“They weren’t,” Nina said crossly. “That was a mistake.” Her glasses flashed at Polly, puzzled and conspiratorially, as she was towed away.
And that was a good thing too, Polly thought, as she went back across the road. Nina had not had time to ask things which it was beyond Polly to explain.
Her own Mum met her at the front door. “Polly, what have you been up to now?” she said tiredly. “Door open, no coat.”
Polly looked up at her, remembering those angry splashes of salt. It was such a pity, when Ivy was so much better-looking than Nina’s Mum. Polly thought, I am not going to be a selfish person like Seb. “Sorry,” she said. “What’s the matter, Mum?”
“Nothing’s the matter,” said Ivy, drawing herself up stony and still. “Why should there be?”
“You cried,” said Polly.
“The idea!” exclaimed Ivy. “Go straight upstairs and don’t give me those stories!”
Polly went upstairs, trying to shrug. Mum was in a mood, all right. It didn’t do to get upset about it. To prove she was not upset, Polly read Mr Lynn’s letter all through again. Then she drew the curtains – after all, Seb might come back – and fetched out her birthday writing paper with roses on, and her best pen. Kneeling on her bed, rear upwards, hair dangling, she wrote a reply to Mr Lynn in her best writing. His letter deserved a good answer, but she wanted it to be good because of Seb, and because of Mum too, though she was not sure why.
Dear Mr Lynn,
Your letter is good and funny but you are not like Mr Piper reely. You should have killed the giant like you said I said. Now I will anser your questiuns. You are right heros always have a weapun but you do not need a sord, you have your axe. You need a horse. St Gorge had a horse for killing draguns. You got Edna right only not nasty enuff. She nags. She is so upposed to Mr Piper reading books that the pore man has to rap them in the cuvers of yusefull books called “A short histury of nales” for the big ones and “Iron list” for the small ones and read them secritally wile Edna watches the telly.
I hope you are well.
Polly was going to finish here, when she remembered Seb again. A new thought struck her. She sucked her pen a while, then wrote:
Mr Piper has a nefue, Edna is his Mum, called Leslie. He is a horrid boy and gets scaunfull every time Mr Piper is nice to him. Leslie is ashamed of Mr Piper, he thinks he is mad. He did not see the giant.
That is all. By for now.
Polly
She put the letter into an envelope and addressed it carefully. She went downstairs with it, intending to ask Mum for a stamp from her handbag. But since Ivy was sitting at the kitchen table pretending to read a magazine and showing no sign even of thinking of getting supper, Polly helped herself to a stamp and stuck it on. She went back to the kitchen. Ivy was still sitting.
“Mum,” Polly said softly, “shall I go and get fish and chips for supper?”
Ivy jerked. “For God’s sake, Polly, don’t treat me as if I was ill!”
Then, as Polly was slithering away, sure that she had pushed Mum from a mood into one of her discontents, she heard Ivy say thoughtfully, “Chinese. I fancy Chinese. Or would you rather have Indian, Polly?”
Polly did not like curry, nor the severe man in the Indian Take Away. “Chinese,” she said. “Shall I get it?”
Instead of fussing, as she often did, about Polly going out alone in the dark, Ivy simply said, “The money’s in my bag. Cross the road carefully.”
Polly found some pound notes and hid those and the letter in a carrier bag. She went out cautiously into a drizzling night. There was no sign of Seb. Nevertheless, Polly smuggled the letter into the pillar box on the corner, looking round everywhere as she did it, as if it was the guiltiest thing she had ever done. She had no doubt she was breaking the promise Seb thought she had made. Then she went on her way to the Chinese Take Away, thinking she was probably quite heroic.
4
The steed that my true-love rides on
Is fleeter than the wind;
With silver he is shod before,
With burning gold behind.
TAM LIN
In those days Polly never quite believed that a letter you put in a pillar box really got where you meant it to go. She was astonished to get a reply to her letter a week later. She had almost forgotten Mr Lynn by then, because she was so worried about Dad. Dad had been away so long that Polly knew he was not on a course. She thought he might be dead, and that somehow Mum had forgotten to tell her. The reason she thought this was that Ivy’s mood seemed to be over and she was behaving the way she always did, but Polly could tell it was a disguise to cover the mood still going on underneath. Polly dared not ask her about Dad in case he really was dead. She almost dared not ask Ivy anything for fear of being told about Dad. But she had to ask about Mr Lynn’s letter. Mr Lynn had scrawled it in big, crooked handwriting, and Polly could not read a word.
