The Complete Polly and the Wolf

by Catherine Storr

  But she didn’t see a dog of any size. Instead she saw, lying on the road, a little piece of material. It was about the size of a small sheet of newspaper. It was torn at the edges and not very clean. But as Polly looked carefully, she saw that it was a ragged fragment of a very old, very worn Persian carpet. She could just make out a pattern of something like little trees and, round one frayed corner, a border of zigzag lines.

  “I could easily bite you and tear you up into shreds,” the wolf said angrily to the carpet.

  The carpet shrugged. If you have never seen a carpet shrug, I can tell you that it is a very expressive gesture.

  “It was only a very short journey this morning. You can’t be that tired,” the wolf pleaded.

  The carpet gave an irritated shake, as much as to say, “Stop bothering me.”

  Polly went to the garden gate and leaned over so that she could see both the wolf and the carpet, and the wolf, if not the carpet, could see her.

  “What’s the trouble, Wolf?” she asked.

  The wolf picked up the fragment of carpet, came to the further side of the gate, and slapped the carpet down on the white, dusty road in front of it.

  “It’s extremely annoying. I managed to find the third and last gift I promised you. This flying carpet. Or rather, this part of the original flying carpet.”

  “It’s not very large,” Polly said, looking at the small square of carpet.

  “That’s the trouble. It claims that because it is only a small piece of the whole carpet, it can no longer fly as often or as quickly as it used to,” the wolf said.

  “But it does fly?” Polly asked.

  “Only when it feels like it.”

  The carpet wrinkled itself.

  “Don’t laugh at me!” the wolf cried, stamping an angry paw.

  The carpet’s wrinkles became deeper and it quivered with silent laughter.

  “Maddening! You . . . you ordinary rug !” the wolf shouted. Instantly the carpet flew off the ground and slapped the wolf smartly on the nose, covering him at the same time with a good deal of white dust and small pebbles which it had managed to pick up from the road.

  The wolf coughed and then sneezed. The carpet, back on the ground, gave a wriggle. It was clearly saying, “Mind your manners, you!”

  The wolf tried again.

  “I beg your pardon. Of course I meant to say, this beautiful, elegant, clever carpet can fly anywhere and at any time, but being old . . . I mean to say, being a carpet of great experience and wisdom, sometimes needs to rest quietly. In order to preserve its magic power. You understand?”

  The carpet spread itself out on the road and preened itself.

  “Has it flown anywhere with you?” Polly asked.

  “Of course. I couldn’t bring you a flying carpet without first trying it out. I suggested that it should lift me from the ground. It was a mistake, though, to try the experiment in my kitchen, where the ceiling is rather low,” the wolf said, rubbing the top of his head.

  The carpet wrinkled again. It was clearly amused at the memory. The wolf wisely pretended not to have seen.

  “Since then, things haven’t been too easy. This miser . . . this beautiful carpet does not feel able to take me to any place and at any time, as it could have done in the olden days, when it was all there. I mean, when more than this precious fragment was at hand. As you probably remember from reading your ‘Arabian Nights’, the whole carpet could transport any number of people as far as they chose to ask. And at any time. This . . . this treasured remnant is apparently too old and too tired to answer to the command in the same way. It needs to rest very often. In fact, it seems to be resting, doing nothing, most of the time,” the wolf said, showing his teeth in a threatening manner.

  The carpet hunched itself, ready to spring for the wolf’s nose.

  “Of course I understand this. Real magic is very tiring. We don’t want to strain it,” the wolf said hastily.

  The carpet flattened itself out again.

  “But there it is, Polly. A truly magic flying carpet. You can’t say I haven’t done what I promised. I said I would bring you three gifts, and I have. I have won you, Polly. By all the rules in the book, you are now mine,” the wolf said. He leaned over the garden gate and put a large black paw on Polly’s shoulder.

  “Wait a moment, Wolf. Those three gifts. I never even saw the smallest dog in the world,” Polly said.

  “He was extremely small. You weren’t wearing your spectacles, so you missed him,” the wolf said.

