It had been obvious to her, from the moment Seb first suggested it, that simply asking Tom in the normal way was no good at all. Something quite other was called for. She set about it as methodically and secretly as someone planning a crime. In the morning she went for a walk, as far into the outskirts of Middleton as she could get, where the houses began to give way to the country. There she searched the sides of the road for dead hemlock. Since the hemlock was high and flowering in the hedgerows just then, she was unlucky and had to make do with a handsome living green stalk of it. But she was lucky enough to find a large wad of greying old straw near the riding school. She took a number of hawthorn sprigs from the hedges too. These she brought home and hid from Granny as if they were things she had stolen.
Granny had a bad cold and was not very observant. She went away to lie down in the afternoon. As soon as she had, Polly gleefully grabbed up the large silver ashtray from the front room and hurried upstairs with it. There she made sure of privacy by wedging a chair under the doorknob and set about her final preparations. Remembering it four years later, Polly was amazed at the amount she had worked out and the things she knew, almost by instinct.
She took down the Fire and Hemlock picture and propped it against the wall at the back of her low table. She put the ashtray in front of that, so that she could stick the twigs of hedge in the crack between it and the picture. Carefully, between the twigs, she balanced the five painted soldiers Tom had once sent her. She had to use all five, because she had never been sure which two stood for Tan Coul and Hero. In front of the ashtray she stood the hemlock head, upright in a milk bottle. She put the straw in the ashtray itself, heaped as far as possible into the same shape as the burning straw in the picture, and mixed it with a few strands of her own hair. She knew it was important to mix herself and Tom together in the elements of the picture. She had it all worked out, as blindly and instinctively as a flea jumps to suck blood. She was rather annoyed that she had nothing to stand for the horse that sometimes appeared in the smoke, and she wished she could have used Tom’s blood, but her white top had been washed. Instead, she used the postcard which said Sentimental drivel. She did not mind losing that.
When everything was ready, Polly unhooked the stolen oval photograph and knelt down in front of the table, facing the picture, in the greatest excitement. She remembered seeing her own face, vivid, almost laughing, reflected in the glass of the Fire and Hemlock picture while she struck a match and lit one corner of the postcard. When that was burning, she carefully poked it among the straw and hair in the ashtray. She knelt, holding the stolen photograph, while chaffy smoke began to wreathe upwards. The photograph, she was sure, had power to bring Tom to her. Both pictures together would surely make him tell. She told herself that she did not really think it would work. But she knew it would.
Smoke poured upwards in a sudden cloud that made Polly cough, suffusing the hemlock in the milk bottle and hiding the picture entirely. There was an instant when Polly was terrified, unable to see anything but smoke. But then, with a sort of flick, she seemed to be somewhere else where she could see perfectly well. It was a room she did not know. She knew she was not really in it, because she could feel her knees pressing into the mat in her own room all through, but when Tom got up from the large sofa in the strange room and came hurriedly towards her, she knew he could see her as if she were standing there.
“Polly!” he said, quiet and horrified. “What are you doing?”
Now it had worked, Polly’s glee returned. She chuckled with it. When Tom got up, she thought she had seen a woman on the sofa too, probably asleep. She leaned cheerfully and cheekily round him to see if it was Mary Fields, and answered rather triumphantly, “I’ve come to ask you some questions at last.” The woman was not Mary. She was Laurel, Laurel asleep and looking staggeringly, heart-rendingly beautiful. Polly said indignantly, “What are you doing, come to that? How often do you get together with Laurel?”
“As little as I can help – hardly at all, these days,” Tom answered, whispering in order not to wake Laurel. “Polly, go away! It may still be all right if you stop now.”
“But I want to know!” Polly said. “Does Laurel own you, or something?”
“You could say that.” Tom turned to make sure Laurel was still asleep.
Polly knew he was completely miserable, but she felt no sympathy at all, only a hard kind of triumph. “Well, you should have told me!” she said. “I can’t help you if you don’t tell me anything, can I?”
“I sent you enough books about it!” Tom said angrily.
“That’s not the sa—” Polly was saying when Tom moved sharply aside.
