by Holly Webb
“So your statue is actually a statue of you?” she asked slowly, puzzling it out. “Even though it was made ages after you … died?”
“Yes. That statue belongs to me – and it makes a good place to sleep.” Rex sniffed at Magnus’s paws and sighed. “Maybe too good.”
Polly reached out to pet Magnus’s nose. She was hoping that she’d feel the same warming of the stone and another great dog would wake up to talk to her. But Magnus stayed a statue, the rough stone chilly even in the warm night air.
“Perhaps he can’t get out.” Rex jumped up, putting his front paws on the base of the statue. “Magnus. Magnus, it’s me! Show yourself. Come out and chase me!” He pawed at the stone, his nails scritching, but nothing happened. He dropped back down to the grass, his head drooping. “I suppose…” he murmured. “I suppose if we stay as statues for too long without waking, it may be too hard to wake again. But I’m sure I can feel him in the stone. I can smell him.”
“What did Magnus look like, when he was real?” Polly asked. “Was he like you?”
“No.” Rex stood a little straighter. “No, Magnus was much smaller than I am.” Rex was trying not to sound disdainful but Polly could hear it in his voice. “And his coat was dark grey.”
Polly nodded. She had thought Magnus was just as big as Rex but she wasn’t going to say so. “But he was a wolfhound like you still?”
“Well, yes. His statue is really another statue of me but I don’t need both of them, do I?” Rex pointed out, sitting down and scratching behind his ear with one huge leg. “So I let him borrow it. And of course the statues have to look like me. I am on the family crest, after all.” He stopped scratching and raised one of his front paws rather dramatically.
After a moment, Polly realized that he was posing. “Oh! Yes, I’ve seen you. On the leaflets in the front hall. That’s you?”
“Of course.”
Polly nodded but she was still frowning. None of this made much sense and it didn’t help that, now Rex was fully awake, he seemed to think it was all quite obvious. “I think I understand about you but not Magnus. Why is he still here, too?”
Rex dropped his paw and sighed. “That I don’t altogether know. It’s the way it is… This doesn’t happen at other places?”
“Talking dogs?” Polly shook her head. “No.”
“Hmmm. Well. All the dogs who’ve lived here – they don’t leave. It’s hard to explain.” Rex heaved another sigh. “We belong here,” he said doubtfully. “To the house and the Penhallow family – and they belong to me,” he added. “Magnus and I sleep in the statues but, as I told you, there are other hounds, all over the house. Waiting to wake.”
“There isn’t any Penhallow family,” Polly said, thinking this through. “They don’t live here now. The house is open for visitors but me and Mum are the only ones who live here. Is that why none of you wake up? Because your family’s gone?”
Rex was silent for a moment, then he nodded slowly. “It must be. Before you woke me last night, it had been years. Many years, I suspect. I remember Magnus but no one after…”
He turned and sniffed at Polly, nosing at her gently, and then lifted his great front paws up on to her shoulders, so that she gasped at his weight. Then she laughed. She had never been hugged by a dog before. Rex was sniffing carefully at her hair, licking her cheeks, staring into her eyes with his own black ones.
He seemed confused. “So why did I wake for you?” Rex said. “Why did I come when you called to me? You smell right… But you say you aren’t family.” He dropped down again and stared at her in sudden surprise. “You’re not a Penhallow?” He sniffed at her hands again.
“No. My name’s Polly Morgan, not Polly Penhallow.”
“Mmmf.” He snorted quietly. “Who knows. You woke me. That’s all that matters.” He looked at her hopefully. “Would you try again with Magnus? Do what you did to me?”
Polly looked away, glad that he couldn’t see her scarlet cheeks in the darkness. Mind you, he could probably smell that she was blushing – dogs could smell everything. “I’m not sure I can,” she whispered. “I’ll try but it won’t be the same. I was so lonely. I wanted you to wake up so you’d be my friend.”
Rex pressed his cold nose into the crook of her elbow and Polly jumped and then laughed.