Ivy read the letter, frowning. “What’s this? Asking you to drop in and have tea with him when you happen to be in London next. How old does he think you are? Things to discuss – what things? Who is he?”
Polly went skipping round the room. “He plays the cello in the British Symphony Orchestra,” she said as she skipped. “Granny’s met him. You can ring Granny and ask her if you like.”
But Ivy did not seem to be getting on with Granny. She stood, stony and doubtful, holding the letter.
Polly jumped up and down with impatience. Then she stood still and did some careful pleading. “Please, Mum! He’s ever so nice. He wrote me that big letter – remember? It’s because he’s a trainee-hero and I’m his assistant.”
“Oh,” said Ivy. “One of your make-believes. Polly, how many times have I told you not to bother grown-ups to pretend with you. All the same—” She stopped and thought. Polly held her breath and tried not to jig.
“I have to go to town anyway,” Ivy said, “to see this lawyer I was told about. I was going to dump you at Nina’s, but I think people are beginning to think you live there. If this Mr Lynn really wants you, I could dump you there instead.”
Ivy telephoned Mr Lynn. While she was doing it, Polly remembered – with a jerk, like someone landing on her stomach with both feet – the promise Seb had thought she made, and his threats about Mr Morton Leroy and Laurel. She was suddenly terrified that one of them could tap the telephone and listen in to Ivy talking to Mr Lynn in her brisk, unfriendly telephone-voice.
But nothing seemed to happen. Ivy came away from the phone, saying, “Well, he sounds all right. Wanted to know what you like for tea. Now, don’t let him spoil you, Polly, and don’t be a pest.”
This was the thing she went on saying, almost mechanically, all the next few days and all the way up to London in the train. Polly listened without really hearing. Now she had started being frightened, she was terrified. She was excited, but she was terrified too. They took a stopping train from Main Road Station, and Polly could think of nothing but Laurel’s strange, empty eyes. It seemed no time before they were in King’s Cross. Polly felt that Mr Lynn must think very quickly to have made up the whole giant story on the way.
“Now, don’t let him spoil you and don’t be a pest,” Ivy said as they got off. “Oh, come on, Polly, do! What do you keep looking round for?”
Polly was looking for Seb or Mr Leroy. She was sure they were there somewhere, and that, even if they did not know where she was going, they would guess at once when they saw her all dressed up in her nice dress. The odd thing was that her very terror made her all the more determined to see Mr Lynn. I must be quite brave after all! she thought.
Ivy took Polly’s wrist and dragged her downstairs to the taxis. Polly’s head was turned the other way the whole time. They took a taxi to Mr Lynn’s address because Ivy only knew that it was somewhere quite near the lawyer’s. Polly stared out of the back window for other taxis following her with Seb in them. And for big, expensive cars with Laurel in them. Laurel, she knew, would have a chauffeur to drive. L
aurel would be sitting beside him, wearing dark glasses. She saw a lady exactly like that, and she thought she was going to be sick. But it was a different lady entirely. Meanwhile, Ivy kept repeating the lawyer’s address and making Polly say it back to her. Both of them talked like machines.
“And tell him to bring you there at five-thirty sharp,” Ivy said again as the taxi stopped. “Now, don’t—”
“Don’t let him spoil me and don’t be a pest. I know,” Polly said as she climbed into the road. And she promptly forgot all that. She was relieved to find herself in a quiet street, with no Seb, no Mr Leroy and, above all, no Laurel.
Mr Lynn lived in a very Londony house, with steps up to the door, regular windows, and a stack of bell-pushes beside the door. Polly found and pressed the one labelled LYNN. The door was opened almost at once by a very glamorous lady in tight jeans. The lady had a baby bundled onto one tight denim hip and she grinned so cheerfully at Polly that Polly was convinced she must be Mrs Lynn. But it seemed not. The lady turned round and shouted, “Hey! Second floor! Visitor for Lynn!”