  “I don’t need spectacles. I didn’t see him because he wasn’t there.”

  “But you heard him. He barked loudly when I swallowed him. Quite by accident. He came out of his nut too quickly. It was entirely his own fault.”

  “I heard you spluttering,” Polly said.

  “That wasn’t me. That was the noise he made as he went down,” the wolf said.

  “And the apples weren’t real gold,” Polly said.

  “The best gold is always soft. I think you didn’t keep them long enough. You and your horrible sister were so anxious to eat them up directly you saw them, you didn’t give them a chance to harden up. Greed is very unattractive,” the wolf said virtuously.

  “Anyway, I don’t believe that carpet can really fly,” Polly said.

  “You saw it come up and hit me on the nose just now.”

  “That could have been a trick.”

  Two corners of the square of carpet lifted a little, looking like two ears pricked up on a dog’s head.

  “Come out here and stand on it. Say, ‘I wish you to take me to the wolf’s kitchen’ and you’ll see,” the wolf said.

  “That’s hardly any way. I could walk there, easily . . .”

  “Do!” the wolf said eagerly, but Polly took no notice.

  “If it’s really a magic flying carpet it ought to be able to take me to the other side of the world,” she said.

  “It can.”

  “How do I know it can?” Polly asked. The carpet wriggled. It knew it was being talked about.

  “Try it. Ask it nicely, and I am sure it will oblige. So long as it isn’t still too tired.”

  “If I do, and it does take me to the other side of the world, I think I’ll stay there for a bit and look around,” Polly said.

  “That wouldn’t do at all. I need you here,” the wolf said.

  “Then why don’t you ask it to take you somewhere? Then I’d see that it really is a magic carpet,” Polly suggested.

  The wolf moved towards the carpet. He sat carefully on its middle, legs crossed. It was a tight fit. He had to hold his tail very close, in order to tuck himself neatly on to the very small piece of carpet, with no bits hanging over the edges.

  “Take me to my kitchen,” he said.

  The carpet did not stir.

  “Oh, all right! Please,” the wolf said.

  The carpet wriggled.

  “Don’t do that. You’re tickling me underneath,” the wolf said.

  Polly waited.

  “I don’t believe it can fly at all,” she said.

  “Don’t say that. You might hurt its feelings and goodness knows what it might do. You have to be polite. Like this. Please, beautiful, clever, kind carpet, take me to . . . to Brighton,” the wolf said.

  The carpet shuddered.

  “I don’t think it likes the idea of going to Brighton. Perhaps it doesn’t like all those pebbles on the beach. Or it’s frightened of getting wet in the sea. Why don’t you suggest that it takes you somewhere it would like to go to? Like its own home?” Polly suggested.

  The wolf looked hard at her.

  “Sometimes, Polly, I think you have the glimmerings of intelligence. That is not a bad suggestion,” he said. He patted the carpet gently. “Elegant, superb, gifted, wonderful carpet, grant me this one wish and I’ll never ask you for anything again. Fly with me to your native land, to Persia, to your home.”

  There was a rush of air, a column of white dust, a short yelp of s
urprise, and then silence. The road beyond Polly’s garden gate was empty. Only a small clean square on the dusty ground remained to show where the flying carpet had once lain.

  “I wonder,” thought clever Polly, “how the wolf is going to get home from Persia? Because I’m quite sure the carpet won’t ever agree to bring him back.”

  Last Stories of Polly and the Wolf

  Illustrated by Jill Bennett

  1. The Wolf at School

  POLLY was on her way to school one morning, when she found the wolf trotting beside her. There were a great many other people around, so she was not particularly frightened, but she was curious.

  “Where are you going, Wolf?” she asked.

  “I’m going to school,” the wolf replied.

  “My school?” Polly said.

  “Of course, your school. Isn’t it the best round here?” the wolf asked.

  “Much the best. But Wolf . . . if you’re thinking you’ll be able to get to eat me in school, you’ll be disappointed. There are always crowds of us all together. If you tried to eat me, you’d get caught and probably shot. Or something.”