“A child calling,” Rex murmured. “A child who needed me. And living in the house, too. That would do it.”
“Why a child?” Polly asked curiously and Rex gave a deep sigh.
“That was what I did. I watched the children. Protected the house, rocked the cradle, fished the little ones out of the stream when they fell in. Whatever was needed. Even when…” His voice died and Polly stared at him.
“Even when what?”
“I don’t remember,” Rex muttered but she was almost sure that wasn’t true. There was a silence and Polly couldn’t bear it.
She started to chatter, anything to break that strange, sad emptiness. “Maybe I can get Magnus to wake up, too. But I’m not lonely now, so maybe not. I can try though, can’t I?”
Hurriedly she climbed up two steps and leaned against Magnus, draping her arm round his neck. “Wake up,” she whispered in his ear. “Magnus, please. Rex wants to see you. So do I.” She looked down at Rex. “Nothing’s happening.” She frowned. “Maybe he doesn’t need us for company because he’s already got that boy.”
“What? What boy?” Rex demanded.
“I saw him today. At lunchtime. There were two little boys climbing all over your statue.” She smiled as Rex growled irritably. “And when I heard laughing I thought it was one of them who’d come back. But then there was no one there – I looked. I thought maybe I’d imagined it. Then it was like the wind changed, he was just there – I saw him, a boy with a dog. A dark-grey wolfhound. It must have been Magnus.”
Rex peered at her. “You saw Magnus?”
“And the boy. Could that have been his owner?”
“It can’t have been.” Rex leaped up to scratch at the statue again, whining pleadingly. “Magnus, listen!”
“Why not? They looked like they belonged together.” Polly sniffed, remembering. “They were both smirking at me.”
Rex turned back, staring at her over his shoulder. He shook his head dismissively. “No, Polly, you must have imagined it. How could you see a boy? Magnus lived here years ago – how long, I don’t know, not for sure.”
“I didn’t imagine him…” Polly protested but even she could hear the doubt in her voice. She had seen the boy and the dog. But she’d seen so many impossible things in the last two days, she didn’t know what to believe. “The boy had light brown hair.” She frowned. “But dark eyes, dark brown. I’d forgotten that. He had these old-fashioned brown shorts on and leather boots.” Polly gulped as she remembered. “Do you think he was a ghost?”
“That can’t be right,” Rex said.
“I know what I saw,” Polly said stubbornly. “Why won’t you believe me?” She folded her arms. “You’re looking at me just like that boy did, as though you think I’m stupid.”
“No – only mistaken.” Rex jumped down. “Only the dogs remain at Penhallow, Polly. No children.
I promise you.”
“But if you’ve been asleep for years and years, perhaps it’s changed,” Polly argued. Why wouldn’t he listen to her? “You don’t know!”
“Of course I do. This is my home!”
“Well, now it’s my home, too!”
Rex snorted and Polly felt her eyes fill with tears. He was right. It wasn’t her house. She didn’t belong at all. Not anywhere.
“I wish I’d never come here!” she cried, turning to run away up the steps.
“No! Polly, I didn’t mean it. Come back!”
But she didn’t listen. She raced away across the stone slabs, her plimsolls slapping, flinging herself round the corner of the house and back to the door.
“Don’t you want to go out?” Polly’s mum smiled down at her. “It’s lovely
and sunny today. You should go down to the water garden.”
“It’ll be full of people,” Polly muttered, hunching into the back of the sofa and staring down at her book.
“I suppose so.” Her mum sighed. “Oh well. I came up to make a sandwich. I didn’t have any breakfast, so I thought I’d have lunch early. Do you want one?”
“No. Thanks,” Polly added grudgingly. It wasn’t Mum’s fault she was so grumpy. “I’ll make one later on.”
“All right. But do go down to the gardens for a bit, Polly love. You can’t stay indoors all day.”
Polly grunted something. She didn’t want to go anywhere near the terrace and the steps.
Her mum sighed faintly and headed into the kitchen, leaving Polly feeling guilty. She couldn’t be cheerful all the time, though, it just wasn’t possible.
