The Complete Polly and the Wolf

by Catherine Storr

  “Well? You don’t want to have muddy skin and to plod around like a camel, do you?” the wolf asked.

  “And, Wolf! It says the globules will make me ten years younger,” Polly called out.

  “And that much tenderer. A delicate morsel. Like one of those very small sucking pigs you see sometimes in butchers’ shops. A very small Polly . . .” The wolf’s voice died away into happy dreams of guzzling greed.

  “But . . .”

  “Don’t let’s have any of this endless talk, girl. Eat up your nice globules and don’t argue,” the wolf said.

  “But, Wolf, you haven’t counted. The globules will make me ten years younger.”

  “Hurry up and swallow them, then. I’m hungry.”

  “Wolf, I am seven years old,” Polly said.

  “Seven. Eight. Six. What does it matter now?”

  “You aren’t very good at numbers, Wolf. I am seven. If I eat these globules, and they make me ten years younger, how old do you think I shall be?”

  “Two? One and a half? Six months? All good ages. Delicious ages. Just what I enjoy most,” the wolf said.

  “You can’t count, Wolf. If you take ten away from seven, it leaves minus three.”

  “What is minus?” the wolf’s voice asked suspiciously.

  “It would mean that I wouldn’t get born for another three years.”

  “Say that again. Slowly,” the voice said.

  “If . . . I . . . eat . . . these globules and they make me . . . ten . . . years . . . younger . . . I shan’t get born again as a baby for another . . . three . . . years.”

  There was a short silence.

  “Are you sure of that?” the voice asked.

  “Numbers is my best subject at school,” Polly said.

  “Another three years, you said. You mean that there wouldn’t be any Polly for that long? I’d have to wait for three whole years?”

  “That’s right,” Polly said.

  “And then you would get born? A small, fat, juicy Polly? Who wouldn’t have learned to talk? No, it’s no good. I can’t wait that long,” the wolf’s voice said from the other side of the door. Polly heard a disappointed groan.

  “Do you want me to start straight away?” Polly called out. There was no answer. Polly peeped through the letter box and saw a dejected-looking tail disappearing towards the garden gate. A second box of green globules flew off to one side of the owner of the tail. On the other side went a small bottle of tenderizer. “Spells. You can’t trust them now like you could in the good old days,” the wolf muttered angrily as, once more disappointed, he trotted towards his own home.

  4. Songs My Mother Taught Me

  IT WAS early evening and just beginning to get dark. A huge yellow moon was hanging about behind the trees, three times as large as necessary. Polly was sitting on the window-seat, practising the recorder. She hadn’t been learning very long, and she could only play easy tunes. “Baa, Baa, Black Sheep” wasn’t too bad. “I Had a Little Nut Tree” was better.

  By the time she’d played it through six times, her mouth and her fingers were tired. She put the recorder down and looked out of the window. It didn’t really surprise her to see the wolf standing beyond the hedge, making signs at her.

  Polly opened the window a little. She was on the first floor and she felt safe up there.

  “Hi, Wolf!” she said.

  “Did you hear that?” the wolf asked.

  “Did I hear what?” Polly said.

  “That horrible noise. That caterwauling. As if a grasshopper were trying to sing with his hind legs . . .”

  “That was me practising my recorder,” Polly said, offended.

  “You mean you meant to make that noise? Did it on purpose?”

  “I didn’t think I was that bad. ‘I Had a Little Nut Tree’ was all right.”

  “Do you really think so? I’ve always thought it a very disappointing song,” the wolf said.

  “Disappointing? Because it didn’t have any nuts? I’d rather have the silver nutmeg and the golden pear.”

  The wolf looked astonished. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.

  Polly recited:

  “I had a little nut tree

  Nothing would it bear,

  But a silver nutmeg

  And a golden pear.

  The King of Spain’s daughter . . .”