  The wolf wasn’t listening. “Crowds? Of plump little girls? Of good, juicy little boys? Like this lot here?” he asked, looking round at the pavement covered with children hurrying towards the school gates.

  “You won’t have a chance to eat any of them,” Polly said, answering what she knew was in the wolf’s mind.

  “Hm. Pity. But I don’t know why you are always thinking about food. That’s not what I am going to school for. My mind is on higher things,” the wolf said virtuously.

  “Higher than what?”

  “Higher than my stomach. Brains, you stupid little girl. I am going to school to develop my brains. I am going to school so that I can become clever. Even cleverer than I am already,” the wolf added hastily.

  “Who told you school would make you clever?” Polly asked.

  “Read it in the paper. There was an advertisement. DO YOU WANT YOUR CHILD TO BE SMARTER THAN ANYONE ELSE’S? START EARLY LEARNING LESSONS NOW. I know you have lessons at school, and as I haven’t got a child it seemed meant for me. I shall stay in your school until I can outsmart you, Miss Polly. Then, when I’ve eaten you up, and perhaps a dozen or so of these other children, I shan’t need to learn any more and I shall leave.”

  By now they had reached the school gates, and the other children were squeezing their way through. “I don’t think you can just walk in and join in the lessons without asking,” Polly said to the wolf, as they stood outside, left to the last.

  “You must introduce me. Go on! If you’re so clever, you can think of some way of getting me in. If you don’t . . . Grrrrrr,” the wolf said, showing his teeth.

  Polly looked round and saw that they were alone. “All right. I’ll try,” she said, and they went together across the playground to the cloakroom door.

  “Good morning, Polly,” said Miss Wright, but when she saw Polly’s companion, she said quickly, “You know we don’t allow pets in the classroom. Your dog must go home. Immediately!”

  “He’s not a dog. He’s a friend who’s come to stay with us from abroad. To learn English,” Polly said quickly, while she whispered to the wolf, “Get up on your hind legs and try to look like a friend from abroad.” Beside her she could hear the wolf growling. “Dog! Pet! Never been so insulted in my life!”

  “He’s very large. Isn’t he too old for this class?” Miss Wright asked.

  “He’s big for his age,” Polly said.

  “He’s very dark. And hairy.”

  “He’s foreign. He doesn’t speak the language very well yet. If he could sit next to me, I could help him,” Polly said, thinking it would be better not to let the wolf sit next to Susie, who was the plumpest girl in the room, or next to Freddie, who might tease him into behaviour unbecoming to a pupil in Miss Wright’s class.

  “Foreign? How interesting. What country does he come from? What are you, dear?” Miss Wright asked the wolf. Polly wondered if he had ever been addressed as “dear” before. His answer was indistinct, and Miss Wright looked puzzled for a moment, then she said, “Hungary! Well now! I don’t think we’ve ever had a child from Hungary in our school before. We must all do our best to make you feel at home.”

  “I’d feel at home quicker if I could have something to eat,” the wolf muttered.

  “What’s that, dear? I didn’t quite catch what you said.”

  “He says he’s feeling the heat,” Polly said.

  “Really? You could take off your coat, if you’re feeling too warm, dear. Now let’s all get out our exercise books, shall we, for our first lesson? Numbers!”

  “Take off my coat? Doesn’t she know it’s my skin?” the wolf said, a little too loud.

  “What was that you said?” Miss Wright enquired.

  “He said his coat is quite thin,” Polly said out loud.

  “And what is your friend’s name?” Miss Wright asked.

  “Wol– Wolly,” Polly said, having had no time to think up anything better.

  “We don’t like nicknames in this class. I shall call him by his proper name, Walter. When you speak to me, Walter, you must call me Miss Wright. Do you understand?”

  “I will not be called by a stupid name like Walter!” the wolf said, very loudly indeed.

  “What did you say?” Miss Wright asked.

  “He says he wants a drink of water,” Polly said.

