And fill your hands o’ the holy water
And cast your compass round
TAM LIN
Granny did give Polly a birthday present after all. Polly was staying with Granny the week she was eleven, because Dad was coming back to settle up who was to have what. Ivy said, “You don’t want to be in the middle of a row again, Polly,” and Polly agreed.
And a row there must have been. Both Mum and Dad forgot Polly’s birthday. The only present she had that year was the little heart-shaped pendant Granny gave her.
“I was going to wait a few years to give it you,” Granny said, “but I think you could do with it now. Take care of it. It was my mother’s.”
Polly sat with Mintchoc draped purring across her knees and turned the heart shape back and forth in the light. From some angles it looked pearly white, but as she tipped it, colours rippled through it—pale crimson, blue and deep dragon green. “What is it made of?” she said.
“Opal,” said Granny. “It’s a pity it’s opal, because opals mean tears, but you keep it and it’ll keep you. My mother always said it was the luckiest thing she had.”
“Should I wear it all the time?” Polly asked, trying to hook the thin silver chain round her neck. It got tangled in her hair and Granny had to help her fasten it.
“Not in your bath,” Granny said. “Water spoils opal.” And she told Polly that opals were really a thin slice out of a certain kind of rock, bent over a crystal to bring the colours out. If water got between the rock and the crystal, the colours went.
Polly pulled the opal heart up and managed to look at it again, squinting, with the chain cutting the back of her neck. “That’s made me see it in two lights!” she complained.
“Quite right,” said Granny. “Get out to the bus or you’ll be late for school.”
Polly spent a lot of that summer at Granny’s too. “Not much of a holiday,” Ivy said worriedly, “but the money’s tight. I asked Maud to have you, but they’re all off to France. Even Reg offered, but I’m not having you stay with him!”
It was a lonely, sleepy summer, with the warm winds blowing dust in Granny’s garden and griming the rustling trees in the road outside. Some days Polly kept up her hero training by going jogging up and down the road. When she came to the end where Hunsdon House stood, she usually stopped and looked through the bars of the gate. You could see a curve of the drive from there, green and dark under the trees, and sometimes, when wind blew the branches aside, there was just a glimpse of the shuttered windows of the house.
“Yes, the place is all closed up and empty,” Granny told her. “They’re off on their travels again.”
When she heard that, Polly seriously thought of getting into the house. She had a longing to go up round the joints of the staircase and see the rest of the rooms up there. And there was a place beside the gate where she thought she just might be able to climb the wall. Next time she went for a run, she stopped a little short of the gate and looked at that place. It was not as easy as she had thought. Though there were two worn parts in the stones, they would only serve as footholds if she could jump high enough to hook her hands over the top of the wall first. Polly went back a step or so, gathering herself to jump her very highest.
Something made her look through the bars of the gate.
Someone was standing halfway up the drive, in the most shadowy part. It was a tall, bulky shape, standing very still. The face, looking straight at Polly, was blurred by the shade and by the bars of the gate in the way. The eyes looked smudged and big. As Polly stood, looking guiltily back, caught in the act of measuring to jump, the face somehow crystallised into Mr. Morton Leroy’s, watching her sardonically.
They stood and looked at one another. Polly twisted nervously at the opal pendant round her neck. Mr. Leroy just looked. It seemed to go on for an age. Polly was never sure what made her stop standing there, staring. Somehow it was suddenly over and Polly was walking soberly away down the road, knowing that Mr. Leroy had nearly caught her climbing in and that she would not dare to try again now.
She buried herself in books instead. She used Granny’s ticket for the local library and got out Black Beauty, which made her cry outraged tears. She was glad Mr. Lynn had bought the yellow horse. Then, trying for something for cheerful, she got out Sherlock Holmes stories and found herself wanting to shake Sherlock Holmes for being so superior. Since he played the violin and obviously looked rather like Mr. Lynn, he should have behaved like Dr. Watson. She wanted to shake Watson too. Then she tried Uncle Tom’s Cabin and understood why Mr. Lynn had not wanted her to call him Uncle Tom. Uncle Tom was a slave. Polly read to the place where the villainous Simon Legree came in, and suddenly realised she was reading “Leroy” every time the book said “Legree.” She stopped, appalled, and took the book back to the library.
