Polly

‘Just as much as you’ll miss me,’ he had replied, gently and with confidence. Max and Polly, Polly and Max. Maxanpolly had become a familiar descriptive term amongst those who knew them, one frequently employed to quantify the level of compatibility amongst others.

‘No, I do like him – but we’re not talking maxanpolly here.’

‘They’ve become totally maxanpollified.’

Polly Fenton and Max Fyfield were the couple that other couples loved, envied and invariably aspired to; after all, they had maintained their relationship through their early twenties. It seemed there had always been Max and Polly. That there would always be Max and Polly was a fact undisputed and oft proclaimed by those who knew them, for it created a soft web of safety. What a lovely balance: thirty-year-old Max, the quiet, freelance draughtsman; contemplative, generous, handsome in a boyish way with his fawn flop of hair, grey-blue eyes and open smile. Polly the English teacher, petite and pretty, a lively sparkle to Max’s warm glow, an eager conversationalist to Max’s well-chosen few words. She is as feminine as he is masculine; he’s not hero-tall or model-macho but he appears strong and manly when he has Polly attached to him.

Max tips his head and maybe touches a shoulder when he greets people, while Polly hugs them liberally. Friends in need turn to Max for his measured, sober assistance. If they wish to celebrate or chat, they seek Polly because she will share their excitement and wear their emotions. Like salt and pepper, sugar and spice; they complement each other. Polly and Max fit. Polly will be greatly missed while she is away. But she’ll be back. Of course she will. She’s going away tomorrow but she’ll be back, as she would say, ‘in a jiff’.

Tomorrow is now today. Yesterday went far too quickly. Now tomorrow will see Polly wake up over the sea and far away because today Polly is leaving England for America. At four thirty. Tomorrow, Max won’t have seen Polly since yesterday. Polly and Max have not said much so far today. Polly has been scurrying around her flat, double-checking things already triple-checked yesterday. She has left little notes dotted here and there to assist her American proxy with the ways and wills of the boiler, the cooker, Buster, and the patio doors. Polly knows little about her counterpart apart from her name (Jen Carter), her age (same as Polly) and her subject (English too, of course).

‘Do you think The Jen Carter Person will be happy here?’ Polly asks Max. ‘Do you think she’ll like my flat?’

‘Yes. And yes,’ Max assures, adding that a note explaining how the television worked was really not necessary. ‘Maybe just warn her that here we have only five channels.’

‘Radio?’ Polly suggests, pen poised above a yellow Post-it note. Max shakes his head. He pulls Polly’s hair through his hands into a pony tail, tugs it so her head comes back, and kisses her nose.

‘A map to the launderette!’ Polly exclaims, busying herself with red and blue pens.

‘I’ll start loading the car,’ he says, turning away from her. It had seemed such a great idea, such a wonderful opportunity that she should go. Now Max feels ambivalent, wonders whether they should have discussed it in more depth, just talked more really.

‘And I must warn her of Buster’s food fads,’ Polly says to herself.

‘I’ll load the car,’ Max says.

Max opens the bonnet of his Beetle which is really the boot and smiles broadly at Polly’s suitcase and the knowledge of all those jars of Marmite. He hates the stuff and yet had he not sneaked a jar from Polly yesterday? Just to keep. To have and to hold.

‘You can have it back once you’re home again,’ he had said, holding the jar aloft while Polly jumped to reach it.

‘Let me check the sell-by date. OK. But it must be this very jar – no substitute.’

A substitute? Ludicrous!

Max places her small rucksack on top of the suitcase and reads its bulges easily. Walkman. Water. Two paperbacks. One pair of thick socks. Bits and pieces from the bathroom.

Damn, I should have written a little note, or brought a little something to slip in as a surprise.

Too late, Max, because here she is. See her? Locking the door and resting her forehead lightly against it for a moment? Now walking down the steps. Walking towards you with a brave, manufactured smile aboard her small face. Isn’t time strange? You’ve had five years together and suddenly it doesn’t seem enough. Eight days ago she wasn’t going until next week – ages away in the face of a whole week together. Then you had to think in terms, of days. Yesterday it was tomorrow. This morning it was this afternoon. Now, at noon, it is merely a case of less than a handful of hours.

‘You ready? Shall we go?’

‘Yes and no.’

‘The sooner you go, the sooner you’ll be back, hey?’

‘Can’t wait to get rid of me, is it?’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘I do.’

‘Shall we?’

‘Sure thing, babe. Let’s burn rubber, hon. Hit it.’

‘Polly Fenton! Don’t you dare forsake your dulcet tones before you’ve even left our shores!’

‘Max, my lover, ‘twas but a jest. My accent and I will sail through this year untainted and return to you unblemished, in one piece. Absolutely fine and in a jiff.’

At Heathrow, Max bought Polly two bottles of her favourite shampoo because there was space in her rucksack and time to do it. They sat over cups of coffee and small bottles of orange juice, not daring to finish them. They tried to do the Guardian crossword but found that the airport tannoy played havoc with the necessary lobe of the brain. They declared the airport clock fast, their watches must be slow, that can’t be the time. Did you hear that? Yes, I did. Oh, that they were hard of hearing!

‘Did you hear that?’

‘Yes I did.’

‘What does “last call” actually mean, Max? Might there not be a “final” one we could wait for?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Oh dear,’ Polly says, ‘they’ve called me by name. Should I go now?’

‘Yes.’

‘I know we said you wouldn’t, but would you? Come all the way?’

‘All the way?’

‘To passport control at any rate?’ she whispers, hiding the colour of her eyes from Max as she closes them to kiss him. Her lips are quivering too much for her to pucker them properly. Max doesn’t mind; he knows her intention and echoes her sentiment with a clumsy bash of his lips against her cheek.

‘Come on Polly, it’s time.’

Silently, they try to pretend they have no idea where passport control is but there’s no avoiding it, all paths seem to lead there and yet they cannot see beyond it; beyond the neon sign ‘Departures’, beyond the uniformed officials behind their melamine lecterns.

‘Here we are.’

‘Can’t.’

‘You have to.’

‘Max. Can’t.’

‘Button, you can.’

‘Would passenger Polly Fenton, flying Virgin Atlantic to Boston, please make her way to the departure lounge.’

‘Oh dear. Bye bye.’

‘Bye, sweet girl.’