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    Fire and Hemlock
    Fire and Hemlock
    Fire and Hemlock
    Ebook462 pages7 hours

    Fire and Hemlock

    By Diana Wynne Jones

    4/5

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    About this ebook

    A fantastic tale by the legendary Diana Wynne Jones—with an introduction by Garth Nix.

    Polly Whittacker has two sets of memories. In the first, things are boringly normal; in the second, her life is entangled with the mysterious, complicated cellist Thomas Lynn. One day, the second set of memories overpowers the first, and Polly knows something is very wrong. Someone has been trying to make her forget Tom - whose life, she realizes, is at supernatural risk. Fire and Hemlock is a fantasy filled with sorcery and intrigue, magic and mystery - and a most unusual and satisfying love story.

    Widely considered to be one of Diana Wynne Jones's best novels, the Firebird edition of Fire and Hemlock features an introduction by the acclaimed Garth Nix - and an essay about the writing of the book by Jones herself.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherPenguin Young Readers Group
    Release dateApr 12, 2012
    ISBN9781101566992
    Author

    Diana Wynne Jones

    In a career spanning four decades, award-winning author Diana Wynne Jones (1934–2011) wrote more than forty books of fantasy for young readers. Characterized by magic, multiple universes, witches and wizards—and a charismatic nine-lived enchanter—her books are filled with unlimited imagination, dazzling plots, and an effervescent sense of humor that earned her legendary status in the world of fantasy. Her books, published to international acclaim, have earned a wide array of honors, including two Boston Globe–Horn Book Award Honors and the British Fantasy Society’s Karl Edward Wagner Award for having made a significant impact on fantasy. Acclaimed director and animator Hayao Miyazaki adapted Howl’s Moving Castle into a major motion picture, which was nominated for an Academy Award.

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    Reviews for Fire and Hemlock

    4/5

    584 ratings32 reviews

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    • 4/5
      One of the most original stories I've ever read. It completely sucks you in. And is strangely hard to explain. A retelling of Tam Lin fairy tale.

      I think I could give it to precocious 8th graders and lovers of Graceling.
    • 4/5
      Before reading this book, read one of the ballads of Tam Lin. Or at least one of the prose versions of the story. Then read this - and do read it. It's very good.

      Diana Wynne Jones, like Neil Gaiman, writes beautiful stories. Charming, engaging, deep, complex stories which are also perfectly simple and elegant. This is no exception. Polly reminds me of myself at fourteen, and at nineteen; she also reminds me of Polly in The Magician's Nephew (by C S Lewis), and of fairy tale heroines who win the day by being kind and brave and simply good. The magic is so unremarkable that it almost doesn't seem like magic, until it does. Thomas Lynn is as ambiguously good and not-so-good, brave and cowardly, victim and protagonist as in the original stories of Tam Lin, and the villains are perfectly wicked vampirish fairies. Or perhaps just magical, wealthy, powerful and amoral people. Or maybe something else entirely.

      I read this in a day because I couldn't bring myself to stop reading once I started. Thoroughly enjoyed, would read again.
    • 4/5
      I still like this book a lot but reading it as an adult makes me want to give Tom a talking to about boundaries and appropriate interactions with minors.
    • 4/5
      Nineteen-year-old Polly suddenly realizes that she has two different sets of memories of the past nine years. One involves some very odd, even fantastic events she experienced in the presence of a man named Tom Lynn, who meant a great deal to her. The other is relentlessly mundane, and contains no trace of this person at all. And as she thinks back over the life she's forgotten, she eventually comes to realize why she's forgotten it, and to consider what she needs to do save poor Tom.

      It's really hard to say precisely how I feel about this book. The plot is intriguing, if a bit slow. But the subtle, complicated ways in which Jones weaves together the mundane day-to-day world and the world of faerie is really interesting, and rather thought-provoking. There is, for instance, probably a parallel to be drawn between the way young Polly gets half-understood glimpses of the supernatural around her and her child's-eye view of her parents' divorce, and I think there's some fascinating material to chew over there.

      On the other hand, man, did aspects of this story make me uncomfortable. The person who recommended it to me sort of warned me of this going in, saying that it contains "a romance between an adult and a child." And that's absolutely what it does contain; there's really just no other way of putting it. This isn't quite as horrifying as it might sound. There's not really anything terribly sexually inappropriate. But for much of the novel -- especially at the beginning, as Tom first strikes up Polly's friendship in a way that left me feeling like he was going to offer her candy in his van at any moment -- it did have me squirming more than a little. "Geez," I often found myself thinking, "I know this is an area where social mores have changed a little over the past decades" -- the book was published in 1985 -- "but how the hell can the author not be aware of just how creepily this is coming off?!" Aspects of the ending, however, had me reconsidering that, and thinking that perhaps not only did she entirely realize how disturbing it was, but that that was actually part of the point. And now I feel unsettled about it all in an entirely different way, maybe.

      Rating: It's really hard to know how to rate this one. I think I'm going to give it 4/5, but maybe with a rather large asterisk.
    • 4/5
      "Fire and Hemlock" was enitrly different from what I was expecting in so many different ways, and to my surprise I quite enjoyed it anyway. There was what seemed to be a clear age difference between the two main characters, though toward the end it was sort of explained away as how children view anyone a few years older than them--but it was never explicitly stated how big the age difference was. It's left me to needlessly obsess, since it wasn't that important to the story.

      I loved all the characters. They were all beautifully developed and felt utterly real. My biggest complaint is the ending. I didn't quite understand exactly what happened. It was a kind of magic that isn't the usual hocus-pocus, and I feel like it wasn't explained fully.

      Other than that, though, fantastic read. I devoured it in two sittings--two instead of one because at one point I was up until five AM and finally gave up for the night and had to go to bed. :)
    • 3/5
      Started out well, kept my interest all the way through, then lost me with the ending.
    • 3/5
      This is a complicated story, apparently based on Tam Lin and and Thomas the Rhymer myths. I found the sequence of events hard to follow and scenes in the final outcome still don't make sense (to me). DWJ has that type of writing that pushes you not to over-analyze. One LT reviewer expresses this exactly: "The plot is haunting, confusing, sometimes creepy, sometimes muddled and very twisty in that special DWJ way". However, I never really understood the story despite several readings
    • 3/5
      This book is interesting, but I have a feeling that with the slump overwhelming me when I finished, as if I had no clue how the story had ever come to this, then I need to re-read this. Maybe if I do that, then I will come to a better understanding.