By this time she had got a reputation in the library for liking long, hard books. The librarian said to her, “Here’s a book you might like. I used to love it. There is a shortened version, but I saved you the long one. Don’t be put off if you find it difficult at first.”
Polly looked at the book. The Three Musketeers by Alexandre Dumas. She wondered why Alexandre was spelled wrong, but she had seen the cartoon of The Three Musketeers. She thanked the librarian and took the book home to Granny’s. It was difficult. Half the time she was not sure what was going on, or why everyone lived in hotels, and it was full of conversations where you could not tell which person was speaking. But Polly loved it even so. From the very beginning, when d’Artagnan appears on his yellow horse, she was utterly captivated. She loved huge Porthos and the elegant Aramis, but Athos was the one she liked best. Oddly enough, despite the yellow horse and the fact that d’Artagnan was long and thin, she knew Athos was the one who was most like Mr. Lynn. Athos had once been married to the beautiful, dreadful lady, and the lady was obviously Laurel.
Polly read it twice. Then she sat down and wrote a long and excited letter to Mr. Lynn.
Dear Tom,
she began. That looked wrong; it was wrong. She never could think of him as anything but Mr. Lynn, but she supposed she had better practise in order not to hurt his feelings. She told him all about The Three Musketeers. Then she told him all the latest ideas she had had about Tan Thare and Tan Hanivar, and the whole set of adventures for them all to have conquering the evil Cardinal Leroy—sorry, Legris.
She got a postcard back from Cardiff:
Thank you, Hero. You have given me some ideas too.
More later, T. G. L.
Granny really did not go in for reading. Polly knew that now. She said too much reading would ruin Polly’s eyes, and she taught Polly to cook to take her mind off books. Polly was not good at it. Her first sponge cake had a kind of soggy valley in the middle.
“Well, it’s nothing a blind man on a galloping horse wouldn’t see,” said Granny, “but it doesn’t look much like a sponge cake to me.”
“It’s a new kind,” Polly said, “called volcano cake. That runny stuff in the middle is the lava.”
“Oh is it?” said Granny. “Put it down for Mintchoc and let’s try apple pie instead.”
Someone had given Granny a basket of windfall apples. Granny was very good at peeling them in one entire long strip. “There,” she would say, passing Polly a heavy green curl, “throw it over your left shoulder and it’ll make the initials of the man you’re going to marry.”
Polly threw strip after strip of peeling, but they never did make anything except playthings for Mintchoc. Each one broke up and splattered about the kitchen floor into circles and lines that even Granny had to admit were meaningless. “You see? I’m not going to marry,” Polly said, secure in the knowledge she would be a hero instead.
When Polly went home at the end of summer, she found everything had been moved out of her room into the tiny room at the back. Ivy, with a duster tied round her head, was briskly and cheerfully painting the room that had been Polly’s.
“You’re in there from now on,” she told Polly, pointing to the tiny room with her paintbrush. “We’re going to take in lodgers. They’ll have to have this room because that one’s too small.”
Polly looked round the echoing empty square of her old room. The flowery paper was not quite hidden under white paint, and there were drips on the bare boards. “My folder!” she said. “With my soldiers in!”
“All through there,” said Ivy. “I put everything on the floor. You can make yourself useful by sorting your junk out.” She sat back on her heels and looked at the not quite white wall discontentedly. “It needs one other coat at least.”
The folder was there when Polly raced through to look, with the soldiers safely in it. But a lot of her other things were not.
“No, I threw all the babyish things away,” Ivy said when Polly raced back to ask. “You’re a big girl now and you don’t need them. Really, Polly, you do criticise! I’m trying so hard. I’ve just pulled myself together and taken a big step, and all I get is Where’s my dolls’ house?”
“But Dad only gave me the dolls’ house at Christmas!” Polly protested.
“And the skirting board needs two more coats,” said Ivy. “Yes, I know. Don’t bother me now, Polly.”
Later that day, when Polly had mournfully tidied what were left of her things—Mum had left the books and papers because they were grown up, and the sewing machine because that was almost real, but not much else—Ivy decided Polly needed an explanation.
