The Complete Polly and the Wolf

by Catherine Storr

  •

  It was a few days later, that, on her way home from school, Polly saw a curious construction standing shakily in the road near to her own home. It looked like a badly put together garden shed, made out of brown paper. Windows and doors were drawn on the paper. Some sticky tape fastened a candy bar on one wall. On another was written a message:

  THIS HUSE IS MAD OF G JINJEBRED

  Polly stood still to examine it. She had an idea that she knew who had put it there and who was likely to be inside it. While she was looking, the building shook violently, there was a tearing noise, and the paper of one of the windows burst open.

  “Who’s there?” said a voice.

  “Me. Polly,” said Polly.

  “A little girl? Lost in the wood?”

  “I’m not lost and this isn’t a wood. But I am a girl.”

  “That’s the important part. Have a candy bar,” said the voice.

  “There’s only one,” Polly said.

  “It’s for you.”

  “I’m not sure . . .” Polly began, but before she could finish, the door of the house had been wrenched apart, and the wolf stood there, grinning at her horribly.

  “Got you! I knew you’d never be able to resist a candy bar,” the wolf said.

  “I haven’t had it yet,” Polly pointed out.

  “Hurry up, then. You eat that first, then I’ll take you home with me and put you in my oven, like the witch did to Gretel. At last!” the wolf said, happily.

  “I thought you didn’t like gingerbread,” Polly said.

  “Hate it. The gingerbread was for you, not me. What I’m looking forward to is a good roast dinner. Roast girl.”

  “You haven’t read your fairy stories carefully enough. Don’t you know what happened to all those children the witch roasted in her oven? They didn’t turn into roast child, they turned into gingerbread,” Polly said.

  “I don’t believe you!” the wolf cried.

  “Have a look at the play. I’ve got it here, because I’m learning my part,” Polly said, offering the book to the wolf, who looked quickly at the end, snarling with disappointment.

  “It’s a cheat! It can’t be true! Do you mean to say, Polly, that if I roast you now, you’re going to become a gingerbread girl? Like these pictures in the book?” the wolf asked.

  “I should think so. It seems to be the rule when you catch someone with a house made of gingerbread and sweets,” Polly said.

  “But I don’t like gingerbread!” the wolf cried.

  “I’m afraid that’s all you’re going to get,” Polly said.

  “It isn’t fair! That woman who taught us said the story ended happily! This isn’t a happy ending!” the wolf moaned.

  “I don’t think she meant it would be happy for a wolf. Too bad. You’ll have to think of something else, won’t you? See you at school on Monday?” Polly called as she quickly made her escape. But somehow she didn’t think the wolf would be coming back to school to make him clever enough to catch even cleverer Polly.

  2. Thinking in Threes

  “HOW DID they do it? Goldilocks just walks in at the front door, without being asked, and if they’d remembered to bolt the bedroom window, they’d have got her. And I can’t get Polly to my house without all the trouble in the world, and then I’ve never managed to keep her there,” the wolf said to himself, closing the book of fairy tales in which he had just read, for the twentieth time, the story of the Three Bears.

  He thought deeply. Was it because they were bears, and not wolves? No. Goldilocks didn’t know who lived in the house when she found it. She must have been hungry, that was why she’d gone into an empty house to eat their porridge. “Easy-peasy. All I’ve got to do is to get some porridge,” the wolf thought. No sooner thought than done. He fetched his basket and set out for the shops.

  “A pound of porridge,” he said to the man behind the counter.

  “Sorry, sir, we don’t sell porridge. Oats, sir,” the man said.

  “Oats? I’m not a horse.”

  “No, sir. I can see that you’re not a horse. I didn’t mean to be rude, sir. Oats is what porridge is made of. Very easy, it is. You just boil oats in water.”

  “And that makes porridge?”

  “Yes, sir. Instructions on the packet.”

  The wolf took the packet and read the instructions. Making porridge did indeed seem easy. He bought two packets in case his efforts with the first did not prove successful, and went home very much pleased with himself. “Aha, Miss Polly! I’ll have you eating in my house very soon— and eaten soon, too,” he said to himself.

