘he’s very artistic, very talented. Officially, he’s a self-employed graphic designer, only he likes to be known as a freelance draughtsman.’

Kate nodded approvingly. ‘He sounds special. That right?’

‘Absolutely,’ enthused Polly. ‘He is,’ she said. ‘In fact —’

No.

Not yet.

Kate refrained from the uh-huh of encouragement that was on the tip of her tongue. Polly looked suddenly lost and lonely so she handed her the bowl of blueberries and changed the subject instead.

Saturday. School for Polly finished at two but she joined the other off-duty teachers and students to eat hot dogs while watching the senior boys in a football match. She had no idea what these extravagantly padded, already beefy boys were doing, but there seemed to be more rucks than rugger and much less fancy footwork than footie. The buttocks, however, were incomparably pert and neat and made the game a pleasure to watch. Even more so, once Kate had explained the rules in under a minute, with ketchup on her chin. Soon, Polly was cheering with the best of them, much to Jackson’s delight.

‘So she can holler,’ he mused through the side of his mouth and to no one, ‘and boy, can she holler.’

Polly returned to Kate’s alone, forgoing the post-match refreshments and post mortem so she could guard the phone and leap on it as soon as it rang.

I’m going to say yes, you see. I’m going to accept his proposal. Then I can finally tell everyone.

The house, however, remained silent until Kate, Charle(s) and Bogey returned an hour later. Kate scanned Polly’s face hopefully, so Polly shook her head and shrugged her shoulders with hastily employed nonchalance, offering to make tea for the troops. The phone rang as soon as she left it; she tried not to jump on it but failed. It was Clinton for Kate. Polly tried not to register her disappointment. She failed.

It’s half past bloody six. That’s half eleven over there. Where is he?

After Polly had poured cranberry juice instead of milk into the tea, Kate suggested, very kindly, why didn’t she make the call and beat him to it?

‘Ain’t nothing like making a man good and guilty,’ she drawled like Mae West. ‘They usually repent extravagantly! Go on, I’m going to take a shower.’

It was seven o’clock. The Blues Brothers evening at Finnigan’s started in half an hour. It was midnight in Britain.

Actually, one minute past. It’s tomorrow. And Max said he’d phone me yesterday.

A strange voice, male and Scottish, answered the phone in England. Polly presumed she had misdialled so she hung up and rang again, staring at the number pad and speaking them out loud as she dialled. The same voice.

God, I hope everything’s OK.

‘Er, hullo, is Max there? Max Fyfield.’ There was interference on the line. She tapped the receiver against her hand. It wasn’t interference, it was background noise. Music, muffled. Voices, many.

‘Hullo?’ said the Scotsman.

‘Max Fyfield?’ stressed Polly, trying not to shout. It sounded like the receiver was dropped. ‘Hullo?’ she said. ‘Hullo? Max?’

Click.

The line was dead.

She dialled again, distressed and a little angry. Who was that man? How dare he!

‘Hullo?’

‘Thank God,’ said Polly, eyes to the heavens, ‘Dom, it’s me. Max there?’

‘Hullo? Oh Polly! Hi! Hold on. Max! Hold on,’ said Dom, disappearing with an unpromising clatter to locate his brother.

‘Polly?’

‘Max – hullo, I was er. You said you’d –’

Suddenly she wanted to cry.

Don’t be so silly.

Why do you want to cry?

I don’t know. I don’t want to be here. I feel frightened. It all feels too fragile.

‘Sorry,’ Max rushed. ‘Oh God, so sorry. I, er, well actually I forgot. Hey you – get the Osmonds off the turntable! And Slade. Kool and the Gang can stay. Polly? There you are – I was going to call you earlier but Dominic had me running errands and opening wine. Dom! Dom! The chilli – the coffee table. God that was close.’

‘Max,’ Polly asked, trying to control the shake in her voice, ‘what’s happening? What’s going on?’