      As such, I will not be leaving a review until I've come back to the book.
    • 3/5
      At the age of seven, Polly accidentally wanders into a funeral and meets Thomas Lynn, a professional cellist who become intertwined in her life and emotions, both as the father figure that Polly, the child of a broken home, needs - and later - it seems - as the recipient of a teenage crush.

      But, as a college student, Polly suddenly comes to the realization that she hasn't thought of Thomas in ages, although he was terribly important to her. And no one she talks to seems to remember him at all. Other things in her memory seem to be evidence of other discrepancies... is she going crazy? Or is something more sinister at work?

      Remembering, she uncovers a bizarre network of plots and influence that all seems to center on "That House" where she saw the funeral, and the wealthy and strange family that inhabits it.

      This is an ambitious and complicated book, and by far the darkest I've read by Jones, as she brings the Tam Lin legend into 1980's Britain. It's a YA book, but deals with difficult themes such as neglectful parents and relationships with both older men and pushy peers in a tasteful but emotionally unflinching way.
      Although it's written in a very subtle way (nothing at all obviously supernatural or occult happens for nearly half the book), it's a tense, compelling read - hard to put down.
      However, the end, where Polly finally uncovers the truth, and discovers what she must do, is very confusing - and, from reading other reviews, I'm not the only one to find it so.
      We are told that Polly has figured out her course of action from reading about Tam Lin and Thomas the Rhymer, but we aren't told exactly *what* she read, so her strange, logically-backward approach is rather mysterious. The reader just kinda has to say, "Okay, I guess that made sense for some reason.... not sure why!
    • 2/5
      I never bought into the setup: for one thing, I found the age difference distracting and kinda creepy. Jones had some nice touches of the sinister. Ironically, Jones (and others) apparently considered this book one of her best. Gave this book away, as at the time I could not stomach the thought of reading it again. Now that I've learned Jones was so proud of it, I'd almost like to read it again to figure out why. Almost.
    • 4/5
      It seemed so unlikely that I hadn't read this book, but I couldn't remember it, and reading it now it felt like the first time. There are lots of DWJ tropes, including the fact that it is the slightly problematic story of 'Man meets small child, man needs small child to save his life, man grooms small child to love him, small child grows up, loves him, saves him, and they sail off into the sunset as a couple'. There is more self awareness that this isn't necessarily very nice than in many books, but it still is what it is. But oh, I couldn't put it down, and stayed up far too late to finish it. The relationships between Polly and her parents are particularly finely drawn, with a light touch but heartbreakingly spot on.
    • 5/5
      I stayed up past midnight to finish this marvelous book, and am still pondering it days later. It is full of symbols from ballads and medieval tales like Tam Lin, and even The Odyssey. The plot is haunting, confusing, sometimes creepy, sometimes muddled and very twisty in that special DWJ way, with an opaque ending that makes you want to start the book over again to recognize all the clues that she sprinkles throughout. Her use of names is very important, as well as what it means to be a hero in every-day life, but the book is also a story about a young girl growing up and being in love (despite the age difference). Reading her essay “The Heroic Ideal: A Personal Odyssey” in her book Reflections on the Magic of Writing, helps me to better understand it. I loved the character of Granny, I loved the classical music references (the “quartet” in more ways than one), and I loved the painting references. The reader learns things while she reads, but DWJ isn’t obvious about it. Final advice: Everyone should read this book.
    • 4/5
      Finished this last night and my brain still aches! Even for a Diana Wynne Jones story this is incredibly convoluted, particularly the last section, and the ending still baffles me (I can see perfectly well what Polly and Tom end up doing, but am somewhat befuddled as to the whys). I did love all the talk about stories and the characters are extremely strong and vivid, even if some of the workings of the plot remain opaque. There are easier fantasy novels of Jones to start with, but this one will stay with me for a long while.
    • 5/5
      Rereading for the third (?) time.
    • 3/5
      I'm not a huge fan of Diana Wynne Jones, but I enjoyed this variation on the Tam Lin/ Thomas the Rhymer legends. Polly is the Janet character, and she's a pretty sympathetic lead. There's a lot of extraneous spookiness and several dangling strings left at the end. The minor nitpick that actually made me 7 kinds of crazy is the fact that the band The Doors is referred to as Doors throughout.
    • 2/5
      Muddy plot and muddled conception. Not up to Wynn's standard. Kind of creepy in conception of relationship between grown man and young girl: her grandmother and mother suspicious, but still naively trusting (nothing untoward happens, of course).
    • 4/5
      Loved it, although the romantic aspect squicked me slightly, because of the young age of the main protagonist, and I thought the denoument was a little too rushed.
    • 5/5
      'Fire and Hemlock' is a definite contender for my favourite book. It's certainly my favourite retelling of 'Tam Lin' although, on reflection, I can only think of two, and I've lost the other one. Apparently a lot of people find it hard to understand, and I can't see why: all the clues are right there, either in the narrative or in the chapter headings, and sometimes both. I especially love how DWJ never comes right out and tells us exactly who the villain of the piece actually is (if she is a villain; she is, after all, only being true to her nature), but reveals it in any number of other, subtle ways – particularly in her use of names. It's also one of the few teenage books I know that comes straight out and reminds us just how awful 15-year-old girls can be. I know I was, but even I didn't, like Polly's best friend, run away to Germany in pursuit of a middle-aged businessman. The one thing that might be considered slightly off about it is the disparity in age between the two main protagonists, but even that's accounted for in the narrative. Also, Polly's grandmother is simply magnificent and deserves her own book.
    • 4/5
      Retelling of Tam Lin, though I'm not familiar with the fairy tale. Polly realizes that she has two sets of memories from the previous decade. She must recall the hidden memories and discover which ones are real.

      Fire and Hemlock is darker and more complex than the other books I've read by DWJ. I enjoyed it - I could hardly put it down - but at the same time it was confusing and often I was unsure if what I was reading was the past or the present. I would recommend it if you like complex and twisting stories of this sort, but not if you're expecting another light fantasy tale.
    • 4/5
      I started Fire and Hemlock yesterday afternoon and stayed up until five this morning to finish it. I quite liked it, but looking back at the book the only things that I can think of to say are criticisms. Let me start with the things that made it a really good book, then, and then I'll move on to what bothered me about it.