  A day or two later, Polly was passing the end of the street where the wolf lived, when she smelled a really horrible smell. She looked along the road and saw a trickle of smoke coming out from under his front door. She ran as quickly as she could towards it, and arrived just as the door was thrown open, and a gush of smoke and a slightly singed wolf leapt out.

  “Wolf! What’s the matter? Is your house on fire?” Polly panted.

  “What? Who? No, no. No cause for alarm. I just left something to cook for a little too long. Why, it’s Polly!” the wolf said, wiping black paws on a black apron.

  “Smells terrible. What were you cooking, Wolf?” Polly asked.

  “Nothing particular. Porridge, that’s all. Porridge,” the wolf said.

  “I thought you didn’t like porridge?”

  “Hate it. Looks like putty, tastes like mud and feels . . . Ugh!” the wolf said.

  “Then why . . .?”

  “For a visitor. Which reminds me. I suppose you wouldn’t care to come in and have a bite to eat, Polly?” the wolf asked, very sweetly.

  “No, thank you, Wolf.”

  “I could make the other packet.”

  “Is that going to be porridge too?”

  “How did you guess? I probably wouldn’t burn it this time.”

  “I’m really not hungry, thank you, Wolf.”

  “Pity. Never mind. Another time,” the wolf said and watched Polly disappear up the road.

  “I’m not going to make that disgusting stuff again. Chairs, that’s what I need. Polly will come past my house, feeling very tired, and when she looks in and sees three chairs all empty and ready for her to sit on, she won’t be able to resist coming in to try them out. I’ll see what I can arrange to tempt her tomorrow,” the wolf said to himself.

  It was not the next day, but a week later, that Polly was near the wolf’s house again. She looked down the road and saw, not smoke this time, but a group of boys apparently reading something on his front door.

  When she reached them, Polly saw a large sheet of paper fastened to the knocker, on which was written:

  NOTICE

  THERE ARE THREE CHAIRS IN THIS HOUSE

  The boys were busy writing a message underneath.

  So what? We’ve got four chairs and a put-U-up

  The door opened suddenly, and the wolf bounced out.

  “How dare you write on my door?” he shouted at the boys.

  “Someone’s been writing on it already,” one of the boys said.

  “That doesn’t mean you have any right to. Who wants to know that you’ve got a put-U-up?”

  “Who wants to know you’ve got three chairs?” the boy answered.

  “She does,” the wolf said, pointing with his head towards Polly.

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Yes, you do. And one’s too high, and one’s too low, but the other’s just right. Come in and try them,” the wolf said.

  “I don’t think I’d better,” Polly said.

  “Yes, you’d better. It would be fun.”

  “Not much. Not for me.”

  “I’d enjoy having you,” the wolf said, and his long red tongue flicked out of his mouth for a minute. He laid a large black paw on Polly’s shoulder and began to steer her in through the doorway.

  “Why don’t we all come in? Come on, boys,” Polly said, holding on to an arm she found near her.


  “I asked you. I don’t want all of them,” the wolf said, disgusted. But it was too late, the boys were already through the doorway and looking about the wolf’s living room. There were indeed three chairs. The wolf had decided not to spend good money on buying anything new, but to adapt what he’d already got, to fit the story.

  “Why is that chair on the table?” the smallest boy asked.

  “To make it too high, of course. Stoopid!” the wolf replied.

  “Stoopid yourself. Now no one can sit in it,” the boy said.

  “Is this supposed to be a chair?” another boy asked. He was looking at what appeared to be a seat almost on the ground.

  “That’s the one that’s too low. I chopped its legs off,” the wolf said, complacently.

  “That’s cruel. How would you like it if someone chopped your legs off?” the boy said.

  “I’m not a chair. I’m a wo– I mean, I don’t need to be made any lower. I’m the proper height for a . . . for the sort of person I am,” the wolf said.

  “This one’s all right,” a third boy said, sitting in the only other chair.