  “Nonsense! You’ve got it entirely wrong. It’s not at all like that,” the wolf said, testily.

  “No, I haven’t. I learned it at school,” Polly said.

  “I learned it from my mother. This is what she taught me:

  “I had a little nut tree

  That wasn’t any good.

  I really wanted meat, but

  It had only wood,”

  said the wolf.

  “Trees never do have meat,” Polly said.

  “Then why sing about them?”

  “I don’t, much. It’s just that it’s not so difficult to play,” Polly said.

  “You call that playing? What other songs do you know?”

  “Humpty Dumpty,” Polly said.

  “Go on, then. No, not on that revolting penny whistle . . .”

  “It’s not a penny whistle. It’s my new recorder,” Polly protested.

  “Whatever it is, leave it alone. Just tell me the words,” the wolf said.

  Polly began:

  “Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,

  Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.

  All the King’s horses and all the King’s men

  Couldn’t put Humpty Dumpty together again.”

  “Wrong,” the wolf sighed.

  “What do you mean, wrong?” Polly asked.

  “You’ve never learned the right words. Listen:

  “Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall,

  Humpty Dumpty had a great fall.

  I licked up the yolk and the white as well,

  But I couldn’t be bothered with the shell,”

  said the wolf.

  “You ate him!” Polly said, shocked.

  The wolf looked slightly ashamed. Then he said, “Well, if the King’s men couldn’t help the poor old fat thing, there wasn’t much I could do, was there?”

  Polly thought about this.

  “You eat eggs, don’t you? He was only a great big egg,” the wolf said.

  “Ye . . . es. Only not raw,” Polly said.

  “Raw eggs are very good for the voice,” the wolf said. He opened his jaws widely and yodelled. Then he sang:

  “Mary had a little lamb . . .”

  “I know that. And it’s not about eating,” Polly said, pleased.

  “What do you mean it’s not about eating? It’s not about anything else,” the wolf said.

  “Mary had a little lamb,

  Its fleece was white as snow,

  And everywhere that Mary went

  The lamb was sure to go,”

  Polly said.

  “No,” the wolf cried, outraged.

  “Yes. That’s what it says,” Polly said.

  “Of course it doesn’t. Who wants to know about the colour of its fleece? What my mother taught me is far more interesting,” the wolf said, and raising a paw in the air, he declaimed:

  “Mary had a little lamb,

  And then, not feeling full,

  She had some more, and more, until

  All that was left was wool.

  And who cares what colour that was?” he asked.

  “I think that’s horrible,” Polly said.

  “Not at all. If she was so anxious to have the lamb going everywhere she did, the best thing she could do was to make sure it was inside her,” the wolf replied.

  “Are all your songs about eating?” Polly asked.

  “What else is there to make a song about?” the wolf asked, simply.

  Polly considered the songs she knew. It did seem true that a great many of them were about eating. “Little Jack Horner.” The Queen in “Sing a Song of Sixpence.” “Jack Spr
at.” “Goldilocks,” with all those strawberries and cream. Even the pussycat who went to London to see the Queen had certainly eaten the little mouse she found there.

  “The song about you is all about eating, too,” the wolf said.

  “You mean, ‘Polly put the kettle on’?” Polly asked. She had always felt a little embarrassed by that song.

  “Of course.”

  “But it only says ‘tea’. And I don’t think it means a real sit-down tea you eat, with bread and butter and cake. I think it’s only the sort of tea that comes out of a teapot,” Polly said.

  “Nonsense. It’s about quite a solid meal,” the wolf said. Polly repeated:

  “Polly put the kettle on,

  Polly put the kettle on,

  Polly put the kettle on,

  We’ll all have tea.

  If they’d been going to eat, it would say, butter the bread, or get out the cake tin.”

  “What a miserable meal to ask your friends in to enjoy! Now, mine would really be quite something,” the wolf said.

  “What does yours say?” Polly asked.

