Polly’s mother had told her about the terrible event ten years before that day on the shoreline with Jess. Nora had relayed the story under duress and with a clear directive at the end that it was something they would not speak of again. It had been an inclement Sunday afternoon in January 1978, and they’d met in the library at Darling House to have tea. It was a relatively new mother-daughter ritual Nora had instigated when Polly started university the year before. Mrs. Robinson was even roped into serving, purely for fun, as if they were fancy ladies at a posh London hotel. This particular afternoon, Polly had been anxious but determined to hide it. She’d changed her outfit several times and paid extra attention to her hair; she’d wanted to look older, more sure of herself.
For as long as she could remember, she’d been nervy, even as a child. “You’re sensitive,” her mother used to say whenever Polly called out in the night or cried for fear of the dark or froze on the first day of a new school year. “It’s not your fault, just something in the way you were built.” Polly always felt strange when her mother said things like that; as if she hadn’t been born in the usual way but had been put together in a workshop by a less-than-kindly stranger. That was her imagination running away from her. Another of her foibles. “Such fancies,” Nora would say, clicking her tongue fondly and stroking Polly’s head.
But today Polly was determined not to give her mother a chance to click her tongue. She had something important to say and she didn’t want anything to knock her off course. She’d debated whether to wait until after they’d had their tea, but knew that if she left it too long she’d lose what little courage she’d gathered. And so, whenMrs. Robinson was still in the kitchen, she said, “I have news,” and the fingers of her right hand found the piece of jewelry on her left, a fine band of white gold with six delicate diamonds inlaid, turning it backward and forward.
Nora had been stunned. “Engaged? But you hardly know him.”
“I know that I love him.”
“Love! Oh, Polly—”
“And he loves me.”
They had met at the University of Sydney a couple of months earlier. November, and she’d been reaching the end of her first year; the jacarandas were in full, purple bloom. She’d had car trouble on the way to the campus and been late for her Intro to English Literature class. She was so embarrassed at having to let herself into the full-to-brimming lecture theater, spot her friend Diane waving at her from the middle of a distant row, and make her way up the center stairs, that she didn’t realize they had a guest lecturer until she was in her seat. Polly was still hunting through her book bag for a pen when the unexpected accent caught her attention.
He was a doctoral student, he said, visiting from Harvard, and his name was Jonathan James. His lecture had been a passionate argument that a thousand years of English literature could be read as an ongoing attempt to understand the eternally vexed relationship between civilization and the wilderness. He took them on a journey from the primal fears ofBeowulf, through the chivalric values ofSir Gawain and the Green Knight, the mock-heroicRape of the Lockand the travels of Gulliver, the turbulence ofFrankensteinandWuthering Heights, to arrive finally at the fin de siècle Gothic wilderness-within of Jekyll and Hyde and Dracula: Polly felt that a light had been lit beneath everything she thought she knew about the world—humanity, literature, nature—and by its brilliance she glimpsed, in previously dark places, new connections and possibilities within herself.
Afterward, she fussed with her books and fumbled her pens into her pencil box with such painful slowness that Diane grew tired ofwaiting and said she’d catch up with her in the cafeteria. When at last Polly started making her way down the stairs, she was one of the few remaining students in the theater. She stopped at the lectern, her heart hammering against her ribs, certain that surely he must hear it, too. “I liked what you said,” she managed. It was not a particularly clever offering, but this was new territory. She was not the sort of person who spoke to good-looking young American lecturers. His eyes were hazel, green-flecked, she noted.
Polly had read in books about people feeling themselves to be in a dream. Never in her life had she experienced the sensation herself, until now. Somehow, without effort or awareness, they fell into conversation, walking together out of the lecture theater, beneath the cloister that ran the full length of the quadrangle, into the clear, warm day. They found a shaded spot on the main lawn, beneath a jacaranda, and didn’t stop talking. She was no longer the shy girl her schoolmates had teased or ignored; conversation came naturally, he laughed easily, they ranked their five favorite Keats poems, agreeing to tie “Bright Star” and “To Autumn” for the top spot. Flowers rained down as the light breeze set them free, surrounding them in a purple haze. “La Belle Dame,” he said softly, reaching to take a bloom from her hair. His expression was serious, his keen eyes studying hers. “Full beautiful—a faery’s child.Have mercy on me.” Polly felt something turn deep inside her, like a key in a lock, and knew that there was no way back from here.
“I love him,” she said again, firmer this time, resolute.
“You’re eighteen years old,” Nora replied with a flicker of her eyelids. “Of course you’re in love. That doesn’t mean you should make hasty decisions. How does his father feel about him staying on in Sydney?”
His father was a United States senator, famous for his strong Christian values and handsome family. “The Conservative Kennedy Clan” was a common media refrain when referencing his devoted wife, four adult sons, and sixteen-year-old daughter.
Polly hesitated. She hadn’t planned on going into detail at this point, but she had no knack for dissembling. “He’s not staying here.”
“Then you’re going to have a very difficult time of it. Long-distance relationships are—” Nora stopped short and Polly realized how seldom she saw her mother genuinely flustered. “You can’t mean to tell me that you’re thinking of going with him to America? To live?”
Polly couldn’t bring herself to agree, but her mother’s face showed that she understood. Nora looked shaken, almost panicked.
“No. It’s unthinkable. You’re only eighteen years old, still a child. What about your degree?”
“He’s going to help me transfer.”
“But, Polly, a life like that. All of the attention. How will you cope?”
“I’ll be fine.”
“What about your health? You’ve always been fragile. My goodness, the worry I have for you—if only you knew!”
Polly did know. Her mother had been a constant presence in her childhood, watching closely whenever she attempted anything new. “Please be careful,” Nora would say, and: “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to do something inside instead?” No doubt she’d just been mirroring Polly’s own anxiety. She had been a nervous little girl, always imagining the worst, anticipating danger before it had a chance to surprise her, agonizing about the world and her place in it. But she was older now; she had learned to manage. “I’m stronger than you think,” she said.
“You have a support system here, people who love you. With one phone call, I can have an appointment for you with the top specialist in the country. Over there, you’d be all alone.”
“I met his parents when they were here for Christmas, and his sister. He has a huge family.”
As soon as she said it, Polly wanted to call back the words. A huge family was her mother’s greatest dream, the lack of it her biggest lament. “Of course, you’ll come and visit,” she said quickly. “Jonknows how important you are to me. His family will become yours too—the big family you always wanted!”
Nora sighed, and Polly wondered whether she was starting to come around.
“It will work,” Polly said vehemently. “I know it will.”
Still her mother didn’t answer.
“Mum?”