  “You shouldn’t be sitting in it. Polly’s supposed to do that,” the wolf complained.

  “That’s all right. I’m not tired. Thank you very much for showing us your interesting furniture, but I think it’s time we went home to our teas,” Polly said, moving towards the door.

  “No, wait! You haven’t tried all the chairs yet and said this one’s too high and this one’s too low and this one’s all right and then you break it,” the wolf said.

  “If she doesn’t want to break it, I will,” the third boy said, and before the wolf could stop him, he had got out of the chair, picked it up by one leg and brought it down on the corner of the table with a crash which sent splinters of wood flying round the room. The little chair lay sadly on the floor; it had lost three of its legs and its back was broken. “Like that?” the boy asked.

  “You wicked boy! You’ve broken my only good chair! Go away and don’t ever come back!” the wolf cried out. “Not you, Polly. You stay here and I’ll . . . I’ll make some more porridge,” he said quickly.

  “No, thank you, Wolf. I don’t like porridge any more than you do.”

  “But you haven’t tried the beds!”

  “You have three beds?” Polly asked. She knew now which story the wolf had been reading lately.

  “Well, nearly three,” the wolf said.

  “And one’s too soft and one’s too hard, but the other one is just right? And I’m supposed to try them all and then go to sleep in the little one?”

  “That’s right! You’d make a good detective, Polly.”

  “Thank you, Wolf. Would you tell me how you’ve managed about the beds? To make one too hard and the next too soft?”

  The wolf smirked. It was not a pretty sight. “It wasn’t easy, I can tell you. First of all, I put a lot of stones and some firewood into the big bed, under the bottom sheet. That’ll be hard enough, I thought, and I tried it, and it certainly was. Then for the middling-sized bed that’s too soft, I thought there isn’t anything softer than feathers, so I ripped open my pillows and I’ve covered my settee with feathers. It’s so soft you can’t hardly breathe. You’ll see, Polly, when you come upstairs to try.”

  “So now you haven’t any pillows?” Polly asked.

  “I sacrificed them for a good cause,” the wolf said.

  “What about the last bed? The really comfortable one?”

  The wolf looked embarrassed. “I’ve had some trouble with that. To start with, I haven’t got any more beds, and it didn’t seem worth buying a brand new one just for such a short time. I tried putting two chairs together, but that wasn’t a great success. I kept on falling down between them whenever I tried to stretch out. Then I made a sort of nest on the floor, but it was distinctly draughty. I thought perhaps you’d be able to advise me, Polly. After all, you’re the person who’s going to find it so comfortable. I did wonder if you could go to sleep in the dirty linen basket . . .”

  “Certainly not! I’m not dirty linen.”

  “Perhaps in the bath? It’s quite dry, I don’t use it very often.”

  “Not the bath. Even if it hasn’t been used for months.”

  “You’re being very difficult,” the wolf sighed.

  “And, Wolf, it’s all very well to try to have three of everything, but there’s one thing you haven’t thought of that you can’t have three of,” Polly said.

  “No, there isn’t. I had three bowls for the porridge, and three chairs— until that nasty child destroyed one. And I’ve nearly got three beds. There’s the bottom drawer of my kitchen dresser, I could make that very cosy with a couple of dishcloths and an old towel. That would make three beds, wouldn’t it?”

  “But there’s only one of you,” Polly said.

  “Of course. I am unique!” the wolf said, proudly.

  “There were three bears.”

  The wolf looked at Polly. He hated to admit it, but it seemed to him that she was winning the argument again, just as she had always won all the arguments they’d ever had. At last he said, in a small voice, “You mean, it doesn’t work if there’s only one of me?”

  “That’s right. Now if you had a wife to be Mother Wolf . . .”

  “But I don’t want a wife! I want a meal!” the wolf cried.

  “. . . or a baby to be Little Wolf . . .”

  “I’ve never liked cubs much. Noisy, rough little creatures. A baby would disturb my elegant bachelor life,” the wolf said.