      There's a certain way things work in Diana Wynne Jones books. There's the ordinary world, and then there's a magical world, and the two overlap in a more or less fuzzy way. The main thing that I enjoyed about this book was the fuzzy way the world overlapped. The storytelling was superb. The narrative vehicle of the forgotten memories was very well done, and added to the story immensely. And I just liked how ambiguous everything really was. You really did not know why these things were happening. By the end of the book, explanations were there if you really wanted to seek them out, but it remained fuzzy around the edges, too. To the extent that I sought out the explanations, they were very well executed, too- everything tied together with no loose strings, in a way that still didn't define the rules precisely - exactly my favorite kind of magic.

      The characters, also, were very well written. All of them, even the relatively minor players, were well-rounded and seemed like real people. And I also quite liked the story. It kept me reading until 5 am. The wonder and discovery of each new episode, combined with the continual attempt (along with the narrator) to piece together what was actually going on made it very engaging.

      So, what was wrong with it? Mostly the ending. Almost certainly it would have made more sense if I were more familiar with the legend/fairy tale it invokes, but even so, it felt like Jones ran out of ideas for how that confrontation would actually go down and instead just wrote a magical confrontation scene that could have been the conclusion of any of her books. It wasn't bad, per se, it just felt out of place, and the magic in it felt like it would have been more at home in the Crestomanci series than in this previously much more subtle creation. Which to my mind felt like a cop-out and didn't do justice to what had been up until then an excellent novel.

      The other thing that makes me squirm about the book is of course that you can't get around that it's a little… pedobear-y. They meet when she's ten, and the later explanation of "oh, he's not nearly as old as I thought he was" falls a little short, to my mind, particularly since he starts out as an absent-father-replacement figure. That's actually addressed within the story; the persistent concern with "strange men", and the cringe-inducing adolescent crush issues. And the out-of-time vibe of the whole thing makes it almost ok. Emphasis on the almost. I suspect that there's an allegorical, and much darker, way you could read the book, though.

      The book is quite good, though, for the most part. It's kept me thinking about it, and I think I'm off to read that fairy tale to see if it makes things add up more.
    • 3/5
      Summary: Polly has two sets of memories, one is normal: school, home, friends. The other, stranger memories begin nine years ago when she was ten and gate-crashed an odd funeral in the mansion near her grandmother's house. Polly's just beginning to recall the sometimes marvelous, sometimes frightening adventures she embarked on with Tom Lynn after that. Part adventure, part love story.

      Opinion: The story is gripping: keeps you wondering—what’s going to happen next? The biggest problem is the occasional lack of description on what is going on. The author switches moods or resolves problems w/o explaining why. The ending of the book is particularly confusing. Also, it takes a while to warm to the fact that Polly is falling in love with such an older man. I would have given 4 stars, but for the confusing ending.

      Objectionable material: Occasional language. Tom Lynne is divorced (but his ex-wife turns out to be a sorceress who has him under a curse; she is also married to another).
    • 2/5
      This is the only book by Diana Wynne Jones that I've read that I didn't like.

      I was rather creeped out by Thomas and Polly's friendship, especially as this book has a sort of realist feel to it and I know that in the real world an adult man being that friendly with a little girl would not be normal. Not that I think Thomas meant anything sinister by it, but it set off my squick radar. That might just be my personal sensibilities, though, so on to the rest of the book:

      At times, the story was interesting, but at other times it was just plain confusing - in fact, I'd still be hard pressed to tell you what actually happened at the end, because I read it a good three times and still don't get it. I vividly remember realizing that I'd just read ten pages and had absolutely no idea what had just gone on. I think it was meant to be a very dramatic, climactic confrontation, but instead of being on the edge of my seat I was just confused. I've got no issue with complicated narratives or things where all the information isn't laid out with perfect neatness, but here I just don't feel like I got enough information to understand it sufficiently.
    • 4/5
      Polly Whittaker is getting ready to go back to college when something triggers a memory she didn’t realize she had. This starts her on a search to discover what had happened to her in the past that she no longer remembers.

      Diana Wynne Jones has crafted an exciting and mysterious fantasy novel using the legends of Tam Lin and Thomas the Rhymer as the basis of her story. Polly discovers her past has many layers and a best friend that she doesn’t remember. The riddle of the past must be solved before she can go onto the future. Although this is a YA book, readers of any age who love of good fantasy tales will enjoy this book. 3 ½ stars
    • 5/5
      Polly has been looking at the picture above her bed. With its dark figures, smoky flames and sense of foreboding, it has always fascinated her. And its name, 'Fire and Hemlock' that seems to link to a story in the book she is holding.

      But why is the story not there? As she searches her memory for the answer, other things suddenly pop out at her, events that don't fit with what she remembers, with the path her life has seemed to travel.

      And then, the memories begin to fall into place. Thomas Lynn, her best friend that has been erased from her mind; the adventures they went on that seemed to always be coming true; that house. The house where it started with a funeral.

      This was a spine tingling, dark and mysterious fantasy that has truly shown this writer at the top of her game. With multi-layered characters, events that don't quite make sense, and the Leroys that keep coming back, I couldn't help but read this into the early hours of the morning.

      Every part of the plot is stunningly constructed, with Polly's various sections of her life all vividly real, and as they are revealed, you cannot help being drawn in. This held the kind of darkness that many fantasy writers can only dream of. That doesn't need to involve graphic violence or gratuitous death, but that sucks you in and leaves you holding your breath as the characters become more and more tangled in the vast web.

      I started this at 8.30pm, and finished at 4am. Surely there can be no better recommendation than the inability to put a book down to sleep.

      A spine chilling fantasy with twists and turns that suck you in
    • 4/5
      I had to buy this because I lost my original copy. One of my favourite books as a teen was Pamela Dean's Tam Lin, so this story always suffered by comparison. But it is still a wonderfully crafted tale of growing up, of memory, and the ways reality can be shaped.
      I'd give this to fans of magical realism/urban fantasy.
    • 5/5
      From the cover, the title and what I have read of other Diana Wynne Jones novels, I expected a blantantly magical world - different, confusing and not my own. What I found was reality, and somehow I have to say that's the book's greatest strength.

