Freya North - Polly

Supper? Isn’t it one in the morning?

Not for you Polly, it’s only eight o’clock.

But Max’ll be fast asleep. I can’t call him.

It’s already tomorrow for Max. He hasn’t seen you since yesterday.

I haven’t even said ‘yes’ yet.

‘The guys’ turned out to be Kate’s husband Clinton (‘As in Eastwood?’ Polly had asked in awe. ‘Sure!’ he had responded. ‘Or as in President. But we’ll go for the former if you don’t mind.’); another foreign exchange teacher who was Chinese and asked to be called Charles with a silent ‘s’ though his real name sounded something like Bik-toy-ng, and finally another young teacher from Hubbardtons called Greg who informed Polly he taught ‘Math’.

‘Sss?’ suggested Polly, imagining only one side on a triangle, one axis on a graph, no long division and absolutely no multiplication.

‘Math-th!’ Greg brandished, though it made him spit slightly.

‘That’s some bandanna,’ praised Clinton gently as he heaped spaghetti on to her plate.

To her horror, Polly realized that the Virgin Atlantic complimentary eye-mask was still propped up on her forehead.

‘You want to trade?’ Kate asked. ‘For another beer, say?’

‘Yes,’ mumbled crimson-cheeked Polly, biting her lip and digging her nails into the mask, ‘and yes.’

Kate examined the snooze-mask carefully and then tucked it into her pocket triumphantly.

Concerned that the new arrival should vanquish jet-lag, the group ensured that Polly did not go to bed until a respectable half past ten though it meant, on waking the next morning, that she had little recollection of the latter part of the night before, could not remember what or if she’d eaten and had to be reintroduced to Greg from scratch later that morning.

After ten hours of thick, dreamless sleep, Polly felt eager to set her first full day in motion and to acquaint herself with her new town, her new job and as many new peers as her mind could possibly catalogue. There seemed to be no one around, a feeble ‘Morning?’ from the bedroom door brought no reply. After encountering two dead ends, Polly found her way back to the kitchen and occupied herself by introducing herself to the fridge door where she came across Kate through the decades alongside affable-looking people with great teeth. The magnets holding the photos in place were quite something: colonial houses, a host of Disney characters, a golden angel, various dogs, a Red Sox shirt, a variety of bagels and doughnuts – all in miniature and mostly chipped.

‘I don’t call it my kitsch-en for nothing!’

‘Kate!’

‘Good morning there! I’m going to have you fetch the bread and milk, that way you’ll catch the layout of the town – and I can show you the short cut to school later.’

‘Fine,’ shrugged Polly, ‘fire away.’

‘Out the back door, over the lawn, through the passageway between those two houses there – with me so far? Hang a left, cross the street, first right. The store is the first building on the left. Got that?’

‘Aye, Cap’n Tracey.’

‘Hey? Who?’

‘You!’ said Polly fondly.

It didn’t come as much of a surprise that the store was called Hubbardtons. The proprietor told Polly that Great John himself had worked there as a young boy. And bought all his provisions there throughout his life.

‘Kate’s sent me for her daily bread,’ Polly explained.

‘Sure thing,’ said the proprietor, who was really too old to be wearing a denim skirt and sneakers, ‘and what’ll I call you?’

‘Oh, I’m Polly Fenton. From England. I’ve come to teach at the John Hubbardton Academy. English.’

‘Uh-huh, Hubbardtons,’ said the proprietor, whose hair was neatly held in place with a child’s novelty hair grips, ‘I’m pleased to meet you, my name’s Marsha – but you write it Mar-see-a, OK? That’s Mar-C.I.A. See?’ Polly nodded vigorously, wondering when she’d ever need to write to the proprietor of Hubbardtons Grocery Store.

It did not take much scrutinizing for Polly to familiarize herself with the layout of Hubbardtons Spring, though she would need a map to find her way round the school grounds for the first week. The town was laid out neatly either side of Main Street with Hubbardtons River running parallel to it. Though shrouded from view by a thatch of pine and maple, the water chattered constantly and Polly was all ears. There was a small fire station at one end of Main Street, at the other a church; white, wooden and archetypal (Polly once had a New England calendar with one on every page), marking a fork in the road. One leg obviously skirted alongside Hubbardtons (the river), the other marched upwards towards Hubbardtons (the mountain). Along Main Street, small stores sat amicably with houses and most of the buildings had flags outside, brightly coloured silk designs alongside the ubiquitous Stars and Stripes waving to Polly.

Everywhere I look I’m being welcomed. And yet no one really knows me at all. Poor Jen Carter, I can’t imagine a Belsize Park reception coming anywhere near as close.

Though she was keen to undertake a thorough exploration of Main Street and where it led, she was keener to taste the warm bread she was carrying. She returned to Pleasant Street, off by heart, back to Kate’s home.

‘Did you meet Marsha with the C.I.A?’ joked Kate, tearing a hunk of bread and offering the loaf to Polly to do the same.

‘Met Marsha,’ Polly confirmed, wrestling with the lid of the Marmite and then offering it to Kate.

‘Jelly?’ traded Kate, with her mouth full.

‘Please,’ said Polly, accepting blueberry jam without raising her eyebrows.

A very different taste to good old Marmite. A rather pleasant surprise.

You have to try new things.

The next morning, with her body clock just about reset for Vermont, it was time for Polly to go to school. The John Hubbardton Academy was more impressive, more beautiful than either the brochure suggested or Polly had imagined. Neat pathways cut through well-tended swathes of lawn and led to the various buildings which made up the school. It was evident that they varied greatly in age, and therefore style, but the uniformity of the copper-red brick with creamy-grey stone windows and detailing gave the campus a homogeneity. Kate named each building and its resident faculty, and introduced Polly to practically everyone who passed by. Polly absorbed names such as Brentwood, Stuyvesant, Peter, Finnigan and Stewart though she forgot immediately which was architecture and which was human – and which was teacher and who was the pupil.

‘This is me,’ Kate said, clasping the pillar on the porch of a small but noble building, ‘this is where art matters.’

‘Where do I go?’ Polly asked. ‘Where’s “me”?’

‘See that place directly opposite,’ asked Kate, pointing to a majestic three-storey building with a great furl of steps leading up to it, ‘that’s Hubbardton Hall. That’s where the fundamentals are housed: English, Math, History – also the admin offices. Go up the stairs and knock on the first door to your left. They’ll be waiting. They know you’re here. They’ll show you to your class. Enjoy!’

Dutifully, Polly crossed the lawn (via the path, of course), climbed the stairs (twelve) and knocked on the first door to her left.

‘Enter!’

It was a woman’s voice. Polly popped her head around the door.

‘Hullo?’

The woman sat at a word processor and smiled broadly at Polly without taking her eyes from the screen.

‘Hi there. He’ll be right with you.’

Sure enough, whoever ‘he’ was appeared from a connecting door and bowled over to Polly with his hand outstretched; a substantial figure with dark curls and an opaque beard.