Behind him, Laurel was awake, sitting up on the sofa. “Tom?” she said like a little icy needle.
“The undying Laurel is awake,” Tom said to Polly. He said it fiercely and meaningly and she noticed that he had put one hand up to his face almost as if he was trying to shield his eyes.
Polly did not understand. Laurel said, “Tom!” again, warningly. Polly looked at her and met Laurel’s eyes. After that, Polly was only aware of Laurel and the empty tunnels of Laurel’s eyes…
Everything went a little muzzy then. Polly knew she cleared up the charred stuff in the ashtray and hung both pictures up again. Probably she tidied everything away. She must have taken the ashtray back to the living room, she supposed, because it was certainly there afterwards. She knew she was downstairs with the kettle on to make Granny some tea, when the doorbell rang. Unless that was a day later. If it was the same day, Laurel had worked awfully fast.
Anyway, the kettle was on and the doorbell rang. Polly went to answer it. It was Seb. Smiling.
“Polly, come round to the house and meet my folks. Everyone’s there. Even old Tom’s come down for the weekend.”
That, of course, fetched Polly along at once. She combed her hair, took the kettle off – like the rhyme, she remembered thinking – and went along with Seb.
There were a lot of people gathered in the room in Hunsdon House where the Will had been read. Most of them were people Polly dimly remembered from the funeral. They were having a moving-about kind of tea, sometimes sitting down with teacups, sometimes getting up and helping themselves to sandwiches or cakes from a couple of trolleys and then sitting down somewhere else. It was the kind of event you dread when you are fifteen. You know you are going to tread on a sandwich or sit on your cake. Polly would have felt quite crushed in the ordinary way, even, but this was worse. Here was Mr Leroy confusingly coming and shaking hands as if Polly was an old friend, Laurel turning round to give a nod and a gracious smile, and Tom in the distance not coming near her at all. Uneasiness grew in Polly, the way it had over Joanna in Bristol. She was not muzzy any more. Everything was quite sharp, but the uneasiness grew. Tom, typically, was sitting hunched up on the arm of a sofa, with one foot on the cushions, bending forward to talk to a Leroy Perry lady. He did not seem to know Polly was there. Polly tried to tell herself that he could have looked at her sideways, with the look almost hidden by his glasses, but she knew she was deceiving herself.
She was forced politely into an armchair by Mr Leroy. He fetched her a cup of tea and Seb gave her a plate with a sandwich on it. Polly was by then so uneasy that she wanted to scream and run away, but everything was so polite that she did not dare.
Before long, Laurel came to sit leaning sideways towards her from another armchair. Scents from her wafted across Polly’s teacup. “Polly, dear. I’ve been wanting to have a little talk with you for quite a while now. Seb tells me you may have some very strange ideas in your head about poor Tom.”
Polly tried to pull herself together. “I don’t think so,” she said bluntly.
“No, dear, but they may be, for all that,” Laurel said kindly. She smiled affectionately across the room to where Tom was hunched up, talking. “I suspect that you may have mistaken the situation quite appallingly. We’re all very fond of Tom, you know, and so sad about him.” She turned back to Polly,
and Polly was aghast to see tears twinkle and brim in Laurel’s eyes. “Poor Tom,” Laurel said. “He’s going to die. In about four years now. The doctors can’t do a thing.” Her voice caught throatily and she put up a knuckle to catch the tear making its way down her face. “Terrible, isn’t it?”
Oh God! Polly thought. Is this why Tom would never talk about himself? I may have been an awful fool! In her shame and horror, she could only stammer, “Wh-what of?”
“One of those cancer things,” Laurel said sadly. “That’s why I said I’d speak to you when Tom asked me to.”
“He asked you to?” Polly said.
“Of course.” Laurel put a knuckle to her other eye. “Or I’d never have dreamed of saying a word. I still adore Tom. We only got divorced because he insisted on it when he heard the news.”
Oh my heaven! Polly thought. What an idiot I’ve been! Of course Laurel and Mr Leroy would want to keep an eye on Tom if they knew he was ill. It was quite possible that she had gone blundering in, mistaking the whole thing entirely. She had thought there was something supernatural – but how stupid and babyish! There was no such thing.