      To quote Amazon: A photograph called "Fire and Hemlock" that has been on the wall since her childhood. A story in a book of supernatural stories - had Polly read it before under a different title? Polly, packing to return to college, is distracted by picture and story, clues from the past stirring memories. But why should she suddenly have memories that do not seem to correspond to the facts?
      Polly's 'flash-back' memories start at age 10, when she accidentally crashes a funeral and meets cellist Thomas Lynn. Together they make up stories in which they are heroes, Tan Coul and his assistant Hero. However, their stories have a strange way of coming true, and Tom's ex-wife and her family appear to have sinister designs on Tom - and Polly, when she refuses to give Tom's friendship up.

      Set in England during the 80s, the story follows Polly's relationship with Tom Lynn (through letters, books and occasional meetings), her struggles with her divorced and negligent parents and the usual complications of adolescence, inter-weaving them with the ballads of Tam Lin and Thomas the Rhymer.
      The story is very real - Polly's family issues painfully so, and are countered by the story's vitality, warmth and wonderful characters (Polly's parents and the bad guys excluded, obviously). One of the wonderful aspect of Mr Lynn's relationship with Polly as a child is the way takes her seriously and is honest with her creative endevours. (I also love the way he sends her books.) The reflections and insights into the pains of growing up are honest and acute, and Polly's strength in surviving them admirable.

      Fire and Hemlock is captivating and wonderful, vividly described and told in four parts and a coda - with each part cleverly given a music speed (allegro vivace, andante cantabile, allegro con fuoco, presto molto agitato and scherzando). Like an onion (or is it an ogre?) it has many layers. One of its strengths is that for the most part, things aren't explained - the fantasy element is also a mystery one, and in consequence of being vague, is sinister and intriguing. It's not blatantly a romantic story, either - for the most part, things are subtle and refreshingly so.

      But, the subtly does cause difficulties with the ending. There is no tidy, clear explanation of what happens, and instead of the reality with hints of fantasy that is most of the book, this is fantasy (with hints of reality). The ending is rushed, vague, and disconcerting - it requires a few readings to get it all straight, along with a lot of guesswork and reading between the lines. Polly rushes in, instinctively knowing rules which are not explained and combined with a few twists and the parallels (or parallels twisted) with the ballads and Faerie Queen, confusion puts it mildly.
      However, the ultimate conclusion is necessarily subtle, as it involves a paradox and finding a loophole - and would be counteracted by being more explicit. The story would also lose something by being spelt-out - working things out for yourself is part of the appeal, as is the cryptic manner they are presented in. There is also a reason why Polly knows, mentioned much, much earlier.
      Luckily I knew a (very) little bit about Tam Lin, and between that and the quotes preceeding each chapter, had enough of an idea. I suspect knowing more would help.

      Which is the long way of saying this mixture of reality and fantasy is wonderful and brilliant, and highly recommended.
    • 2/5
      I love the atmosphere in this title--my favorite of Jones in many ways--but the rather lame ending ruins it. Not enough to remove it from my collection though!
    • 5/5
      Thie multilayered work has many rewards for the thoughtful reader, especially on re-reading. It touches on folklore, the English class system, memory, family.
    • 5/5
      This is one of my all-time favourite books - I first read it when I was about 14 and was obsessed about mythology and magic, and have since re-read it countless times and discovered something new every time. It also struck a chord being the child of divorced parents, and DWJ handles the subject-matter sensitively, but without being obtuse about the loneliness of Polly's childhood.
    • 1/5
      Seriously, this was the worst book I've ever read. It was very uninteresting to me.

    Book preview

    Fire and Hemlock - Diana Wynne Jones

    PART ONE

    NEW HERO

    allegro vivace

    1

    A dead sleep came over me

    And from my horse I fell

    TAM LIN

    Polly sighed and laid her book face down on her bed. She rather thought she had read it after all, some time ago. Before she swung her feet across to get on with her packing, she looked up at the picture above the bed. She sighed again. There had been a time, some years back, when she had gazed at that picture and thought it marvellous. Dark figures had seemed to materialise out of its dark centre—strong, running dark figures—always at least four of them, racing to beat out the flames in the foreground. There had been times when you could see the figures quite clearly. Other times, they had been shrouded in the rising smoke. There had even been a horse in it sometimes. Not now.

    Here, now, she could see it was simply a large colour photograph, three feet by two feet, taken at dusk, of some hay bales burning in a field. The fire must have been spreading, since there was smoke in the air, and more smoke enveloping the high hemlock plant in the front, but there were no people in it. The shapes she used to take for people were only too clearly dark clumps of the dark hedge behind the blaze. The only person in that field must have been the photographer. Polly had to admit that he had been both clever and lucky. It was a haunting picture. It was called Fire and Hemlock. She sighed again as she swung her feet to the floor. The penalty of being grown up was that you saw things like this photograph as they really were. And Granny would be in any minute to point out that Mr. Perks and Fiona were not going to wait while she did her packing tomorrow morning—and Granny would have things to say about feet on the bedspread. Polly just wished she felt happier at the thought of another year of college.

    Her hand knocked the book. Polly did not get up after all. And books put down on their faces, spoiling them, Granny would say. It’s only a paperback, Granny. It was called Times out of Mind, editor L. Perry, and it was a collection of supernatural stories. Polly had been attracted to it a couple of years back, largely because the picture on the cover was not unlike the Fire and Hemlock photograph—dusky smoke, with a dark blue umbrella-like plant against the smoke. And, now Polly remembered, she had read the stories through then, and none of them were much good. Yet—here was an odd thing. She could have sworn the book had been called something different when she first bought it. And, surely, hadn’t one of the stories actually been called Fire and Hemlock too?

    Polly picked the book up, with her finger in it to keep the place in the story she was reading. Two-timer it was called, and it was about someone who went back in time to his own childhood and changed things, so that his life ran differently the second time. She remembered the ending now. The man finished by having two sets of memories, and the story wasn’t worked out at all well. Polly did not worry when she lost her place in it as she leafed through looking for the one she thought had been called Fire and Hemlock. Odd. It wasn’t there. Had she dreamed it, then? She did often dream the most likely seeming things. Odder still. Half the stories she thought she remembered reading in this book were not there—and yet she did, very clearly, remember reading all the stories which seemed to be in the book now. For a moment she almost felt like the man in Two-timer with his double set of memories. What a madly detailed dream she must have had. Polly found her place in the story again, largely because the pages were spread apart there, and stopped in the act of putting the book face down on her rumpled bedspread.

