Polly

Who else.

But I haven’t really thought about it – not outside the context of a soft-focus day-dream. We’ve never spoken seriously about it – like we might be tempting fate if we did. But there again, who else would I marry?

She wriggles in her seat and retrieves the orange plastic neck-ring from the back pocket of her jeans. She places it on her finger, under the blanket, eyes scrunched shut even behind the eye-mask, desperate to recreate the sensation when Max did so. It is too large, of course. Somehow, its symbolism is almost too big for her to contemplate as well, thousands of feet up in the air, on her way to foreign climes. For a whole year. She’ll think seriously on it anon of course, perhaps on the banks of some lonely stream, under the bough of some lofty maple, when she feels alone and a million miles away.

I’m bound to, frequently.

God, a whole year. And so far away.

The eye-mask forces her tears back against her eyes. The noise of the aircraft prevents anyone hearing her sniff. She returns the plastic neck-ring ring to the back pocket of her jeans. It’s serrated.

Sharper than you’d think.

The glut of emotions enveloping her at Heathrow had been complex: the pain of parting from Max; the apprehension of leaving kin and country; a fear of flying; the love of the job she was leaving; concern for the position she was exchanging it for. Not to mention the bombard of emotion subsuming her when the man she loved proposed marriage. Out of the blue.

So spontaneous – very un-Max. Wonder if he thought about it, whether he really truly meant it?

‘Oh dear,’ she wails suddenly, out loud, tasting the blanket inadvertently, ‘I didn’t actually say “yes”.’

The shock of it!

THREE

Polly was immensely excited to see Cape Cod from the aeroplane window.

‘Do you know, it looks exactly the same as it does on a map!’ she exclaimed to her neighbour who was still wearing the blindfold. ‘Look!’ Polly urged, with a gentle but insistent nudge, ‘it’s like an arm, a crook at the elbow, a hand cupping the sea against it. Look!’

Her fellow passenger did indeed look and then retreated back behind his eye-mask hoping sincerely that no other cartographical features would solicit his neighbour before they landed in Boston.

As Polly waited at the luggage carousel, she suddenly had absolutely no idea who would be meeting her. In the event, she would have made a bee-line for Kate Tracey anyway, whether or not she had been brandishing the enormous board emblazoned with Polly’s name. Amongst the sea of faces and the barrage of name signs, Kate’s easy smile reached out to Polly immediately. As she approached, she marvelled at the coincidence that the name on the sign was indeed her very own.

‘Polly?’ the woman mouthed, from some distance.

‘Yes!’ Polly mouthed back, nodding and grinning.

‘Polly!’ the woman declared when they were close to, ‘hi there!’

‘Hullo,’ said Polly, a little breathless, ‘how do you do?’

‘I’m Kate Tracey, welcome,’ the woman said, gripping the placard between her knees so she could shake Polly’s hand heartily, ‘how you doing?’

‘Oh,’ said Polly, ‘absolutely fine, thank you.’

‘Good! This is Bogey. Bogey say hi.’

Polly hadn’t even seen the dog, having been preoccupied with Kate’s glinting eyes behind red-rimmed owl-frame spectacles.

‘Hullo Bogey!’ Polly declared, flopping to her knees and encircling her arms about the oversized Airedale’s neck while he slurped at her cheek. ‘As in Humphrey?’ she asked Kate.

‘Sure thing,’ Kate confirmed, trading the dog’s lead for Polly’s trolley.

‘I’m Fenton as in Roger and James,’ Polly explained, jigging to keep up with Kate who was slaloming effortlessly through the concourse towards the exit, ‘although I’m related to neither. Unfortunately.’

‘That’s too bad,’ rued Kate kindly, coming to a standstill, cocking her head and nodding at Polly, ‘I’m kinda partial to British photographers and British poets.’

Polly was most impressed.

‘I’ve had rampant affairs with both species,’ confided Kate through the side of her mouth while she walked. ‘Rampant!’ she all but growled. ‘In the sixties,’ she said, by way of justification.

Polly laughed.

I like this woman!

What’s she like then?

She’s head of art at Hubbardtons. I suppose she must be in her early fifties, but she’s quite trendy with her hair cut into a wonderful feathery crop and her face framed by these wacky specs. She has a round, sparkling face and chipmunk cheeks when she smiles. She’s wearing a lovely old leather jacket – which has obviously known no other owner – checked trousers and funky chunky boots. She walks incredibly fast and, oh how funny, she’s just clicked and winked at the newspaper-stand chap. He must be a hundred and twenty. Ha! Here’s her car and it’s a real slice of America – what they call a station-wagon, I think, with that faux wooden panelling along the side?

Do you know, I’m actually here! I’m in America, in the car park at Logan Airport. It’s not frightening, it’s fantastic. Can’t believe it. Wow!

‘All right! Here we go, luggage in the trunk, Bogey in the back, Polly up front with me.’

‘How long will the journey take?’

‘About three and a half.’

‘Bet that’s just round the block for you – rather than London to Liverpool for me. Is it scenic?’

‘Round the what? I’ve been to Liverpool, you know, in the sixties, of course. And yup, the route’s pretty.’

‘Fantastic! I’ve never been to America.’

‘You’re gonna have a lot of fun,’ said Kate, nodding sagely and tapping Polly lightly on the knee. ‘You’ll never want to leave.’ Polly tapped Kate back.

Oh yes I will. Everything I am is in the UK.

‘I like your checked trousers,’ she said instead.

Kate laughed, short and sharp. ‘They’re plaid pants over here.’

The journey passed quickly, Kate talking nineteen to the dozen while Polly’s eyes, like her ears, worked overtime to take in all she could.

School on Saturdays – nightmare!

Wooden houses. Big cars. Sidewalks. Very fat people. Fantastically thin people.

So I’m to have a room at Kate’s house for the first term.

Driving on the wrong side. Policemen with guns and cool glasses.