Blast From The Past

objection being that it had a picture of a cruise missile on it that had been altered to make it resemble a penis. Polly explained that this was a comment on the masculine nature of war.

“I’m afraid that other guests might find it offensive,” the receptionist explained.

“Oh, and I suppose nuclear arsenals aren’t offensive?” Polly enquired.

“Nobody is attempting to bring a nuclear arsenal into the hotel,” said the receptionist. “Perhaps the gentleman could lend you his coat?”

Jack could not do this because he did not wish to advertise the uniform he was wearing underneath. Polly was clearly a loose cannon and a troublemaker and Jack did not want the manager phoning his colonel and complaining about the type of girl American officers brought to the hotel. In the end a compromise was reached. Polly reluctantly agreed to keep her arms folded across her chest while she remained in the public parts of the hotel, thus covering the offending political statement.

“I thought this country was supposed to have freedom of speech. I don’t think!” Polly muttered as Jack led her away.

And so began a relationship which very soon was to become an intense and all-consuming love affair. A love affair which, although in some ways desperately brief, would last a lifetime. Two people of different ages, different backgrounds and, most importantly, utterly different principles and values, were to be bound together from that ecstatic moment on.

Newton said that for every action there is an equal and an opposite reaction. Jack and Polly certainly lent substance to that observation.

A few days after Jack’s first encounter with Polly he wrote to Harry, angrily anticipating the sibling ridicule he knew he must endure.

“Oh, yeah, ho, ho,” he wrote. “You think this somehow proves your piss-weak psychological theories, huh? You think that this girl is like Mom, am I right, Harry? Of course you do. You’re so transparent. Well, forget it. In fact before you forget it, shove it up your ass, then forget it. This girl is not a bit like Mom, or Pa, or you. She’s like me! Yeah, that’s right, like me, because she’s a fighter, the real thing, a two-fisted bruiser with poison for spit. OK, maybe what she fights for is a bunch of crap, in fact it is a bunch of crap. Quite frankly I hear less woolly thinking when sheep bleat. But so what? She’s got guts and she fights. She doesn’t sit on her ass smoking tealeaves like Mom. She doesn’t think that stuffing envelopes for the Democrats once every four years makes her an activist. What is more, Harry old pal, she hasn’t hidden away from life making dumb furniture which a factory could make better and at a tenth of the cost, like you, asshole! Polly is a soldier, she’s out there, punching hard and kicking ass for what she believes in. Besides which, she’s the sexiest thing I ever saw in my whole life, so screw you.”

When Harry read the letter he was pleased. Despite its abrasive tone it was by far the most romantic letter Jack had ever written. In fact it was the only romantic letter he had ever written. The only time Harry could remember his brother being even half as excited was when he had been promoted to captain at a younger age than any of his West Point contemporaries. Jack had never been enthusiastic about anything except sport and the army. He had certainly never talked about being in love and yet now his entire soul seemed to be singing with it. Of course Harry was happy for Jack, but in the midst of that happiness he was also uneasy. It seemed to Harry that his brother now loved two things – soldiering and this English girl. It did not take all of Harry’s intellectual powers to work out that these two things were not compatible. Harry could see that in a very short time the crunch would come and that Jack would have to decide where his loyalties lay.

It was Newtonian physics again; for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Jack’s current happiness was surely storing up an equal quantity of unhappiness for someone.

13

“Polly? Polly! Are you there? Are you there, Polly?” The long-lost but still familiar voice breathed out of Polly’s answerphone. It was rich and low and seductive as it had always been.

“Are you there?” Jack said again into the telephone.

A little way along the street Peter was getting frustrated. He’d been surprised to see the telephone box occupied. It never had been before at that time of night. He felt angry. It was 2.15 in the morning. People had no business using public telephones at 2.15 in the morning. Particularly his own private, public telephone, a telephone with which Peter felt a special bond. Many times on that very phone Peter had heard the voice of the woman he loved. The cold mechanics within its reciever’s scratched and greasy plastic shell had vibrated with her adored tones. That phone, his phone, had been the medium through which Polly’s precious lips had caressed his senses.

“It’s you, isn’t it?” she would hiss. Hiss directly into his ear, so that he could almost imagine he felt her breath. “Fuck off! Fuck off! Just fuck off and leave me alone, you disgusting little prick!”

Peter didn’t mind Polly’s anger at all. Some relationships were like that, fiery and tempestuous. After all, he certainly gave as good as he got. Peter liked Polly’s fury. It was passionate, exciting. So many nights he had stood listening to those blistering, heavenly tones. Looking at the photographs he’d laid out on top of the tattered telephone directories, sucking on his precious straw and masturbating into the lining of his overcoat.

That telephone box was where Peter had had sex with Polly. It was his telephone box and now some bastard was using it.

Peter felt the knife in his pocket.

A flick-knife he had bought in Amsterdam one night when he had not had the guts to go into one of the shops that had women in the windows. Peter liked to carry that knife about with him for his protection and also because he fantasized that one day he would find himself in a position to use it in defence of Polly. He imagined himself chancing upon her in the street; she would be surrounded by vicious thugs who would be taunting her, pulling at her clothes. She would be weeping with terror. He would kill them all before claiming his reward!

Peter fondled the flick-knife in his pocket.

Still Polly did not pick up the phone. In fact she did not move. She couldn’t; she was too shocked. The only animation she could have managed at that point of supreme surprise would have been to fall over. She avoided this by gripping onto a chair back for support. “It’s Jack,” she heard him say again. “Jack Kent.”

She knew it was Jack Kent, for heaven’s sake! She would never forget that voice if she lived to be two hundred and fifty years old. No matter what was to happen to her, be it premature senility, severe blows to the head, a full frontal lobotomy, she would still be able to bring that voice instantly to mind. Its timbre was resonant in her bones. Jack’s voice was a part of her. But what was it doing broadcasting out of her answerphone in Stoke Newington at 2.15 in the morning? His was quite simply the last voice in the world that Polly had expected to hear. If the Queen had woken her up to ask her round to Buck House for a curry and a few beers it would have seemed a more natural occurrence than this.

Still receiving no reply, Jack’s voice continued. “Weird, huh? Bet you’re surprised… Me too. I’m surprised and I knew I was going to call! How surprising is that? I just got into town. It’s only ten p.m. in New York, so it’s not late at all. Don’t be so parochial, we live in a global village now.”

It was the same old Jack, still cool, still cracking gags.

Still vibrant with sensual promise.

“I can’t believe I just heard your voice, even on a machine. It’s just the same…” Jack’s voice was even softer now. Even softer, even lower. “Are you there, Polly? Look, I know it’s late… real late… but maybe not too late, huh?”

Too late for what? Surely he didn’t mean…? Polly could not begin to think what he meant. She could scarcely begin to think at all.

14