“It’s like this,” she said, clutching a teacup with both painty hands. “Happiness is something you have to go out and get, Polly. It won’t come to you, not in this world. I’ve suddenly seen that I’ve been so wrong all these months, looking back to my marriage and regretting it all. I was trying to put the clock back, Polly. Now I’m going forward again, and we’re both going to have a new, happy life. We’ll have a lodger for money, and you’ll be at the new school—”
“When are we going to get my uniform?” Polly asked. “We start next week.”
“Tomorrow,” said Ivy. “Polly, I’m going to make that room so nice! I’ve got some lovely curtains and a matching bedspread. If I make it nice enough, I can charge a lot for it. It’ll be good for us both, having someone else in the house to talk to.”
In the end, it was Granny who took Polly to buy school clothes. Ivy was too busy painting. “Don’t blame her, Polly,” Granny said. “She’s been very down, and she’s trying to pull herself up. Ivy’s got character—I’ll give her that. Try and understand.”
Polly did try to understand. She was positively saintly, she thought, not mentioning all the other things Ivy had thrown away. But she did regret her old room. The new little one was like a crowded box, and the water cistern chuckled loudly all night from a cupboard in the corner. Polly would have been very miserable in it, but for the excitement of starting at Manor Road School.
She loved it. The whole first term was like a long, long birthday party. There was a crowd of new friends, and a mass of new things to do, new ways of speaking, new ways of thinking. There was also Nina. Polly wondered how she could have forgotten how largely Nina figured in her life at Manor Road. Nina was the only other girl who came on from Junior School to Manor Road with Polly. The others had all gone to Miles End, which was said to be rough.
Nina set out to astound and shock and lead. After trying one or two other things, she came to school with a book she had found in her aunt’s house. It was called Popular Beliefs. “I’m starting a Superstition Club,” she said. “You join by having a superstition which isn’t in this book.”
Polly became a founder member of the club the same day. She had developed a habit of taking her opal pendant out from under her new school tie and twiddling it during lessons. She did it in French. The French master told her that jewellery was not allowed and she must either put it away or describe it to him in French.
“It’s not jewellery! It’s lucky!” Polly exclaimed indignantly. “It used to be Granny’s mother’s!”
Nina passed her a note enrolling her in the Superstition Club on the spot.
The club became all the rage in the course of a week. Everyone joined. The rules were to believe all the superstitions in Nina’s book and to find as many more as you could. If you found ten new superstitions, you received the Order of the Black Cat, personally drawn by Nina on a page of her rough note pad. People’s blazers soon became decorated with rusty pins they had picked up, their hands black with rescuing pieces of coal, and their shoulders sprinkled with spilled salt every lunch hour. Funerals and ambulances caused hands to leap to collars, and a number of people nearly got knocked down in the street, either by not walking under ladders or by going out of their way in order to be able to say a black cat had crossed their path. Two people were found crying in the cloakrooms because they had broken a mirror. Everyone’s pockets became loaded with lucky charms, lucky bus tickets and lucky mascots. And as the club grew, a wave of superstition grew with it, mounted, and spread far beyond the club, right up to the senior end of the school, until it mixed with everything everyone did. Polly spared a little attention for music too. She had joined the choir, and enrolled for free violin lessons, because she knew next to nothing about music. She wanted to learn. Listening to Mr. Lynn talking about music to Mary Fields had made her feel really stupid.
But she did not think much about Mr. Lynn otherwise, even though he wrote her two quite long letters around then. One letter was a rewriting of the giant story, making Mr. Piper’s shop much more like the real one they had found in Stow-on-the-Water. Polly preferred the second letter, which was about Tan Coul, Hero, and Tan Hanivar hunting for treasure in some caves. Here Tan Hanivar accidentally turned into a dragon, and the other two nearly killed him before they realised. Yes, but just a bit silly, Polly thought, and put the letters away in her folder without answering them. She was really far more interested in the Superstition Club.
