Fire and Hemlock. Diana Wynne Jones

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      In those days Polly never quite believed that a letter you put in a pillar box really got where you meant it to go. She was astonished to get a reply to her letter a week later. She had almost forgotten Mr Lynn by then, because she was so worried about Dad. Dad had been away so long that Polly knew he was not on a course. She thought he might be dead, and that somehow Mum had forgotten to tell her. The reason she thought this was that Ivy’s mood seemed to be over and she was behaving the way she always did, but Polly could tell it was a disguise to cover the mood still going on underneath. Polly dared not ask her about Dad in case he really was dead. She almost dared not ask Ivy anything for fear of being told about Dad. But she had to ask about Mr Lynn’s letter. Mr Lynn had scrawled it in big, crooked handwriting, and Polly could not read a word.

      Ivy read the letter, frowning. “What’s this? Asking you to drop in and have tea with him when you happen to be in London next. How old does he think you are? Things to discuss – what things? Who is he?”

      Polly went skipping round the room. “He plays the cello in the British Symphony Orchestra,” she said as she skipped. “Granny’s met him. You can ring Granny and ask her if you like.”

      But Ivy did not seem to be getting on with Granny. She stood, stony and doubtful, holding the letter.

      Polly jumped up and down with impatience. Then she stood still and did some careful pleading. “Please, Mum! He’s ever so nice. He wrote me that big letter – remember? It’s because he’s a trainee-hero and I’m his assistant.”

      “Oh,” said Ivy. “One of your make-believes. Polly, how many times have I told you not to bother grown-ups to pretend with you. All the same—” She stopped and thought. Polly held her breath and tried not to jig.

      “I have to go to town anyway,” Ivy said, “to see this lawyer I was told about. I was going to dump you at Nina’s, but I think people are beginning to think you live there. If this Mr Lynn really wants you, I could dump you there instead.”

      Ivy telephoned Mr Lynn. While she was doing it, Polly remembered – with a jerk, like someone landing on her stomach with both feet – the promise Seb had thought she made, and his threats about Mr Morton Leroy and Laurel. She was suddenly terrified that one of them could tap the telephone and listen in to Ivy talking to Mr Lynn in her brisk, unfriendly telephone-voice.

      But nothing seemed to happen. Ivy came away from the phone, saying, “Well, he sounds all right. Wanted to know what you like for tea. Now, don’t let him spoil you, Polly, and don’t be a pest.”

      This was the thing she went on saying, almost mechanically, all the next few days and all the way up to London in the train. Polly listened without really hearing. Now she had started being frightened, she was terrified. She was excited, but she was terrified too. They took a stopping train from Main Road Station, and Polly could think of nothing but Laurel’s strange, empty eyes. It seemed no time before they were in King’s Cross. Polly felt that Mr Lynn must think very quickly to have made up the whole giant story on the way.

      “Now, don’t let him spoil you and don’t be a pest,” Ivy said as they got off. “Oh, come on, Polly, do! What do you keep looking round for?”

      Polly was looking for Seb or Mr Leroy. She was sure they were there somewhere, and that, even if they did not know where she was going, they would guess at once when they saw her all dressed up in her nice dress. The odd thing was that her very terror made her all the more determined to see Mr Lynn. I must be quite brave after all! she thought.

      Ivy took Polly’s wrist and dragged her downstairs to the taxis. Polly’s head was turned the other way the whole time. They took a taxi to Mr Lynn’s address because Ivy only knew that it was somewhere quite near the lawyer’s. Polly stared out of the back window for other taxis following her with Seb in them. And for big, expensive cars with Laurel in them. Laurel, she knew, would have a chauffeur to drive. Laurel would be sitting beside him, wearing dark glasses. She saw a lady exactly like that, and she thought she was going to be sick. But it was a different lady entirely. Meanwhile, Ivy kept repeating the lawyer’s address and making Polly say it back to her. Both of them talked like machines.

      “And tell him to bring you there at five-thirty sharp,” Ivy said again as the taxi stopped. “Now, don’t—”

      “Don’t let him spoil me and don’t be a pest. I know,” Polly said as she climbed into the road. And she promptly forgot all that. She was relieved to find herself in a quiet street, with no Seb, no Mr Leroy and, above all, no Laurel.