Polly felt empty-stupid-with relief. "What informant? Who tells you about Tom all the time?"

"My father does," said Seb.

Polly took herself by surprise by suddenly, violently, needing to know everything, now, at once, at last. "Yes, your father keeps tabs on Tom the whole time, doesn't he? Why, Seb? Why Why ?" ?"

Seb shrugged. "How should I know? Jealousy maybe."

"It can't be!" said Polly. "I know it can't be, or he wouldn't do something to me every time I so much as see Tom. And he does, Seb-you know he does. That can't be out of jealousy. So why is is it?" it?"

"No idea," said Seb, yawning a little. "I expect it must go back to something I was too young to know about."

Polly cried out in frustration, "Well, can't you guess even?"

Seb turned to look at her in astonishment. "You do do want to know, don't you? I'm afraid I haven't a clue. If you really want to know, why don't you ask old Tom? I should think he knows all right." want to know, don't you? I'm afraid I haven't a clue. If you really want to know, why don't you ask old Tom? I should think he knows all right."

"He won't say," Polly said resentfully. won't say," Polly said resentfully.

"I told you he was obstinate," said Seb. "But you must know how to get round that. There are ways and ways of asking, aren't there? If you really want to know, you have to ask him the right way-make it impossible for him not not to answer somehow." to answer somehow."

At this, Polly felt such blinding relief and grat.i.tude that she was almost willing to go over to Seb and be kissed. But Seb swung himself up, saying he was not in the mood now, and they went for a walk instead.

And she did ask Tom, Polly knew, about a month after that-a month of hesitating and guilt and misery such as she had never known. It was an awful time all round. Fiona was still ill. The chicken pox had given her shingles and she was ill most of that summer. Polly was thrown back on Nina's company, and she no longer enjoyed being with Nina very much. Granny caught a bad cold. And Ivy telephoned to say that Ken was acting very secretively and she thought he was deceiving her.

"Oh, not again again, Mum!" Polly said angrily, out of her misery.

"Yes-again," said Ivy. "It must be destiny or something. I didn't realize at first, because Ken's so quiet, but do you know-"

"I didn't mean that," Polly said. "This is the third time, third time, Mum!" Mum!"

"I know," said Ivy. "I did think third time lucky and I was bound to get a little happiness this time, but-"

"Mum!" Polly nearly shouted. "Have you thought? Maybe it isn't poor old quiet Ken who's wrong. Have you thought it may be you you ?" ?"

Ivy made an incredulous, angry noise and put the phone down.

"And it is is you," Polly said into the whirring afterward, before she hung up too. you," Polly said into the whirring afterward, before she hung up too.

The jet of misery, from being a flood, became a waterfall that month. Inch by inch, the strong rapids pushed Polly down. She fought the whole way, clinging, struggling, grasping at slippery thoughts, hooking her fingers desperately into ideas. She tried to stop her slide by consulting Nina. "There's something I ought not to do," she said to Nina. "But if I don't do it, I won't understand something enough to be any good to someone. Do you think I shouldn't do it?"

"Wow!" said Nina. She gave the rich chuckle she had cultivated to replace her giggle. "If you mean anything like I think you mean, why not? Where's the harm? What's wrong with finding out things?"

That was nearly enough for Polly. Not quite. She had a feeling Nina was probably talking about something else. As the last desperate ledge to cling to, she read the quartet's book, Tales from Nowhere Tales from Nowhere. She had not read it before, because her misery made her unable to concentrate on anything else.

But there was not the least thing in the book anywhere to help Polly. She enjoyed it, but that did not help. Sam's stories were grotesque and far-fetched and pathetic, about some sad, twisty monsters. Ann's were direct and spine-chilling, two ghost stories. One of them had been called "Fire and Hemlock," Polly was sure of it now. Ed's two were both S.F. The first was about Martians and the other was the one called "Two-timer," about the man who altered his past and ended up with double memories. Polly thought that was less good than any of the others.