  “Polly make the water hot,

  Polly make the water hot,

  Put it in a great big pot

  And then jump in . . .”

  “I wouldn’t,” Polly said. The wolf took no notice. He went on:

  “Clever wolf knows what to do,

  Leaves it for an hour or two,

  Gobbles up the Polly stew,

  It’s all gone away.”

  “I wouldn’t jump in. That would be stupid,” Polly said again.

  “Exactly. That’s what my mother said. I mean, she said you were stupid.”

  “I haven’t jumped into a pot of boiling water, have I?”

  “Not yet,” the wolf said.

  There was a short pause.

  “She used to sing me a lullaby,” the wolf said, dreamily.

  “Who did?”

  “My mother. It was very soothing. Beautiful words, it had.

  “Bye, baby bunting,

  Your father’s gone a-hunting,

  He’s gone to find a Polly in her

  Home to make your lovely dinner.”

  “He never did, though,” Polly said.

  “He knew he could leave it to me,” the wolf said.

  Polly picked up her recorder. She was finding this conversation either frightening or boring, she couldn’t quite decide which.

  “Are you going to play again?” the wolf asked, apprehensive.

  Polly played the tune of “Oranges and Lemons.” It was difficult and the notes did not always come out just as she meant them to.

  “What’s that tune?” the wolf asked, stretching his neck over the hedge.

  “It’s meant to be ‘Oranges and Lemons’.”

  “It sounds to me more like ‘Onions and Kidneys’,” said the wolf.

  “There isn’t a tune called ‘Onions and Kidneys’,” Polly said.

  “Of course there is. It’s a bit like what you were trying to play just then.”

  “All right. Sing your song, then,” Polly said.

  Not untunefully, the wolf sang:

  “Onions and Kidneys

  Say the bells of St Sydney’s.

  I’d like something sweeter,

  Says the bell of St Peter.

  Try our jam tarts,

  Say the bells of St Bart’s.

  A well-roasted boy,

  Say the bells of St Foy.

  Poached girl on toast,

  Is what we’d like most,

  We’ll have her for tea,

  The bells all agree . . .”

  “I don’t agree,” Polly said quickly.

  “That doesn’t matter. If everyone else agrees, you get eaten. That’s the law,” the wolf said. He bounded over the hedge and stood in the garden, immediately underneath Polly’s window, his long red tongue lolling out of his mouth, his teeth wickedly agape.

  “Lean further out of the window, Polly,” he said.

  “I’m not allowed to. Mother says not to,” Polly said, primly.

  “A pity. Never mind. Everyone agrees that you are there for me to eat. I shall wait until it is a little darker, and then I shall jump up and get you,” the wolf said, lying down, prepared to wait.

  Polly thought quickly.

  “I shouldn’t advise you to wait too long, Wolf,” she said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Only that it might be dangerous,” Polly said.

  “Dangerous for you. Not for me,” the wolf said, in a self-satisfied voice.

  “Wolf! Don’t you know the song about ‘Boys and girls come out to play’?” Polly asked.

  “Of course I know it. A stupid song. Something about a ha’penny loaf. Cubs’ play,” the wolf snorted.

  “I don’t think your mother can have taught you the right words,” Polly said.

  “My mother was a good wom . . . a good wolf. Don’t say a word against her,” the wolf said.

  “What words did she teach you for that song?” Polly asked.

  The wolf closed his eyes and recited in a sing-song voice:

  “Girls and boys come out to play,

  The moon doth shine as bright as day.

  Leave your supper and leave your sleep

  And come with your playfellows in the street.

  Come with a whoop and come with a call,

  Come with a good will or come not at all.

  Up the ladder and down the wall,

  A ha’penny loaf will serve us all . . .

  “I never cared for that,” the wolf said, shaking his shaggy head.

  “And anyway, you’ve got it wrong,” Polly said.

  “You mean there’s more than a ha’penny loaf?” the wolf asked, interested.