“He’s the soul of consideration – poor Tom,” Laurel said. “And loving him as I do, I quite understand how you feel, Polly. Let me see, you first met Tom at Seb’s mother’s funeral, didn’t you?”
“I – thought that was your mother’s—” Polly managed to say.
“No, dear. It was poor Seb’s,” said Laurel. “And then of course you were quite a little girl. Children always adore poor Tom. But I do think nowadays you might show him the kind of consideration he always shows you. You’re embarrassing him, dear. You’ve got what’s called a crush on him, haven’t you?”
Polly could not say anything. Shame rose up in her and scoured through her, bleaching everything. This was far worse than she had ever felt in Bristol. She could only look across at Tom’s hunched shape, bleached faint and wavering like a mirage. Oh, what a fool she had been!
“I’m asking you to leave poor Tom in peace for the little time he has left,” Laurel said kindly, gently. “I know it’s hard. But couldn’t you agree to forget him?”
“I—” Polly tried to say. Everyone in the room must know what a fool she had been. She could see faces turning to her, dimly, smiling kindly and pityingly.
“He’s only got four years, and you’ve got the rest of your life,” Laurel said gently. “Think what it means to him, when he had to ask me to ask you—”
Polly could take no more. She put her teacup down on the small table near her chair and then backed away from it with her hands stretched out to push it from her, as if the teacup were her stupidity. And that was a silly way to behave too. The people who had been looking at her were all turning away, embarrassed to look.
“Think,” said Laurel, “if someone was hanging round you, pestering and sighing, for all the life you had—”
“Oh all right! Don’t go on!” Polly cried out. “I didn’t mean – Of course I’ll forget him! Just leave me alone!”
Things began to go dim again after that. Polly remembered sitting for a while, bolt upright and staring at nothing, wishing she could leave, or that she could crawl into a hole and die of shame. She remembered her relief when Seb came and said it was time to go now. Polly got up and went with him into the hall with the jointed staircase and the Ali Baba jars, where things were already fading, fading – bleached away by her shame, she thought then – when she heard Seb say, “Hey! Now, look here, Tom, you’re not supposed – Oh, well—”
Polly looked round to find that Tom had come out into the hall too. “Goodbye, Polly,” he said and bent down to give her a kiss on her forehead. Since Polly turned and looked up as he did it, the kiss landed, briefly and awkwardly, on her mouth. Brief, awkward, and sideways, Polly remembered, which caused Tom to take hold of her shoulder to pull her into a better position. But Seb gave a meaning cough and he let go. And that was really all she remembered. As soon as she left the house, her memories started to run single.
And plain, and dull, she thought. And she had done it to herself. And deserved it all, even being engaged to Seb, for not having the sense to remember something Tom had said himself: that being a hero means ignoring how silly you feel. She had let Laurel embarrass her into a state in which she could not even think straight. Laurel’s persuasions, she could see blazingly clearly now, had all been aimed at making her say she would forget Tom. Without that, they could not have done a thing to her. And not, it seemed to follow, to Tom either. But they would have kept on at me, Polly thought. They would have got me to say it in the end. That was bound to follow, once she had opened the way by doing her peculiar piece of prying on Tom.
And that had been an awful thing to do. She knew that now. It had not been knowledge she was after. She had been just like Ivy – a miser who thought her hoard was being taken away – and she had been after revenge, because Tom had hurt her. So she had let Seb egg her on. But, she had to admit, she might have done it anyway, without any suggestion from Seb.
“And the most awful thing is the way I got it right!” Polly said aloud.
At some time, as she sat hunched over, thinking, Polly had been aware that Fiona had come in, hearing music playing. She had seen her look meaningly at the borrowed turntable, pick up the sleeve of the record to look at the picture, then nod and go out again.