    Was it Granny who minded you putting books down like this? Granny didn’t read much anyway.

    And why should I feel so worried about it? Polly asked aloud. And where’s my other photo—the one I stole?

    A frantic sense of loss came upon her, so strong that for a moment she could have cried. Why should she suddenly have memories that did not seem to correspond with the facts?

    "Suppose they were once facts, Polly said to herself, with her hand still resting on the book. Ever since she was a small girl, she had liked supposing things. And the habit died hard, even at the age of nineteen. Suppose, she said, I really am like the man in the story, and something happened to change my past."

    It was intended simply as a soothing daydream, to bury the strange, pointless worry that seemed to be growing in her. But suddenly, out of it leaped a white flash of conviction. It was just like the way those four—or more—figures used to leap into being behind the fire in that photograph. Polly glanced up at it, almost expecting to see them again. There were only men-shaped clumps of hedge. The flash of conviction had gone too. But it left Polly with a dreary, nagging suspicion in its place: that something had been different in the past, and if it had, it was because of something dreadful she had done herself.

    But there seemed no way to discover what was different. Polly’s past seemed a smooth string of normal, half-forgotten things: school and home, happiness and miseries, fun and friends, and, for some reason, a memory of eating toasted buns for tea, dripping butter. Apart from this odd memory about the book, there seemed no foothold for anything unusual.

    If nothing happened, then there’s nothing to remember, she told herself, trying to sound philosophical. Of course there’s nowhere to start.

    For some reason, that appalled her. She crouched, with her hand growing damp on the book, forgetting her grimy shoes tangling in the bedspread and the suitcases open on the floor, staring into her appallingly normal memories: a Cotswold town, London, a shopping precinct somewhere, a horse— "That’s absurd. I don’t know any horses! she said. It’s no good. I’ll have to go back to the time before it all started, or didn’t start, and get in from that end." That was when she was how old? Ten? What was she doing then? What friends had she?

    Friends. That did it. From nine years ago came swimming the shape of Polly’s once-dear friend Nina. Fat, silly Nina. Granny used to call Nina a ripe banana. And Polly was so attached to Nina that Granny had agreed to have Nina along with Polly, that first time Polly came to stay with Granny. That would be back around the time there was first a question of divorce between Polly’s parents. Back too to when Polly’s favourite reading was a fat book called Heroes that had once been Granny’s.

    At that, Polly raised her head. The funeral! she said.

    2

    O I forbid you, maidens all,

    That wear gold in your hair,

    To come or go by Carterhaugh

    For young Tam Lin is there.

    TAM LIN

    In those days people who did not know Polly might have thought she chose Nina as a friend to set herself off by comparison. Nina was a big, fat girl with short, frizzy hair, glasses, and a loud giggle. Polly, on the other hand, was an extremely pretty little girl, and probably the prettiest thing about her was her mass of long, fine, fair hair. In fact, Polly admired and envied Nina desperately, both Nina’s looks and her bold, madcap disposition. Polly, at that time, was trying to eat a packet of biscuits every day in order to get fat like Nina. And she spent diligent hours squashing and pressing at her eyes in hopes either of making herself need glasses too, or at least of giving her eyes the fat, pink, staring look that Nina’s had when Nina took off her glasses. She cried when Mum refused to cut her hair short like Nina’s. She hated her hair. The first morning they were at Granny’s, she took pleasure in forgetting to brush it.

    It was not hard to forget. Polly and Nina had been awake half the night in Granny’s spare room, talking and laughing. They were wildly excited. And it was such a relief to Polly to be away from the whispered quarrelling at home, and the hard, false silences whenever Mum and Dad noticed Polly was near. They did not seem to realise that Polly knew a quarrel when she heard one, just like anyone does. Granny was a relief because she was calm. Nina’s wild, silly jokes were even more of a relief, even if Polly was hardly awake the next morning. The whole first day at Granny’s was like a dream to Polly.

    It was a windy day in autumn. In Granny’s garden the leaves whirled down. Nina and Polly raced about, catching them. Every leaf you caught, Nina shrieked, meant one happy day. Polly only caught seven. Nina caught thirty-five.

    Well, it’s a whole week. Count your blessings, Granny said to Polly in her dry way when they came panting in to show her, and she gave them milk and biscuits. Granny always made Polly think of biscuits. She had a dry, shortbread sort of way to her, with a hidden taste that came out afterwards. Her kitchen had a biscuit smell to it, a nutty, buttery smell like no other kitchen.

    While Polly was sniffing the smell, Nina remembered that today was Hallowe’en. She decided that she and Polly must both dress up as High Priestesses, and she clamoured for long black robes.

    Never a dull moment with our Nina, Granny remarked, and she went away to see what she could find. She came back with two old black dresses and some dark curtains. In an amused, uncommitted way, she helped them both dress up. Then she turned them firmly out of doors. Go and make an exhibit of yourselves round the neighbourhood, she said. They need a bit of stirring up here.

    Nina and Polly paraded up and down the road for a while. Nina looked for all the world like a large, fat nun, and the dress held her knees together. Polly’s dress, apart from being long, was quite a good fit. The neighbourhood did not seem to notice them. The houses—except for a few small ones like Granny’s—were large and set back from the road, hidden by the trees that grew down both sides, and not a soul came to see the two High Priestesses, even though Nina laughed and shrieked and exclaimed every time her headdress flapped. They paraded right up to the big house across the end of the road and looked through the bars of its gate. It was called Hunsdon House—the name was cut into the stone of both gateposts. Inside, they saw a length of gravel drive, much strewn with dead leaves, and, coming slowly crunching along it towards them, a shiny black motor-hearse with flowers piled on top.

    At the sight Nina shrieked and ran away down the road, trailing her headdress. Hold your collar! Hold your collar till you see a four-legged animal!

    They ran into Granny’s garden where, luckily, Granny’s black-and-white cat, Mintchoc, was sitting on the wall. So that was all right. They could use both hands again. Now what shall we do? demanded Nina.

    Polly was still laughing at Nina. I don’t know, she said.

    "Think of something. What do High Priestesses do?" said Nina.

    No idea, said Polly.

    Yes you have, said Nina. Think—or I shan’t play with you any more!

    Nina was always making that threat. It never failed with Polly. Oh—er—they walk in procession and make human sacrifices, Polly said.