I feel lonely. I’m frightened.

What of?

‘Dom has a few friends round,’ Max explained lightly.

Precisely.

‘Anyone I know?’

What’s wrong with that? Why do I feel shaky?

‘Er, don’t think so.’

‘Meg?’

I can hear a woman laughing. He’s just covered the mouthpiece with his hand. Why? Why’s he done that?

‘Meg?’ Polly repeated, staring around Kate’s kitchen, the people on the fridge; realizing that she was, essentially, amongst strangers. Alone.

I’m alone. Over here. Over there. I just delude myself that I’m allowed into people’s spheres, that they’ll make me part of their world, their family.

‘Megan was here earlier but she had to leave as she was meeting Jen Carter for a drink.’

I’ve been replaced. Oh, most wicked haste.

‘Max – why didn’t you phone me?’ Polly consciously let slip into baby voice. ‘Like you promised?’

‘I’m sorry Button,’ he said, his voice distant (he sounds distant), ‘I forgot. I was busy.’

No!

Yes – anyway, Polly, who is it who’s been too preoccupied even to think of him much, let alone miss him at all? Were you expecting life in London to be frozen in time until your return?

‘Polly?’

‘Yes,’ she said in a small voice, ‘I’m still here.’

‘I’d better go now, this isn’t the best time for a chat, is it? There’s chilli on the carpet and Dominic’s off his face. God, he’s out on the balcony. Doing opera. I must go – I’ll call you soon, promise. ’Kay?’

‘’Kay.’

What else could she say?

‘Love you,’ Max cooed.

Don’t say that.

‘’Kay,’ she said, chewing the inside of her cheek. She replaced the handset and stared blankly at the fridge of smiles.

‘You OK?’ asked Kate, understanding now the provenance of Polly’s deepening eye colour.

‘Yup,’ said Polly, a little more croakily than she would have liked, ‘absolutely fine.’

Kate offered Polly a cherry tomato. She bit it and winced as the delicious, tart juice caused a stab of sharpness to zip along her jaw. She swallowed. Hard.

‘All set?’ Kate asked.

‘Do you know,’ Polly replied, ‘I think I’ll give it a miss. Jet lag, you see. And building a house tomorrow – have to be strong, hey!’

‘Well,’ cautioned Kate, ‘I don’t think you can give it a miss. You’re on duty, Polly. That’s your job. That’s what you’re paid for. That’s why you’re here.’

Kate didn’t tell her that it wouldn’t be a problem for another teacher to stand in. She didn’t tell her because she didn’t want Polly not to go. She thought Polly ought not to be alone. Not on her first Saturday night in America. She hardly knew the girl, not properly. But she knew her well enough to see that loneliness was uncharted anathema to Polly Fenton. Kate cared.

So Miss Fenton went through the motions of being a teacher that night. She knew the film well, having seen it many times at university, and knew what to heckle and when to sing. But though she did so at all the opportune moments, gaining much admiration from the students in the process, there was no passion behind it and she felt no fun. She could have talked to Lorna, really she could. Really talked. She’d have liked that; Lorna too, hopefully. But she couldn’t because it was so noisy. And she was on duty.

What is it, Polly? What, exactly, has unnerved you so?

It feels too far to be safe.

How do you mean?

It’s new. I’ve never not been near him. We’ve rarely done things apart. ‘While the cat’s away’, hey?

How about ‘absence makes the heart grow fonder’, surely?

More like ‘out of sight, out of mind’. I must be losing mine. I don’t know, do you know I just feel – uneasy. All of a sudden. I suppose I just presumed all to be so secure. After five years, you slip into an easy routine. Or is it complacency? I’m not going to say ‘yes’. I’d better not. Not for a while.

Power game?

Safety net.

Fighting sleep, Polly forced images of Max to assault her instead. Max drunk. Max stoned. Max having a brilliant time without her. Max necking someone, tall and blonde. Max’s mind being utterly devoid of Polly.