  “Something much better.

  “. . . Come with a whoop and come with a call,

  A well-cooked wolf will serve us all.

  We’ll roast his ribs and curry his tail,

  And pickle his head in the salting pail,”

  Polly finished.

  There was a short silence. Then the wolf asked, “What did you say was to be well cooked?”

  “A wolf,” Polly said.

  “Do boys and girls often eat wolf?”

  “If it’s well cooked. Especially at midnight feasts,” Polly said. She put the recorder to her mouth and thoughtfully played the first few bars of the tune.

  The wolf jumped.

  “Don’t do that!” he said.

  “Why not, Wolf? I’m just trying the tune over.”

  “But suppose someone heard you? Suppose those boys and girls you mentioned . . . What would they think if they heard?”

  “I suppose they might think there was something amusing going on in the street. After all, the moon is nearly as bright as day now. They might come with a whoop and a call,” Polly said.

  “And if they did, they’d expect . . .? They might think that I was waiting for . . .? No! It’s too horrible to imagine. Polly! May I ask a favour?” the wolf said, imploring.

  “As long as you don’t ask me to jump into a pot of boiling water,” Polly said.

  “What a barbarous idea! Of course not. No. All I want is that you should refrain from trying out that dreadful tin trumpet . . . I mean, would you be kind enough to do anything else but play those melodious tunes on your splendid instrument for the present? I . . . I seem to have a headache. I require perfect silence. If you would just sit quietly there while I return home to take a couple of aspirins and go to bed with a hot-water bottle, I should be infinitely obliged,” the wolf said. He leapt over the hedge and started trotting fast down the road. As he went Polly heard him mutter to himself. “Curry my tail! The idea! Pickle my head! I don’t know what boys and girls are coming to.”

  Polly shut the window. The evening was becoming chilly. She put the recorder away in its case and went down to supper. Baked beans and toast.

  “Did you have a good practice?” her mother asked.


  “Very good,” Polly said.

  “Can you play ‘Begone Dull Care’ for the school concert next week?”

  “I expect so,” Polly said. And she thought to herself, “Anyway, I can play ‘Begone Stupid Wolf’ and make him go, too.”

  5. Outside the Pet Shop

  POLLY was standing outside the pet shop near her home and looking at the animals in cages in the windows. She liked the slant-eyed kittens, playing with each other, and the hamsters, sharing an apple. She was watching a tortoise, and wondering whether it was asleep or just feeling tired, when the person standing at her side suddenly spoke.

  “Very boring,” the person said.

  “What? What’s boring?” Polly asked.

  “All these creatures. Dull, boring, stupid,” the person said.

  “The kittens aren’t boring. Look at that stripy one trying to bite its own tail.”

  “Kittens always do that. It’s not amusing.”

  “I think it’s funny,” Polly said. The stripy kitten had managed to put a paw on the end of the tail it was chasing, and now tried to pounce on it and take it by surprise. As the kitten jumped, so did its tail, right out of reach. The kitten looked hurt and surprised.

  “Silly little animals. Imagine not knowing where your own tail is. I would never want a kitten as a pet,” the person said.

  “What would you want as a pet?” Polly asked. She was beginning to suspect that she knew who this person was, and she was quite interested to find out what sort of pet the wolf would choose for himself. She had a nasty suspicion that he might choose a juicy little girl, and that he wouldn’t keep her as a pet for very long. He would probably turn her into his dinner.

  “I certainly would not have a tortoise. They are boring, too. Asleep most of the time, and probably taste as uninteresting as they look,” the wolf said.

  “The budgies aren’t asleep. I wouldn’t mind having a budgie,” Polly said.

  “Hardly a mouthful . . . I mean, their conversation is so limited. Imagine having to listen to nothing but Tweet, tweet all day long.”

  “I’d rather like a white mouse,” Polly said, pointing to a cage in which several mice were running over a wheel.