“I must cook tonight,” Polly said. Instead, she hunted out the paperback book which had jogged her memory awake. Times out of Mind, edited by L. Perry. Laurel evidently had quite a sense of humour, didn’t she? But there seemed no more to be got out of this book, except the odd fact that Ed’s story was printed as being by Ann. Polly smiled slightly. Ann had known too, perhaps in the same instinctive way Polly had – though, looking back on it, she thought that all three of the others in the quartet must have had some idea of what was going on. And Ann seemed to have done what she could. Tan Audel, famous for memory. She must have thought Polly could still do something. But what, what, what?”
Granny had said a book might help.
“All right,” Polly said. “Let’s try picking a book at random off my shelf.” She swung back in her chair and, without looking, hooked her fingers round the first book she touched. “Probably The Golden Bough, if I’m anything like right now,” Polly murmured. But it was not. She seemed to get hold of two books initially. One flopped to the floor. The other, which was much smaller, slipped easily into her hand. Polly stooped to the fallen one first. It was the book of fairy stories Tom had sent her once for Christmas that she had been too old to read. Naturally, it lay open face downwards in the way he hated books to be.
Polly scooped it up and looked to see where it had opened. It was the story called ‘East of the Sun and West of the Moon’. Oh, that one! The one where the girl gets too curious, and the man vanishes to Nowhere to marry someone else, and she has an awful job to get him back. Yes, Polly thought, they may have laid it on him not to tell, but he made sure that I knew. And I did know, really.
Then she looked at the other, smaller book in her hand. The Oxford Book of Ballads. For four years she had seemed always to have had this book, with no idea where it came from. Now she knew it had arrived when she was twelve, under the name of Lee Tin, from a cathedral city somewhere. And this was the one. Polly’s fingers shook as she opened it to the list of contents. The first two ballads were ‘Thomas the Rhymer’ and ‘Tam Lin’. Of course, when she was twelve, she had not known that Tam was simply a North Country form of the name Tom.
“Oh my God!” Polly said, and whipped over the pages to a certain part of the second ballad. She threw the book down and went dashing into the other room. “Fiona!” she screamed. “What date is it?”
Fiona looked up over the glasses she wore for reading. “Go away,” she said unconvincingly. “I have an astute and beautiful essay to write myself now. The date is October the thirtieth.”
Polly screamed, “Then it’s tomorrow! I shall be too late! I must go
home to Granny’s at once!”
“The last bus went at six. You have to get permission. And there are two frozen platters heating in the kitchen at this moment,” Fiona said. “Apart from that, you’re free to go instantly. A taxi? Or do you prefer to hire a helicopter? Myself, I’d recommend the first bus tomorrow, and dear Fiona to see to all the rest. What’s happened?”
“Nothing yet – I hope,” said Polly. “But I’m going to interrupt you by ringing Seb.” She seized the phone and dialled, with Fiona watching interestedly.
“Sebastian Leroy,” said Seb’s voice. He always answered the phone like that.
“It’s me – Polly,” said Polly. Her hand was so wet that the receiver nearly slipped out of it.
“Pol!” said Seb, and Polly winced at how glad he sounded to hear her. “I wrote you a letter. Did I get the address wrong?”
“No, but I’ve been awfully busy,” Polly said, “so I thought I’d phone instead of writing, because things have slacked off now. Seb, can I come to London and see you tomorrow night?” She crossed her fingers and pressed them against the wood of the table, hard. Her hand jerked and slid with apprehension. If Seb agreed—
“Oh, bother! I wish you could,” Seb said. “Pol, any other weekend but this! I’ll be out of town from tomorrow till Monday. There’s a tedious family gathering.”
“In Middleton?” Polly asked brightly. “Can I come to Hunsdon House and see you there, then?”
“No, precious,” Seb said, with his most indulgent churring laugh. “For tedious, my love, read private conclave. Strictly family. Anyone less than half-blood definitely not admitted. Make it next weekend. Please.”
“I’m not free then,” Polly said. But she dared not refuse outright, for fear he would realise the real reason for her phone call. “How about the weekend after that?”
“Fine. I’ll ring you up about it the moment I get back,” Seb promised.
Polly rang off. So it was true. Carla had said Thomas Lynn was not going to be available after October the thirty-first. Seb was at his so-called tedious family gathering tomorrow. The same day. And she had to stop it. Somehow.
Fire and Hemlock Page 29