    Nina shrieked with gleeful laughter. We did! We have! Our corpse was in the hearse! Then what happens?

    Um, said Polly. We have to wait for the gods to answer our sacrifice. And—I know—while we wait, the police come after us for murder.

    Nina liked that. She ran flapping and squawking into Granny’s back garden, crying out that the police were after her. When Polly caught up with her, she was trying to climb the wall into the next garden. What are you doing? Polly said, hardly able to speak for laughing.

    Escaping from the police, of course! said Nina. With a great deal of silly giggling, she managed to scramble to the top of the wall, where her black robe split with a sound like a gunshot. Oh! she cried. They got me! Whereupon she swung her legs over the wall and vanished in a crash of rotting wood. Come on! said her voice from behind the wall. I won’t be your friend if you stay there.

    As usual, the threat was enough for Polly. It was not really that she was afraid Nina would stop being her friend—though she was, a little. It was more that Polly could not seem to break out of her prim, timid self in those days, and be properly adventurous, without Nina’s threats to galvanise her. So now she boldly swung herself up the wall and was quite grateful to Nina when she landed in the middle of somebody’s woodshed on the other side.

    After that, the morning became more like a dream than ever—a very silly dream too. Nina and Polly scrambled through garden after garden. Some were neat and open, and they sprinted through those, and some were overgrown, with hiding-places where they could lurk. One garden was full of washing, and they had to crouch behind flapping sheets while somebody took down a row of pants. They were on the edge of giggles the whole time, terrified that someone would catch them and yet, in a dreamlike way, almost sure they were safe. Both of them lost their curtain headdresses in different gardens, but they went on, quite unable to stop or go back, neither of them quite knowing why. Nina invented a reason in about the tenth garden. She said they were coming to a road, because she could hear cars. So they went more madly than ever, across a row of rotting shed roofs that creaked and splintered under them, and jumped down from the wall into what seemed to be a wood. Nina ran towards the open, laughing with relief, and Polly lost her for a few seconds.

    When Polly came out into the open, it was not a road after all. It was gravel at the side of a house. There was a door open in the house, and through it Polly caught a glimpse of Nina walking up a polished passage, actually inside the house.

    The cheek Nina has! she said to herself. For a moment she almost did not dare follow Nina. But the dreamlike feeling was still on her. She thought of the threats Nina would make if she stayed hiding in the wood, and she sprinted on her toes across the space in a scatter of gravel and went into the house too, into a strong smell of polish and scent. Cautiously, she tiptoed up the passage.

    Here it was completely like a dream. The passage led into a grand hall with a white-painted staircase wrapped round the outside of it in joints, each joint a balcony, and huge, painted china vases standing around, every one big enough to contain one of Ali Baba’s forty thieves. A man met her here. As people do in dreams, he seemed to be expecting Polly. He was obviously a servitor, for he was wearing evening dress and carrying a tray with glasses on it. Polly made a little movement to run away as he came up to her, but all he said was, Orangeade, miss? I fancy you’re a bit young yet for sherry. And he held the tray out.

    It made Polly feel like a queen. She put out a somewhat grubby hand and took a glass of orangeade. There was ice in it and a slice of real orange. Thank you, she said in a stately, queenlike way.

    Turn left through that door, miss, the servitor said.

    Polly did as he said. She had a feeling she was supposed to. True, underneath she had a faint feeling that this couldn’t be quite right, but there did not seem to be anything she could do about it. Holding the clinking glass against her chest, Polly walked like a queen in her black dress into a big, carpeted room. It was dingy in the gusty light of the autumn day, and full of comfortable armchairs lined up in not very regular rows. A number of people were standing about holding wineglasses and talking in murmurs. They were all in dark clothes and looked very respectable, and every one of them was grown up. None of them paid any attention to Polly at all.

    Nina was not there. Polly had not really expected her to be. It was clear Nina had vanished the way people do in dreams. She saw the woman she had mistaken for Nina—it was the split skirt and the black dress which had caused the mistake—standing outlined against the dim green garden beyond the windows, talking to a high-shouldered man with glasses. Everything was very hushed and elderly. And I shan’t look on it very kindly if you do, Polly heard the woman say to the man. It was a polite murmur, but it sounded like one of Nina’s threats, only a good deal less friendly.

    More people came in behind Polly. She moved over out of their way and sat on one of the back row of chairs, which were hard and upright, still carefully holding her orangeade. She sat and watched the room fill with murmuring, dreamlike people in dark clothes. There was one other child now. He was in a grey suit and looked as respectable as the rest, and he was rather old too—at least fourteen, Polly thought. He did not notice Polly. Nobody did, except the man with glasses. Polly could see the glasses flashing at her uncertainly as the lady talked to him.

    Then a new stage seemed to start. A busy, important man swept through the room and sat down in a chair facing all the others. All the rest sat down too, in a quiet, quick way, turning their heads to make sure there was a chair there before they sat. The room was all rustling while they arranged themselves, and one set of quick footsteps as the high-shouldered man walked about looking for a place. Everyone looked at him crossly. He hunched a bit—you do, Polly thought, when everyone stares—and finally sat down near the door, a few seats along from Polly.

    The important man flipped a large paper open with a rattle. A document, Polly thought. Now, ladies and gentlemen, if I have your attention, I shall read the Will.

    Oh dear, Polly thought. The dream feeling went away at once, and the ice in her drink rattled as she realised where she was and what she had done. This was Hunsdon House, where she and Nina had seen the hearse. Someone had died here and she had gatecrashed the funeral. And because she was dressed up in a black dress, no one had realised that she should not be here. She wondered what they would do to her when they did. Meanwhile she sat, trying not to shake the ice in her glass, listening to the lawyer’s voice reading out what she was sure were all sorts of private bequests—from the Last Will and Testament of Mrs. Mabel Tatiana Leroy Perry, being of a sound mind et cetera—which Polly was sure she should not be hearing at all.

    As the lawyer’s voice droned on, Polly became more and more certain she was listening to private things. She could feel the way each item made sort of waves among the silent listeners, waves of annoyance, anger and deep disgust, and one or two spurts of quite savage joy. The disgust seemed to be because so many things went to my daughter Mrs. Eudora Mabel Lorelei Perry Lynn. Even when things went to other people, such as my cousin Morton Perry Leroy or my niece Mrs. Silvia Nuala Leroy Perry, the Will seemed to change its mind every so often and give them to Mrs. Perry Lynn instead. The joy was on the rare occasions when someone different, like Robert Goodman Leroy Perry or Sebastian Ralph Perry Leroy, actually got something.

