gasped, ‘you wouldn’t be—?’ She let the sentence hang. England sure was small – but not that small, surely.
Max’s eyes alighted on cat biscuits, tinned salmon and condensed milk visible in the woman’s plastic bag.
Buster.
‘You’re not—’ he stopped. They stared at each other, searching for some further clue.
‘I’m Jen Carter,’ she laughed, eyes dancing while her brow twitched becomingly.
‘Good Lord!’ Max chuckled, shaking his head and grinning back, ‘I’m Polly’s Max.’
‘You don’t say.’
‘I do,’ he assured her, ‘I am.’
They shook their heads and then shook hands.
‘Well well,’ Max said, handing Jen the ice-cream while he restored order to his shopping bag.
‘Can I tempt you,’ Jen asked, ‘with Polly’s spoons? You want to eat up your ice-cream back at the apartment? Check the place over? Say hi to Buster?’
What an offer. Of course he did.
Aha. Is autumn to be a season of trysts? A helluva fruity mess? A little bit of harmless swinging? Mixing if not matching? Musical affairs? Bed jumping and wife swapping? But no one’s married here. Yet. Does that make it any less significant? Easier? Does that make it right? Or just not as wrong?
Hold on, I thought these four characters were besotted with their true partners? Fenton and Fyfield. Miss American Pie and her hunk of Chip. It might be an interesting notion in terms of our tale’s plot – but what of the potential chaos in our characters’ lives? We know these people. The thought wouldn’t enter their minds, would it? Or if it did, if it crept in, it would be banished at once, of course. Or, if not quite at once, it would be considered carefully – and then rejected defiantly. Surely.
NINE
While Jen cursed autumn for dressing the pavements in a lethal cloak of sodden leaves and for giving her a stuffy cold, Polly praised the fall frequently each day for its stunning blaze of cool fire. She was rarely without a smile or a spring to her step and her delight and her energy were infectious. Trudging across Hampstead Heath in its October livery of russets and browns was one thing, but jogging or cycling or sitting – just living – in Vermont, in a landscape which boasted every possible hue of red, orange and yellow was something else entirely.
‘Forget Keats!’ Polly told her senior class, ‘“Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness”? I hardly think so. Don’t take any notice of him – he never came to Vermont, you see. But if he had, class, how do you think he would have described it? Anyone? Don?’
‘Er, “season of pumpkin and palette of fire”?’
‘Good! Laura?’
‘“Trees clad the colour of passion; sun slumbering till spring”?’
‘Super! Kevin?’
‘“Fall: the sweep of flame that is the swansong of the maple.”’
‘Terrific! Gosh, look at it out there – come on, let’s spend the remainder of the lesson outside composing odes.’
The Bench, Hockey Pitch
19th October
Darling Max,
My class are composing odes to the fall so I thought I’d do the same but in letter form to you. I’ve told the seniors to forget Keats – do you think that very wicked? But most of them are eighteen years old, so I’m sure they can handle such an order! I won’t tell the juniors to do so as they’re far too impressionable, and I can’t instruct the freshers and sofs because I doubt they know who Keats is. I think the seniors feel liberated, relieved in some way – given carte blanche to shake off the spectre of hallowed literature, to praise nature in whatever terms they choose. They’re picking some excellent ones too.
As you know, I don’t believe in God, but I have to credit and thank some thing; whoever, whatever. As the fall has taken hold, it is as if some divine, huge power is laying their hand over the land in a slow, magical sweeping. Initially, just the fingertips of some of the leaves on a few of the trees were touched with crimson. Within a week, every tree had a flourish of copper or brass amongst the remaining green – as if a whole branchful had been given a celestial handshake. Now the maples are cloaked in incredible swathes of colours from the highest yellow to the deepest maroon; so vivid and bright that I don’t know whether to weep or wear sunglasses. No mists, no mellow fruitfulness; instead an amazing clarity, crystal-clean light and a clear breeze. This land is rich indeed, for the leaves are made of gold, of rubies, of garnets. Ho! Sorry to prattle on in such syrupy terms, but I really have fallen under the spell of this place.
The only drawback is the Rodin Syndrome. Now that I have experienced the fall in Vermont, I fear any other autumn anywhere else will surely seem second-rate and mediocre. Rather like all other sculpture once the work of Rodin is known.
God, I wish you were here. It is absolutely beautiful but it would be even better if I could share it. I mean, I go jogging with Lorna and cycling with Clinton (I’m quite fit now – you’d love my tight butt) (that’s American for firm bum) but what I crave is a long, loping walk with you.
Damn – time and paper run out on me – and my juniors are about to have the surprise of their lives: they’re about to meet Chaucer and, while they adore my dulcet tones, I’m not sure what they’ll make of my Middle English accent.
I love you, Max-i-mine. My own ‘verray parfit gentil knight’, I miss you. Write soon,
Polly.
PS. pis send more Marmite – Kate’s gone crazy for it and is using it in everything – Bogey’s food included.
‘Yeah, hello?’
‘Chip?’
‘Jen! How are you? Hey, it’s great to hear from you. I was going to call you only there’s a hockey tournament soon and suddenly the whole team have gotten aches and sprains.’
‘Hey, that’s OK, I’ve been pretty busy too.’
‘So how’s it going?’
‘Good, good – how’s Hubbardtons?’
‘Pretty much the same. I think tomorrow’ll be Mountain Day.’
‘Hey – isn’t that classified information? Wish I could be there.’
‘You don’t have some day similar, in London England?’
‘Nope. Nothing that comes close. Something called Mufti when the kids can wear their own clothes – but that’s only the last day of term.’
‘Some way off.’
‘Sure
