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How many times in how many pubs had Polly had discussions like this one? The reactionary point of view was always so easy to put, the complex, radical argument always so easy to put down.
“Just because the world is full of Neanderthal morons doesn’t mean we have to run it for their benefit and by their rules.”
Jack searched his brain for a telling argument. Somehow it was important to him that Polly understood his point of view.
“Listen, Polly, when the guy who digs up the street checks out your butt you’re pretty pissed, am I right?”
“Well, yes-”
“You’re furious. You’d like to knock that guy off his scaffolding and drive a dump truck into his asshole cleavage. Well, men don’t like having their butts checked out either, but unlike you they’re actually going to do something about it, they’re going to attack the guy who is checking them out and you ca
Of course it sounded reasonable. Polly had spent her life listening to reactionary arguments and they always sounded reasonable. Which was why it was all the more important to counter them. Even at nearly 3.15 in the morning. Even with a mysterious ex-lover who had turned up out of the blue after more than sixteen years’ absence. Polly had a policy. It was embarrassing at times and always boring, but her view was that casual racism, sexism and homophobia always had to be confronted.
“People have to learn to restrain themselves,” she said.
Jack had a rule too. It was that he would never suffer pious liberal bullshit in silence.
“Says you, babe, and you and your people can keep on wishing!”
Polly was shocked at how bitter Jack’s tone had become.
“Me and my people?” she said. “What people, Jack? I don’t have any people! What are you talking about? Why are you bringing me into this? None of this is any of my business.”
Polly was not even sure that Jack heard her. He looked strange. There was a different look in his eye; she could see real anger there.
“You know what’s coming next, don’t you? Pacifists.”
“What about pacifists?”
“In the fucking army! Why not? Some Congresswoman is going to a
Jack was becoming red in the face. For the first time he looked his age. A confused, middle-aged man with a chip on his shoulder.
“I’m not interested in your paranoid ravings, Jack. I want to know why-”
But Polly might as well have been talking to herself.
“Fucking constitution! It’s a sponge, it’ll absorb anything anybody wants. It’s like the damn Bible. Everybody can make it work for them. Well, the constitution can only take so much. One day the Supreme Court is going to rule that the constitution is unconstitutional and the United States will implode! It’ll disappear up its ass.”
“Good! I’m glad.” Polly felt tired. She had to leave for work at seven forty-five.
“Jack, I can’t have this conversation with you now. I have to work tomorrow. Maybe we could meet some other-”
Jack lowered his tone. He spoke quietly and firmly. “I’ve told you, Polly, I only have tonight. I leave in the morning.”
He stared at Polly as if that was all he needed to say, as if Polly could like it or lump it, neither of which she was prepared to do.
“Well go, then! Go! I don’t want you here. I didn’t ask you to come.”
Jack did not move at all. He just stood in the middle of the room, looking at her.
“I’m staying, Polly,” he said, and for the first time Polly began to feel a little nervous. Something about Jack had changed. He was being so intense.
“OK, stay, stay if you want to, but… but you can’t just drop in after sixteen years and talk about sexual politics and the constitution, and… It’s… it’s stupid.”
Jack looked tired too now. “You always used to want to talk about politics, Polly. What’s changed? Is there nothing of value left for you people to fuck up?”
He seemed to say it more in sorrow than in anger. None the less Polly wasn’t having any of it.
“I have nothing to do with you or your hangups, Jack,” said Polly calmly. “We knew each other briefly, years ago. We don’t even live in the same country.”
“Politics is international, you always used to tell me that,” said Jack, and he smiled at the memory. “You read it me out of that damn political cartoon book you had, The Start-Up Guide to Being an Asshole…”
“Marxism for Begi
“That’s the one.”
Polly blushed at the memory of how naive she’d been. She had actually given Jack a copy of Marxism for Begi
“Wasn’t I the starry-eyed little pillock?” she said.
“Well, did you ever read Churchill’s History of the Second World War?” Jack replied. The book-giving had, after all, been a two-way thing.
“Be serious, Jack, it was about fifty volumes!”
“Oh, and Marx is easy reading, is it?”
Now they were both laughing. Neither of them had changed at all. They were still a million miles apart in every way but one.
“I wanted you to be a part of my world as much as you wanted me to be part of yours, Polly,” said Jack. “You’re not the only person who got disappointed. I believe that in my own way I loved you every bit as much as you loved me.”
Jack was terrified to discover that he still did.
“You can’t have done,” said Polly quietly, avoiding Jack’s eye, “or you wouldn’t have left.”
“That’s not true, Polly. I had to leave. I’m a soldier. I’m not good at love, I admit that. I don’t find it easy to live with. But whatever love there is inside me I felt for you, to its very limits and beyond.”
35
While Jack and Polly were wrestling with their pasts in London, back in the States another drama of betrayal was being played out. A man and a woman were sitting alone together in the faded splendour of a dining room that had been beautifully decorated twenty years before. It was di
“I’m sorry, Nibs,” he said. “What more can I say? I don’t want to do it but sometimes it just happens. I just can’t help myself.”
“Nibs” was the man’s private name for his wife. It was what he always called her when they were alone, their little secret, a token of his affection. These days they were alone together less and less. Their professional lives had grown so complex that dining together had become a matter for diaries, and when his work took him away she could no longer go with him. Perhaps it was that, she thought. Perhaps her career had driven him into the arms of other, stupider, more available women. She wondered if he had special names for them. Perhaps he had called them Nibs also, for convenience and to avoid embarrassing mistakes. At the thought of this Nibs’ eyes grew misty and briefly she took refuge in her napkin.