“She looks like you.”
Polly sat up with a gasp and peered over the arm of the sofa. Rex was sitting there, grinning, showing a lot of teeth and a pink tongue. He rested his nose on the sofa arm and gazed soulfully at her. “You didn’t come to see me this morning.”
“It’s daytime! I thought you were asleep during the day. I didn’t know you could be awake whenever now. And anyway, who says I wanted to see you,” she added crossly. Then her eyes widened. “What about your statue? If you’re up here, what happens to it?”
“Nothing. It isn’t there. Because I’m here.”
“That’s what I mean!” Polly hissed. “People will notice!”
“Polly, did you say something?” Her mum peered round the kitchen door.
“No!” Polly shoved Rex’s muzzle off the arm of the sofa and wriggled backwards, trying to hide his nose with her book.
“Oh… I was sure I heard something. Must be thinking too much about work. I’ve been up in the attics looking at all those boxes Stephen told us about. I found a box of the most amazing First World War letters and things yesterday, did I tell you?”
“No. I mean, yes. Good,” Polly stuttered.
Mum smiled at her. “You’re stuck in your book, aren’t you? We’re as bad as each other. Don’t forget to make some lunch and go outside!”
She wandered past with her plate and leaned down to give Polly a kiss. Polly held her breath, hearing the faint scuffle of claws as Rex crept behind the sofa. She wasn’t sure how he’d fitted round there – surely there wasn’t enough room for a whole ghost hound?
As soon as her mum shut the door, Polly leaped up, leaning over the back of the sofa. A golden-brown nose flashed up and a huge tongue slathered her cheek.
“It’s very dusty down here.” Rex sneezed hugely and Polly giggled.
“It’s a good thing you didn’t do that while Mum was here, she’d never have believed it was me. And she nearly saw you!” She frowned suddenly. “Could she see you? You’re not invisible?”
“I’ve never really thought about it…” Rex wagged his great tail. “But yes, she might have done. Your mother wasn’t really paying attention, though, was she?”
Polly swallowed and shook her head. It felt like Mum never was, not recently.
“You shouldn’t be up here!” she added, changing the subject. “What if someone reports your statue missing? One of the volunteers will notice, even if the visitors don’t know there should be two dogs on the steps.”
“I won’t be gone long. I just came to tell you I was sorry.” Rex hung his head, looking up at her sideways like a dog who’d stolen Sunday lunch. “I should have believed you. Perhaps there is a boy and he can help us wake Magnus? After all, what do I know? I’ve been asleep for years.” He gave a gusty sigh. “I’ll go back now – but only if you say you’ll come and see me again.”
“I promise. I’ll come tonight.” Polly flung her arms round his neck. “I’m so glad you came up here. I missed you, even if it’s only been a morning.”
“Me, too.” Rex leaped over the back of the sofa and dabbed his nose in her ear. “Till tonight!”
“What’s all that, Mum?” Polly peered over her mum’s shoulder at the papers spread out over the living-room table. Her mum looked up at her, blinking. “Oh, Polly, is it dinner time? I’m really sorry, I forgot…” She ran her hand lovingly over the pile of photographs and papers on the table.
“It’s six o’clock,” Polly said hopefully. She had spent the afternoon in the water garden, like Mum had suggested. After Rex had come to find her, she hadn’t been nearly so grumpy and she didn’t even mind the hordes of people. She’d told a couple of families how to get to the beach and pointed one elderly couple in the direction of the tea room.
“Do you mind if we have pasta with sauce out of a jar?” her mum suggested. “I know it’s a bit boring…”
“I like pasta sauce out of a jar,” Polly reminded her. “You always put too many vegetables in it when you make your own.” She skipped sideways to avoid being tickled and grinned at her mum. Then she stopped, looking down at the battered brown envelope that was spilling photographs over the table. “What are these?”