    Polly began to wonder if it might even be against the law for her to be listening to these things. She tried not to listen—and this was not difficult, because most of it was very boring—but she became steadily more unhappy.

    She wished she dared creep away. She was quite near the door. It would have been easy if only that man hadn’t chosen to sit down just beyond her, right beside the door. She looked to see if she still might slip out, and looked at the same moment as the man looked at her, evidently wondering about her. Polly hastily turned her head to the front again and pretended to listen to the Will, but she could feel him still looking. The ice in her drink melted. The Will went on to an intensely boring bit about a Trust shall be set up. Beside the door, the man stood up. Polly’s head turned, without her meaning it to, as if it were on strings, and he was still looking at her, right at her. The eyes behind the glasses met hers and sort of dragged, and he nodded his head away sideways towards the door. Come on out of that, said the look. Please, it added, with a sort of polite, questioning stillness.

    It was a fair cop. Polly nodded too. Carefully she put the melted orange drink down on the chair beside hers and slid to the floor. He was now holding out his hand to take hers and make sure she didn’t get away. Feeling fated, Polly put her hand into his. It was a big hand, a huge one, and folded hers quite out of sight under its row of long fingers. It pulled, and they both went softly out of the door into the hall with the jointed staircase.

    Didn’t you want your drink? the man asked as the lawyer’s voice faded to a rise and fall in the distance.

    Polly shook her head. Her voice seemed to have gone away. There was an archway opening off the hall. In the room through the archway she could see the servitor setting wineglasses out on a big, polished dinner table. Polly wanted to shout to him to come and explain that he had let her into the funeral, but she could not utter a sound. The big hand holding hers was pulling her along, into the passage she had come in by. Polly, as she went with it, cast her eyes round the hall for a last look at its grandeurs. Wistfully she thought of herself jumping into one of the Ali Baba vases and staying there hidden until everyone had gone away. But as she thought it, she was already in the side passage with the door standing open on the gusty trees at the end of it. The lawyer’s voice was out of hearing now.

    Will you be warm enough outside in that dress? the man holding her hand asked politely.

    His politeness seemed to deserve an answer. Polly’s voice came back. Yes thank you, she replied sadly. I’ve got my real clothes on underneath.

    Very wise, said the man. Then we can go into the garden. They stepped out of the door, where the wind wrapped Polly’s black dress round her legs and flapped her hair sideways. It could not do much with the man’s hair, which was smoothed across his head in an elderly style, so it stood it up in colourless hanks and rattled the jacket of his dark suit. He shivered. Polly hoped he would send her off and go straight indoors again. But he obviously meant to see her properly off the premises. He turned to the right with her. The wind hurled itself at their faces. This is better, said the man. I wish I could have thought of a way to get that poor boy Seb out of it too. I could see he was as bored as you were. But he didn’t have the sense to sit near the door.

    Polly turned and looked up at him in astonishment. He smiled down at her. Polly gave him a hasty smile in return, hoping he would think she was shy, and turned her face back to the wind to think about this. So the man thought she really was part of the funeral. He was just meaning to be kind. "It was boring, wasn’t it?" she said.

    Terribly, he said, and let go of her hand.

    Polly ought to have run off then. And she would have, she thought, remembering it all nine years later, if she had simply thought he was just being kind. But the way he spoke told her that he had found the funeral far more utterly boring than she had. She remembered the way the lady she had mistaken for Nina had spoken to him, and the way the other guests had looked at him while he was walking about looking for a seat. She realised he had sat down on purpose near the door, and she knew—perhaps without quite understanding it—that if she ran away, it would mean he had to go back into the funeral again. She was his excuse for coming out of it.

    So she stayed. She had to lean on the wind to keep beside him while they walked under some ragged, nearly finished roses and the wind blew white petals across them.

    What’s your name? he asked.

    Polly.

    Polly what?

    Polly Whittacker, she said without thinking. Then of course she realised that the right name for the funeral should have been Leroy or Perry, or Perry Leroy, or Leroy Perry, like the people who got the bequests in the Will, and had to cover it up. I’m only adopted, you know. I come from the other branch of the family really.

    I thought you might, he said, with that hair of yours.

    And what part of the family are you? Polly said, quickly and artificially, to distract him from asking more. She took a piece of her blowing hair and bit it anxiously.

    Oh, no part really, he said, ducking his head under a clawing rose. The dead lady is the mother of my ex-wife, so I felt I ought to come. But I’m the odd man out, here. Polly relaxed. He was distracted. He said, My name’s Thomas Lynn.

    Both parts surname? Polly asked doubtfully. Everyone’s so double-barrelled in there.

    That made him give a little crow of laughter, which he swallowed hastily down, as if he were ashamed of laughing at a funeral. No, no. Just the second part.

    Mr. Lynn, then, said Polly. She let her hair blow round her face as they walked down some sunken steps, and studied him. Long hair had its uses. He was tall and thin and walked in a way that stooped his round, colourless head between his shoulders, making his head look smaller than it really was—though some of that could have been distance: he was so tall that his head was a long way off from Polly. Like a very tall tortoise, Polly thought. The glasses added to the tortoise look. It was an amiable, vague face they sat on. Polly decided Mr. Lynn was nice.

    Mr. Lynn, she asked, what do you like doing most?

    The tortoise head swung towards her in surprise. "I was just going to ask you that!"

    Snap! said Polly, and laughed up at him. She knew, of course, by this time, that she was starting to flirt with Mr. Lynn. Mum would have given Polly one of her long, heavy stares if she had been there. But, as Polly told herself, she did have to distract Mr. Lynn from thinking too deeply about her connection with the funeral, and she did think Mr. Lynn was nice anyway. Polly never flirted with anyone unless she liked them. So, as they edged their way between two vast grey hedges of uncut lavender, she said, What I like best—apart from running and shouting and jokes and fighting—is being things.

    Being things? Mr. Lynn asked. Like what? He sounded wistful and mystified.

    Making things like heroes up with other people, then being them, Polly explained. The tortoise head turned to her politely. She could tell he did not understand. It was on the tip of her tongue to show him what she meant by telling him how she had arrived at the funeral by being a High Priestess with the police after her. But she dared not say that. I’ll show you, she said instead. Pretend you’re not really you at all. In real life you’re really something quite different.

