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.
‘Powers!’ he boomed, shaking her hand with both of his clasped around it.
‘Fenton!’ Polly replied, loudly and hastily and as she thought she ought. They observed each other, both slightly puzzled. The man continued to shake her hand while he cocked his head, said ‘hmm’.
‘Come,’ he said, ‘you have a class to teach.’
He led her along the grand entrance hall, clad with portraits of Great J.H. and reverberating with the echo of footsteps and chatter. No one appeared to be looking at her and there were too many of them for her to focus on. It was just another day at school. And now she was part of it. She was the new girl. She had to fit in.
I have to fit in. People have expectations. I was chosen.
‘Your first class, lit crit, are freshmen and sophomore together.’
‘I see,’ said Polly, clueless, ‘what years are they?’
‘Ninth and tenth grade.’
‘I see,’ said Polly, none the wiser, wondering how Jen Carter was fairing with Upper Third and Lower Fourth.
‘Jackson!’ Polly’s chaperon called to a good-looking man with a goatee beard and John Lennon spectacles, ‘come over here!’
‘Hey Powers, how are you? Hi there,’ he nodded to Polly, ‘I’m Jackson Thomas, I teach English too.’
‘Hullo,’ responded Polly, trying to sound casual and look at ease, ‘I’m Fenton, Polly.’
The men regarded her and, while Jackson Thomas still wore the perplexed look that had been Powers’s previously, Powers suddenly burst out laughing, slapped Jackson on the back and patted Polly’s shoulders liberally.
‘What?’ laughed Polly with a little discomfort.
‘Hey?’ enquired Jackson.
‘Fenton!’ Powers laughed.
‘Yes?’ said Polly.
Suddenly Jackson roared alongside him.
‘Sorry?’ asked Polly, now a little irritated and her eye colour saying so. The joke was on her but what on earth was it?
‘My name,’ said Powers, ‘is Powers Mateland. This is my colleague, Jackson Thomas.’
‘Mateland,’ mused Polly, thinking it an odd Christian name, but there again, this was America.
‘My name,’ Powers repeated, slowly and theatrically, ‘is Powers. And his name,’ he chuckled, wagging his thumb at the