Mr Lynn was hurrying down the dingy stairs. “Sorry to trouble you, Carla,” he said. “Hello, Polly – Hero, I should say.”
“Not at all,” said Carla. “I was just going out.” She jerked a pushchair from behind the front door and bumped away with it down the steps, leaving Polly, just for a moment, not at all sure what to say next.
The trouble was, she had been thinking of Mr Lynn as a tortoise-man, or as a sort of ostrich in gold-rimmed glasses, the way he had described himself in his letter – anyway, as rather pathetic and ridiculous – and it was quite a shock to find he was a perfectly reasonable person after all, simply very tall and thin. And it was a further trouble to realise that Mr Lynn did not quite know what to say either. They stood and goggled at one another.
Mr Lynn was wearing jeans and an old sweater. That was partly what made the difference. “You look nicer like that – not in funeral clothes,” Polly said awkwardly.
“I was going to say the same about your dress,” Mr Lynn said in his polite way. “Did you have a good journey?”
“Yes really,” Polly said. She was just going on to say that she had been afraid of Mr Leroy or Laurel following her, when it came to her that she had better not. She was quite sure she should not mention them. Why she was sure, she did not know, but sure she was. She chewed her tongue and wondered what to say instead. It was as awkward as the first day at a new school.
But it was just like that first day. It seems to go on forever, and it is full of strangeness, and the next day you seem to have been there always. The thing Polly thought to say was, “Is Carla your landlady?” Mr Lynn said she was. “But she’s nothing like Edna!” Polly exclaimed.
“No, but Edna lives in Stow-Whatsis,” Mr Lynn said. Then it was all right. They climbed the stairs, both telling one another at once how awful Edna was, and in what ways, and went into Mr Lynn’s flat still telling one another.
Polly thought Mr Lynn’s flat was the most utterly comfortable place she had ever been in. It had nothing grand about it, like Hunsdon House, nor was it pretty, like home. Things lay about in it, but not in the uncared-for way they did in Nina’s house, and it was not nearly as clean as Granny’s. In fact, the bathroom was distinctly the way Polly always got into trouble for leaving bathrooms in. She went over it all. There were really only three rooms. Mr Lynn had a wall full of books, and stacks and wads of printed music, a music stand that collapsed in Polly’s fingers, and an old, battered piano. There were two great black cases that looked as battered as the piano, but when Polly opened them she found a cello nestling inside each, brown and shiny as a conker in its shell, and obviously even more precious than conkers. Polly was delighted to recognise the Chinese horse picture on the wall, and the swirly orchestra picture over the fireplace. The other pictures were leaning by the wall. Mr Lynn said he had not decided where to hang them yet. Polly saw why. There were posters and prints and unframed drawings tacked to the walls all over.
“It’s a very ordinary flat,” Mr Lynn said, “and the real drawback is that it’s not terribly soundproof. Luckily the other tenants seem to like music.” But he sounded pleased that Polly liked the flat so much. He asked her if she liked music. “One of the things we never got round to discussing,” he explained in that polite way of his. Polly said she was not sure she knew music. So he put on a record he thought she might like, and she thought she did like music. Then he let Polly put on records and tapes for herself in a way Dad would never let her do at home. They had it playing all the time. Meanwhile, Polly toasted buns at the gas fire, and Mr Lynn spread them with far too much butter and honey, which Polly had to be careful not to drip on her nice dress while she ate them.
She ate a great deal. The music played, and they went on discussing Edna. Before long they knew exactly the pinched shape of her face and the sound of her nasty, yapping voice. Polly said that the stuffing was coming out of Edna’s dressing gown because she was too mean to buy another, and she only let poor Mr Piper have just enough money each month to buy tobacco. “He had to give up smoking to buy books,” she said.
“I feel for him,” said Mr Lynn. “I had to do that to buy my good cello. What is Edna saving her money for?”
“To give to Leslie,” said Polly.
“Oh, the awful Leslie,” said Mr Lynn. “From what you said in your letter, I see him as dark, sulky, and rather thick-set. Utterly spoiled, of course. Is Edna saving to buy him a motor bike?”