    What am I? Mr. Lynn said obligingly.

    It would have been better if he had been like Nina and said he would not be friends unless she told him. Without any prodding, Polly’s invention went dead on her. She could only think of the most ordinary things.

    You keep an ironmonger’s shop, she said rather desperately, To make this seem better, she added, "A very good ironmonger’s shop in a very nice town. And your name is really Thomas Piper. That’s because of your name—Tom, Tom, the piper’s son—you know."

    Mr. Lynn smiled. Oddly enough, my father used to play the flute professionally. Yes. I sell nails and dustbins and hearth-brushes. What else?

    Hot-water bottles and spades and buckets, said Polly. Every morning you go out and hang them round your door, and stack wheelbarrows and watering cans on the pavement.

    Where passers-by can bark their shins on them. I see, said Mr. Lynn. And what else? Am I happy in my work?

    Not quite happy, Polly said. He was playing up so well that her imagination began to work properly. Down between the lavender bushes, the wind was cut off and she felt much calmer. "You’re a bit bored, but that doesn’t matter, because keeping the shop is only what everyone thinks you do. Really you’re secretly a hero, a very strong one who’s immortal—"

    Immortal? Mr. Lynn said, startled.

    Well nearly, said Polly. You’d live for hundreds of years if someone doesn’t kill you in one of your battles. Your name is really—um—Tan Coul and I’m your assistant.

    Are you my assistant in the shop as well, or just when I’m being a hero? asked Mr. Lynn.

    No, I’m me, said Polly. I’m a learner hero. I come with you whenever you go out on a job.

    Then you’ll have to live within call, Mr. Lynn pointed out. Where is this shop of mine? Here in Middleton? It had better be, so that I can pick you up easily when a job comes up.

    No, it’s in Stow-on-the-Water, Polly said decidedly. Pretending was like that. Things seemed to make themselves up, once you got going.

    That’s awkward, Mr. Lynn said.

    It is, isn’t it? Polly agreed. If you like, I’ll come and work in your shop and pretend to be your real-life assistant too. Say when I found out where you lived, I journeyed miles from Middleton to be near you.

    Better, said Mr. Lynn. You also pretended to be older than you are, in order not to be sent to school. But that sort of thing can easily be done by the right kind of trainee-hero, I’m sure. What’s your name when we’re out on a job?

    Hero, said Polly. "It is a real name, she protested, as the tortoise head swung down to look at her. It’s a lady in my book that I read every night. Someone swam the sea all the time to visit her."

    I know, said Mr. Lynn. "I was just surprised that you did."

    And it’s a sort of joke, Polly explained. I know a lot about heroes, because of my book.

    I see you do, said Mr. Lynn, smiling rather. But there are still a lot of things we need to settle. For instance—

    As he spoke, they pushed out from between the grey hedges into a small lawn with an empty sunken pool in it. A brown bird flew away, low across the grass as they came, making a set of sharp, shrieking cries. The wind gusted over, rolling the dry leaves in the concrete bottom of the pool, and a ray of sun followed the wind, travelling swiftly over the lawn.

    For instance, said Mr. Lynn, and stopped.

    The sun reached the dry pool. For just a flickering part of a second, some trick of light filled the pool deep with transparent water. The sun made bright, curved wrinkles on the bottom, and the leaves, Polly could have sworn, instead of rolling on the bottom were, just for an instant, floating, green and growing. Then the sunbeam travelled on, and there was just a dry oblong of concrete again. Mr. Lynn saw it too. Polly could tell from the way he stopped talking.

    Heroes do see things like that, she said, in case he was alarmed.

    I suppose they do, he agreed thoughtfully. True. They must, since we both are. But, tell me, what happens when the call comes to do a job? I’m in the shop, selling nails. We each snatch up a saw—or I suppose an axe would be better—and we rush out. Where do we go? What do we do?

    They walked past the pool while Polly considered. We go to kill giants and dragons and things, she said.

    Where? Up the road in the supermarket? Mr. Lynn asked.

    Polly could tell he thought poorly of her answer. Yes, if you like, if you’re so clever! she snapped at him, just as if he were Nina. "I know we’re that kind of heroes—I know we’re not the kind that conquers mad scientists—but I don’t know it all. You do some of it, if you know so much! You were just pretending not to know about being things—weren’t you?"

    Not altogether, Mr. Lynn said, politely holding a wet lump of evergreen bush aside for Polly. "It’s years since I did any. Beside you, I’m the learner. I’d really much prefer to be a trainee-hero too. Couldn’t I be? You could happen to be there when I kill my first giant—and perhaps it could be thanks to you that I didn’t get squashed flat by him."

    If you like, Polly agreed graciously. He was so humble that she felt quite mean to have snapped.

    Thank you, he said, just as if she had granted a real favour. That brings me to another question. Do I know about my secret life as a hero while I’m being an ironmonger? Or not?

    You didn’t at first, Polly said, thinking it out. You were awfully surprised and thought you were having visions or something. But you got used to it quite quickly.

    Though at first I blundered about, utterly bewildered, Mr. Lynn agreed. We both had to learn as we went on. Yes, that’s how it must have been. Now, what about my life selling hardware in Stow-on-the-Water? Do I live alone?

    No, I live there too, when I get there, said Polly. But of course there’s your wife, Edna—

    No there isn’t, Mr. Lynn said. He said it quietly and calmly, as if someone had asked him if there was any butter and he had opened the fridge and found none. But Polly could tell he meant it absolutely.

    "Well—there has to be, she argued. There’s someone—I know her name’s Edna—who bosses you round, and makes your life a misery, and thinks you’re stupid, and doesn’t allow you enough money, and makes you do all the work—"

    My landlady, said Mr. Lynn.

    No, said Polly.

    Sister, then, said Mr. Lynn. How about a sister?

    I don’t know about sisters! Polly protested.

    They wandered round the overgrown garden, arguing about it. In the end, Polly found she had to give way about Edna and make her a sister after all. Mr. Lynn was just quietly adamant over it, and he would not budge. He gave in to Polly on most other things, but not on that.

    Must I kill dragons? he said, rather pleadingly, as they came up to the house from the back somewhere.

    Yes, said Polly.

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