The club gained a mighty boost from the approach of Hallowe’en. By then everyone in the school was a quivering mass of strange beliefs. Spirits were talked of, and auras, and astral bodies, and someone saw a ghost down near the Biology Lab. And on Hallowe’en itself a magpie landed on the windowsill during School Assembly. Assembly stopped short while everyone scuffled to cross fingers, touch wood, and intone, “Hello, Mr. Magpie, how’s your wife?” The Headmaster said irritable, sensible things. The magpie flew away in a frightened whirl of black and white, and nothing much happened, either lucky or unlucky.
After that, Nina said she was tired of the club. She was possibly rather frightened by its success. But it is easier to start something than stop it. The superstition simply took a new turn and became a craze for fortune-telling. The day the craze started, Polly had her fortune told three times, once by paper top, once by palmistry, and once with a pack of cards. The next day she had it done by tea leaves and I Ching. Each one came out different. They varied between “Never marry for money” from the paper top to “To take a maiden to wife brings good fortune” from the Book of Changes. Then she tried the three bowls. One was full of water, one half full, and one empty. You asked a question, shut your eyes and dipped your hand. The full and empty bowls were Yes and No. The one half full was Maybe. It became a common sight to see girls squatting like witches around plastic cups of water, breathlessly watching someone’s groping hand. Polly did it frequently. But no matter how often she tried, she always got her hand in half-full, lukewarm Maybe. She gave up and put her name down for the Prefects’ mirror instead.
The Prefects were doing a roaring trade, charging ten pence a look, and the waiting list was long. You looked in the mirror in a nearly dark room—full of other people queuing for their turns, which perhaps accounted for it—and you saw the face of someone behind your reflection who was going to Influence Your Life. Unfortunately, by this time the teachers had had enough. The Staff Room contained stacks of confiscated cards, dice, dowsing twigs, bowls and even two crystal balls. Polly was queuing for her turn at the mirror when she distinctly saw the face of the Deputy Head appear in it behind the boy who was looking at that moment. It was clear he was real. He drew back the curtains, took down the mirror and turned everyone out of the room except the Prefects. Someone who kept their ear to the door after it was shut said they were glad they were not those Prefects. And the Headmaster said, “This must stop.”
It didn’t straightaway, of course. But the frenzy seemed to be over. Nina turned her attention to the Stamp Club. Polly turned hers to the violin—or she tried to. But it was a complete disaster. She was hopeless. As soon as she had the violin in her hands, she became slow, foolish and clumsy. Long after the other learners were playing proper tunes, Polly scraped and wailed and made noises like a sea lion in distress. Strings broke under her fumbling fingers. Hairs streamed from her bow and got mixed up with her own hair. She hated practising too. She had to do it at school because Ivy forbade it at home.
“I’m not having the lodger disturbed with that noise,” she said. No lodger had yet appeared, but Ivy was always considering him as if he was there.
Soon after the affair of the Prefects’ mirror, the violin teacher suggested Polly give up the violin. “I don’t think it’s your instrument,” she said. “How about trying the flute class?”
But Ivy said, “Tootling away, disturbing the lodger! No way!”
So that was that. Polly could not bear to write to Mr. Lynn about her failure, so she joined the Indoor Athletics and did not write to him at all. She was therefore very ashamed, one morning in December, to find a postcard of Bristol Suspension Bridge lying on the doormat with the other post. She picked it up and turned it over, expecting it to be from Mr. Lynn. It was not. It was from Dad, addressed to Ivy and written in angry capital letters that Polly could not help reading.
WHAT’S ALL THIS, IVY?
I’VE TOLD YOU I WANT TO COME BACK!!!
REG
“I’ll have that, Polly,” Ivy said, coming up behind Polly on her way out to work. She took it from Polly’s fingers with a snatch.
“I saw,” said Polly. “Dad wants to come back.”
“He meant you to see,” Ivy said in her stoniest way. “And he’s not coming.” She opened the front door to go out.
Polly surprised herself by screaming at Ivy. “You’re horrible! You’re hard! You’re unforgiving! He wants to come back and you won’t let him!” Ivy looked round at her, holding the door open, and looked for a moment as if she was going to smack Polly. Then she simply slammed the door in Polly’s face. “I hate you!” Polly screamed to the footsteps going away behind the front door. That surprised her too. She stood for a while and wondered if it were true. It did not seem to be, to her relief. Just something you shout, she thought. I’m glad.