“When he’s old enough. She gives him anything he wants,” said Polly. “She’s just bought him an earring shaped like a skull with diamonds for eyes.”
“Shaped like a skull,” agreed Mr Lynn, “for which he is not in the least grateful. How does he get on with my new assistant?”
“We hate one another,” said Polly. “But I have to be polite to Leslie in case he guesses I’m not a boy.”
“And for fear of annoying Edna,” said Mr Lynn. “She’d have you out like a shot if Leslie told tales.”
When they had settled about Leslie and described the shop to one another – which took a long time, because both of them kept thinking of new things – they went on to Tan Coul himself.
“I don’t understand about him,” Mr Lynn said dubiously. “What relation does he bear to me? I mean, what happens when he’s needed? Do I have to become Mr Piper in order to become Tan Coul, or can I switch straight to Tan Coul from here?”
Polly frowned. “It isn’t like that. You mustn’t ask it to bits.”
“Yes I must,” Mr Lynn said politely. “Please don’t put me off. This is the most important piece of hero business yet, and I think we should get it right. Now – can I switch straight to Tan Coul or not?”
“Ye-es,” Polly said. “I think so. But it’s not that simple. Mr Piper is you too.”
“But I don’t have to rush to Whatsis-on-the-Water and begin each job from there, do I?”
“No. And neither do I,” said Polly.
“That’s a relief,” said Mr Lynn. “Even so, think how awkward it will be if the call comes while I’m in the middle of a concert or you’re doing an exam. How do the calls come, by the way?”
Polly began to feel a bit put-upon. “Things just happen that need us,” she said. “I think. Like the giant. You hear crashing and you run there.”
“With my axe,” Mr Lynn agreed. “Where do you suggest I keep my axe in London?”
Polly turned round, laughing. It was so obvious she hardly needed to point.
“In a cello case, like a gangster?” Mr Lynn said dubiously. “Well, I could get them to make a little satin cushion for it, I suppose.”
Polly looked at him suspiciously. “You’re laughing at me.”
“Absolutely not!” Mr Lynn seemed shocked. “How could I? But I don’t think you realise just how much that good cello cost.”
It was odd, Polly thought then, and later, and nine years after that, remembering it all. She never could completely
tell how seriously Mr Lynn took the hero business. Sometimes, like then, he seemed to be laughing at them both. At other times, like immediately after that, he was far more serious about it than Polly was.
“But I still don’t understand about Tan Coul,” he said thoughtfully, with his big hands clasped round his knees – they were sitting at opposite end of the hearth rug. “Where is he when he – or I – do his deeds? Are the giants and dragons and so forth here and now, or are they somewhere else entirely?”
If it had been Nina asking this, Polly would have answered that was not the way you played. But Mr Lynn had already proved that you could not put him off like that, and she could see he was serious. She pushed aside the empty plates and knelt up in order to think strenuously. Her hair got in the way and she hooked it behind her ears.
“Sort of both,” she said. “The other place they come from and where you do your deeds is here – but it’s not here too. It’s—Oh, bother you! I just can’t explain!”
“Don’t get cross,” Mr Lynn begged her. “Maybe there are no words for it.”
But there were, Polly realised. She saw in her mind two stone vases spinning, one slowly, the other fast, and stopping to show half a word each. With them she also saw Seb watching, looking scornful. “Yes there are,” she contradicted Mr Lynn. “It’s like those vases. Now-here and Nowhere.” The idea of Seb was so strong in her mind as she said it that she felt as if she had also told Mr Lynn how Seb had tried to make her promise not to see him.
“Nowhere,” repeated Mr Lynn. “Now-here. Yes, I see.” He was not thinking of Seb at all. Polly did not know whether she was relieved or annoyed. Then he said, “You mentioned a horse in your letter. A Nowhere horse, I suppose. What is my horse like? Do you have one too?”
“No,” said Polly. She would have liked one, but she was sure she had not. “Your Nowhere horse is like that,” she said, pointing to the picture of the Chinese horse on the wall.
They both looked up at it. “I’d hoped for something a bit calmer,” Mr Lynn confessed. “That one obviously kicks and bites. Polly, I don’t think I’d stay on his back five seconds.”
Fire and Hemlock Page 6