“They’re photos of the Penhallows. You know, the people who used to own the house,” her mum explained. “You can look at them if you’re careful. They left so much stuff here when they sold the house, it’s quite strange. I suppose it felt like ancient history. Maybe people weren’t so interested in their family stories back then – or perhaps it was just a mistake that they left these bits behind.” She smiled at Polly. “But I’m glad they did. It’s my favourite part of my job, piecing people’s lives together.”
Polly brushed her hands against her shorts and carefully picked up the envelope, pulling out the handful of photos. They were brownish, all of them, and faded-looking. Polly flicked through them, trying to see what it was that fascinated her mum. The pictures didn’t look that interesting to her – everyone seemed so miserable. They were all very carefully posed in groups and scowling at the camera, even the grown-ups. But several of the groups were arranged on the lawns in front of the house, she realized, smiling to herself as she saw Rex’s statue gazing out at her. These were Rex’s special people, she thought, looking at the faces more closely. She wondered if any of them had ever seen a huge golden dog racing across the lawns?
“Why do they all seem so cross?” she murmured, looking at one furious little girl in a frilly white dress. Actually, perhaps the girl just didn’t like the dress, which made sense. It had frills everywhere a frill could possibly be stuck and the poor child had a massive bow in her hair, too.
“Well, back then cameras took so long to take a picture,” her mum explained. “It wasn’t a quick snap like me taking photos of you on my phone. The cameras were massive and they used these terribly expensive glass plates, one for each picture. So a photograph was a very special sort of thing and you had to sit absolutely still for … I don’t know, five minutes? Or the picture would be blurred. If you went to a photographer’s studio, they even had metal clamps to hold people’s heads still.”
“Oh…” Polly looked at the little girl again. That explained why she was so fed up, although the dress probably didn’t help, either. She pushed the photos back into the envelope, and caught one small one that was about to fall off the edge of the table.
“Which is that one?” her mum asked, leaning over to look. “Oh, excellent!”
“What?” Polly looked at the photo in surprise – it was just a sepia print of a young man in a soldier’s uniform, nothing very exciting.
“I’ve got several of him, you see.” Her mum passed over another envelope. “I think I might make him the focus of one of the displays, poor boy. His name was William. That must have been taken right before he died. Yes, look. It says on the back that it’s from a studio in Belgium. In 1915.”
“He died? But he’s really young.” Polly stared at the solemn face – he was very young, now that she looked properly. He looked like he was a teenager. “Oh. Belgium.” They’d learned a bit about the First World War at school the year before. “He was killed in the war?”
Polly was looking at the other photos in the envelope. Another of William dressed as a soldier – he looked as though he was trying to grow a moustache but it wasn’t going very well. A group photo of him with two other soldiers who didn’t look much older than he did. William, Bertie and Harry, 1915, someone had written on the back in spidery handwriting. There were a couple of school photos, too – long rows of boys in striped blazers sitting bolt upright with their hands on their knees. They were lined up in front of a huge old building, covered in ivy – Polly guessed it must be a boarding school. One of them was surely William but it was hard to pick him out.
The last photo was different. Polly stood staring at it, her heart suddenly thumping so hard she felt almost sick. It was the least posed-looking of all – it hadn’t been taken in a studio, she was sure. In fact… She turned it over, frowning. The boy was sitting on a set of stone steps, like the steps down from the terrace. But it was too close up, she couldn’t see the statues to make sure. There was a dog, though. A big, dark-furred wolfhound, standing on the step above the boy and leaning over his shoulder. Both of them were gazing at the camera and grinning.
She’d seen them before. Even the rolled-up sleeves and baggy shorts were familiar. It was the boy who’d been laughing at her in the garden. He’d died… She supposed she’d known that he must have done but the photos made it seem so sad. Why was his ghost only a boy, Polly wondered, staring down at his grinning face. He’d died as a soldier…
“I’ve got his medals here, too.” Polly’s mum handed her a small leather case. “I suppose his parents were too distraught to take them… Though I can’t imagine not wanting to keep everything…” Her voice quivered and Polly put an arm around her shoulders.