She’d never done this to herself before.

She’d never seen Max like that.

What are you doing, Fenton? That’s not Max – not Max at all.

Look what Sunday has brought – a breathtakingly beautiful morning. Polly slept well, eventually, and her fears that smiling would elude her entire stay have proven unfounded: she grins broadly at the morning. Dew covers the lawn in a sweeping kiss and the very tips of just one or two leaves on each maple tree wink a crimson preview to Polly. New England. Vermont. Fall. How lucky.

Trading Old for New.

‘Just you wait,’ says Kate, pushing a mug of erbal tea (most definitely no ‘h’) into Polly’s hands, ‘another four weeks and man, you’ll weep!’ They sip and sigh awhile.

‘All set?’ Kate asks.

‘Won’t I need a hammer?’ asks Polly. Kate laughs and gives her a quick, spontaneous hug.

‘Nope!’ she declares, ‘that’s for the guys. You know there won’t be one nail or screw used, just oak pegs?’

How could Polly know? She’s never been to a house raising before.

Can a scent be deafening? Technically, probably not; grammatically, debatable too. However, it occurs to Polly, as she and Kate stride towards the site, that it is the most appropriate word to use.

The scent of pine is deafening.

Definitely; it is deafening and divine.

The pine, not yet seen, has been felled, planed and is ready to be made into a house.

From the right-hand fork at the end of Main Street, a small, well-maintained lane leads off it to the right. It continues severely up hill; over the petticoats and on to the very skirt of Mount Hubbardtons. Not that John Hubbardton was a cross-dresser, of course; it’s merely the price he must pay for having a mountain previously known as Sister Mountain renamed in his honour. After half a mile, a dirt track leads off the lane and it is here that we catch up with Polly and Kate. Kate is telling her all about Jojo Baxter but Polly can hardly hear her for the scent of pine. She closes her eyes and breathes deeply. It’s so heady. She stumbles as she goes. Kate links arms with her. For support.

‘Are these my Queens of Tarts?’

‘Hey Jojo!’ Kate sang, loading all the tarts on to Polly’s already laden arms so she could embrace Jojo. ‘How’s it going?’

‘Good, good. You must be Polly? Hi there, I’m Jojo. I’m starving and we’ve hardly gotten started. Save my soul and send me to heaven: blueberry, cherry and apple? Queens of Tarts, queens!’

Polly fell for Jojo immediately and knew instinctively that they’d see eye to eye – not least because they were absolutely the same height.

There were people and pine everywhere. By the time Polly had laid the pies on one of three trestles set up in a rambling shack on the edge of the clearing, the population on Jojo’s site seemed to have doubled. What a crowd! Adults and children and most ages represented therein. The site for the house had already been prepared in the form of a large, rectangular platform; children were scampering over it; women were pacing it, imagining the kitchen and my! what an awesome bedroom; men were analysing it with tape measures, spirit levels and the failsafe eye. There were three enormous wooden ‘A’ frames; one lay on the platform, the other two at either end. Nearby, stacks of pine in differing configurations were planked up in neat piles six foot high. A single sheet of white paper, tacked to one plank, had a list of ten, polite points. This was how you raised a house. As easy as apple pie.

This is America, thought Polly, venturing nearer to the platform and absorbing all surrounding her as she went, not just the pine and the fact that folk build houses for their friends in a day. No; alongside the pies and pumpernickel, the accents and the stunning scenery, this enormous sense of spirit embodies America, surely.

Wasn’t all of this a film? Harrison Ford?

The house raising might well have been staged just for an English tourist. But just as Polly was neither ignored or stared at, nor was she over-welcomed. She felt at ease. She was not a tourist, she was not at the cinema. People allowed her to occupy a space amongst them. She fitted in just fine.