  “Then he’ll have to wait until the lesson is finished. I can’t have you all running in and out whenever you feel like it. Now, we really must get on with the lesson. Let’s see who can add up quickly, shall we? Who can tell me what ten and ten make?” Miss Wright began. Sally put her hand up, ready with the answer, but before she could speak, the wolf said, “Ten what?”

  “Do you know the answer, Walter? Good . . . good boy. What is it then?”

  “Ten what?” the wolf repeated.

  “It doesn’t matter what. It’s just a number, dear. Ten anything,” Miss Wright said.

  “Of course it matters what. Ten buns would be good. Ten little pigs would be better. Ten fat little girls like that one would be better still. Only I haven’t got a freezer, they’d be difficult to store. I’ll settle for the pigs,” the wolf said.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, dear. Perhaps they do numbers differently in your country. So we won’t worry about buns or pigs, will we? So what do ten and ten make?” Miss Wright repeated.

  “Twenty,” Polly said quickly. Numbers was one of her best subjects.

  “She didn’t put her hand up! I was going to say twenty!” Sally complained.

  “I’ll give you another question, then. What is twenty-four divided by eight?”

  Sally took a little time to think about this. But the wolf had heard one of his favourite words. “Who ate it? What did they eat?” he asked.

  “Walter, didn’t you hear me tell you that you must say ‘Miss Wright’ when you speak to me? And I didn’t see your hand go up, either,” Miss Wright said.

  “Five,” Sally said.

  “No, that’s not right. Very well, Walter, you tell us. Twenty-four divided by eight.”

  “Was it the ten little pigs?” the wolf said.

  “I wasn’t talking about pigs.”

  “Did they eat the buns?” the wolf went on.

  “Three,” Polly said, loudly, hoping that Miss Wright would not hear this remark.

  “What is three supposed to mean? Oh! Yes. Eight into twenty-four. Quite right, Polly. Now, who can tell me what seven and six make?”

  By the end of the numbers lesson, the wolf was confused, Miss Wright was cross and Polly was exhausted. “I don’t think that can have made you any cleverer,” she said as they put away their books and got ready for the play they were rehearsing for the end of term.

  “I’ve never heard such nonsense! What use are numbers if they aren’t fastened to something? You don’t see five or three or a hundred just floatin
g about in the air. If she’d said five sausages, or three apples or a hundred beans, I’d have understood what she was getting at. It could even have been interesting. Now what do we do? Isn’t it time for school dinner yet?”

  “Not nearly. Miss Wright’s going to give us our parts for the school play.”

  “What’s the play about? If it’s about little Red Riding Hood, I could act the wolf. I bet I’d do it much better than any of these silly little creatures,” the wolf said hopefully.

  “It isn’t Red Riding Hood. It’s Hansel and Gretel. There isn’t a wolf in it, so I don’t know if Miss Wright will let you have a part.”

  “I know that story! They get lost in a wood, don’t they? I’m sure there must have been a wolf in that wood. Woods in fairy stories always have wolves in them.”

  “This one didn’t. It had a witch who lived in a gingerbread house.”

  “Why gingerbread? Nasty stuff. It makes my throat tickle.”

  “To catch children who liked it. Then she cooked them and ate them.”

  “That sounds like a good part. I shall be the witch.”

  Polly thought this was unlikely. But when Miss Wright was distributing the parts, no one else, except a very small boy called Eric, wanted to act as a witch, and at last Miss Wright was forced to notice the large black paw which had been waved every time she offered the part to another child, who turned it down. “You want to be the witch, Walter? Are you sure you can manage it? She doesn’t have much to say, but . . .”

  “She catches children to eat,” the wolf said.

  “Don’t worry, dear. You can be sure that our story has a happy ending, though of course I don’t know how you may have heard it in Hungary.”

  •

  “Well, Wolf? Now you’ve had a whole day in my school, do you feel clever? Cleverer?” Polly asked as they came out of the gates at the end of the afternoon.

  “Much cleverer. That story we were acting was an inspiration to me. In fact, I think I’ll skip school tomorrow. I have some urgent business to attend to in another direction,” the wolf said, and, rather to Polly’s relief, he hurried away.