  “Then you can’t expect me to be like Goldilocks and come in and eat your disgusting porridge and sit on your chairs and sleep in your dirty linen basket or your bath. Or even in a drawer,” Polly said.

  “Is that your last word?” the wolf asked.

  “Not quite. Don’t read so many fairy stories, Wolf. Face real life instead. Whatever cunning plans you make to catch me and eat me, you are never going to succeed, because what you don’t realize is that I’m Clever Polly and you are the . . .” But the wolf was looking so disappointed that Polly hadn’t quite the heart to say what she really thought of his brains, so she ended her sentence, “. . . you are just a Unique Wolf.”

  3. At the Doctor’s

  WHEN THE wolf came into the doctor’s waiting room, he saw that it was crowded. There were several old ladies and old gentlemen, who didn’t interest him much.

  “Too tough and stringy,” he thought. But there were other patients who looked much more promising. One mother had two toddling twins, another had a succulent looking baby, and a fat little boy who was running round and round the table made the wolf’s mouth water and his eyes glisten. He hoped that all the older people would get in to see the doctor first. Then, when he was left alone with the children, he would have a chance to seize one of them and leave quickly before anyone noticed.

  “I don’t have to go in to see the doctor today. I can always come back next week for what I need,” he thought.

  The mother with the juicy baby was called next, but to the wolf’s disappointment she took the baby with her. Next, one of the old gentlemen left. The two old ladies went together. Then another old gentleman disappeared. Meanwhile, one of the twins had fallen asleep on a chair and, to the wolf’s delight, its mother was the next to go into the surgery. She took the wakeful twin with her, but after a quick glance at the other, she left it sleeping.

  The wolf got up and went over to the table. He pretended to be studying the books and magazines that covered it, picking them up one after another and turning the pages. Then he tucked one under his front leg and, as if by mistake, crossed the room so that he was sitting on the chair next to the sleeping twin.

  The fat little boy who had been running round the room and falling over people’s feet now stopped in front of the wolf.

  “That’s not your chair!” he said.

  “It’s not yours either,” the wolf said.

  “You were sitting over there,” the fat l
ittle boy said, pointing.

  “Yes, and now I’m sitting here,” the wolf said.

  “Why?”

  “So that I can look after this baby who’s asleep,” the wolf said, seeing his chance.

  “You aren’t looking after it. Its mum told my mum to do that,” the little boy said.

  “We can both look after it,” the wolf said.

  “You don’t look like someone who looks after babies.”

  “Oh, but I am! I often look after babies. I’m very good at it. I look at them and wonder whether they’d be good to fry or . . . I mean, whether they’re going to be good or if they’re likely to cry. Things like that.”

  “I don’t believe . . .” the little boy had begun to say, when his mother called him. “Bill! Come over here! It’s our turn to go and see the doctor. Hurry, now, or we’ll miss our turn.”

  “Aha! My chance has come,” the wolf thought as he saw Bill and his mother leave the waiting room. He put out a paw towards the still sleeping twin, when its mother’s arm came between them.

  “It’s all right, I’m back. Thank you so much for looking after her. It’s difficult when you’ve got two at once, isn’t it?” the twins’ mother said, scooping up the spare twin, decanting it into a twin buggy which appeared from nowhere, and wheeling both babies briskly out of the waiting room.

  Ten minutes later, the doctor’s voice called, “Mr Wolfe?” and the wolf reluctantly followed the white-coated figure along a passage to the surgery.

  “Do sit down. New patient, I think. What seems to be the trouble?” the doctor asked, scribbling on a long white form in front of him.

  “Trouble?” the wolf asked.

  “WHAT DO YOU NOTICE WRONG?” the doctor said, very loudly and clearly.

  “I’m not deaf!” the wolf said indignantly.

  “I beg your pardon. I was asking you what seemed to be the trouble?” the doctor asked again.

  The wolf did not know what to answer. Could he explain to this sympathetic doctor that the trouble was that he wanted to catch Polly and eat her? Or might this be misunderstood? He said, doubtfully, “I have trouble with a girl. Quite a small one, but I can’t seem to catch her when I want to.”