All America is here: wholesome kids, caring women, buddy-buddy men, Boston beans baking deep in that pit over there, the children’s tree house with the Stars and Stripes. I hear terminology I wrongly thought would irritate me, I smell the gargantuan feast that will revive the pioneers mid-morning. I baked a pie. I smell pine. I’m part of this. I belong.

The first ‘A’ frame was aligned, hauled and coaxed into its place with little ado.

‘Hold it right there, Ed.’

‘Easy! Easy!’

‘Up she goes. She’s up.’

‘Way to go, guys!’

While the children now played in the trees and by the stream, the women chatted and marvelled and ensured that beakers were overflowing with fruit juice. The builders were all voluntary – Clinton and Jackson and a couple of other Hubbardton teachers amongst them. There were also Jojo’s friends and family who had travelled across the state, some even down from Canada, to be a part of the day. There were Jude and Ed, her hillbilly-looking nephews whose sensitive and polite demeanour was utterly at odds with their thick necks and thatched hair, their calloused, stout hands and seam-stretching thighs. Nearby, a couple of elderly men in great shape (who actually didn’t look silly in their checked shirts and worn jeans), spoke about e-mail and software while they flung ropes about like dab hands. A goofy teenager set up a plumb-line and cried ‘Yo!’ triumphantly while Clinton and Jackson rigged up a ‘come-along’ to secure the correct tautness between struts. A small army of men wore tool belts slung like holsters; whipping out hammers with a speed that would have done John Wayne proud, or twirling their tools with all the flair of a rock-and-roll drummer. Everyone had a job to do, everyone knew their place. Overseeing the entire operation was a small, wiry man, the architect and only paid member of the team, bearded strangely minus a moustache, who darted nimbly around the growing skeleton, heaping praise, advice and instructions with a softly spoken voice. All three ‘A’ frames were now in place and point four on the list had been reached.

Every strut, joist and plank had a home in either a notch, a wedge or a grip in a neighbouring plank, strut or joist. Corresponding holes in the wood allowed for oak pegs to further secure the bond. A jigsaw puzzle the size and shape of a house. The hillside rang with the song of chatter, of laughter and of knock, knock, knock on wood. Enter two carpenters, father and son: Bob and Mikey McCabe. Polly had a doughnut in one hand and a small offcut of pine in the other and she was intermittently sniffing the two when she first caught sight of Mikey. Tall and lithe in physique, his dark hair long. He had the most beautiful forearms, ditto his strong, muscled legs with their masculine smattering of dark hairs. His face was so handsome it could well be illegal.

Polly bit into the wood, hard, and thought to herself that English doughnuts were so much softer and more tasty and who on earth was that scrumptious man and he’s taken his T-shirt off, oh my God.

She was utterly taken aback. She had no control over her eyes as they darted to and from this figure. Her heart pounded. She was horrified and exhilarated.

But I don’t look twice at normal men.

Normal?

I mean, real-life blokes. Only Max. For the past five years. Apart from film stars – who don’t count.

She let the doughnut fall to the ground as if it were an off-cut of pine, and she placed the offcut of pine, teethmarks and all, on to a plate of doughnuts.

Polly Fenton doesn’t look twice. But I can’t keep my eyes off him.

‘Isn’t this great!’ squeezed Jojo, at her side.

‘Super duper,’ agreed Polly in fine style, half relieved to be led away from this apparent danger zone, half ruing the fact that stirring the beans prevented visual access to Mikey McCabe.

‘He’s out of sight,’ she lamented softly to the great saucepan as she sat on her heels over the pit.

‘Isn’t he just!’ colluded Kate cautiously but with a skew smile. ‘Outa sight. Totally.’

‘I meant,’ fumbled Polly, immensely uncomfortable and almost lost for words, ‘I meant – absolutely nothing. Nothing at all.’

Kate doffed her head and departed with a smile that was kind. And wise. And something else too.

Outa sight, Polly twanged to herself.

Max is out of her mind.

She is totally engrossed in the sensation of the present.