Tom's were both about the Obah Cypt. He seemed to have got obsessed with that, Polly thought. The first was a funny story which reminded Polly of the giant in the supermarket. The Obah Cypt, in this, was a thing like a coat hanger with the owner's name on it, which kept turning up in unlikely places and getting the owner into trouble, in spite of his attempts to get rid of it, until it eventually interrupted a Royal Occasion and the Queen ordered it burned. In his second story the Obah Cypt was much more sinister. It was an evil thing, but n.o.body knew what it was, and it was never seen. Polly could hear Tom's voice as she read it and kept thinking of his badly typed letters. That story pushed her finally off her ledge. She made up her mind to take Seb's advice. And she did.

But what on earth had she done?

PART FOUR.

NOWHERE.

presto molto agitato

1.

Had I the wit yestreen, yestreen, That I have got today, I'd pay my tax seven times to h.e.l.l Ere you were won away!

TAM LIN.

Four years later Polly sat on the edge of her bed and took a bewildered look at the book as it now seemed to be. Only the cover design seemed to be the same. The t.i.tle was different, the stories were different, and the writers were six people Polly had never heard of. She turned to the blank pages at the front, and there were no signatures written there. The only story which seemed to have been in both sets of memories was that one-She turned to the list of contents. "Two-timer," she read, by Ann Abraham.

Ann Abraham!

"But that one was Ed's!" she cried out. "I remember-or do I?"

Slowly she turned to look over her shoulder at the opposite wall, where she had, she thought, once knocked in a nail to hang her stolen photograph on. The nail was there, all right. It held a dangle of things she had won for Athletics at school. There was no photograph. She went up close and looked, and there was not even a mark that a small oval frame might have made.

She dived for her old wooden box where her papers were kept and began pulling them out feverishly. The photo might be in there. There ought to be a folder too, containing five painted soldiers and some childish paintings of bulging monsters. There should be two more photographs, of herself and Granny looking like witches and squinting in the sun. There ought to be a map of Nowhere, lots ofhalf-finished stories of Hero and Tan Coul, one fat finished one, and letters, postcards, letters. There ought to be a badly typed letter about a giant in a supermarket.

None of those things were there. Polly scrabbled through wad after pile of paper, flinging each to the floor around her as it proved to be wrong. Stories there were, and letters from Fiona, Dad, Aunty Maud. A whole bundle of letters from Seb. My Pol My Pol, said the top one, You are being unreasonable. I only said you were bound to meet other men when you go to Oxford, and I want to be sure of you. Why not let's get engaged? You are being unreasonable. I only said you were bound to meet other men when you go to Oxford, and I want to be sure of you. Why not let's get engaged?... Polly threw these aside with an impatient noise and scrabbled on downward. A Level certificate, O Levels, babyish stories, quite good drawings, quite bad ones, a photograph of the school doing Twelfth Night Twelfth Night, school reports, her birth certificate. And she was down at the bottom, gathering grit under her fingernails. Nothing.

She sat back on her heels among the heaps of paper. "I know know they were there! What happened?" But when had she last looked? Not for some time before her hidden memories stopped. The last time must have been when she thought she had dug out the stolen photograph and hung it on the nail. Nearly five years ago. To make sure, she ran back through the plain, single memories of the last four years. Fiona's astonishing escapade came first, then O Levels, A Levels, and herself and Fiona doing Oxbridge entrance together. Meeting Seb. Her first year at college. She had simply thrown papers in on top and never looked. Now there seemed no sign that Thomas Lynn had ever existed. Yet even in this plain, single time there were things she could only have learned from him, like her dread of being sentimental, or hating to lay a book open face downward. She had thought she had learned these things from Granny, and she had been wrong for four whole years. What had happened? What had she done to make him vanish so completely? they were there! What happened?" But when had she last looked? Not for some time before her hidden memories stopped. The last time must have been when she thought she had dug out the stolen photograph and hung it on the nail. Nearly five years ago. To make sure, she ran back through the plain, single memories of the last four years. Fiona's astonishing escapade came first, then O Levels, A Levels, and herself and Fiona doing Oxbridge entrance together. Meeting Seb. Her first year at college. She had simply thrown papers in on top and never looked. Now there seemed no sign that Thomas Lynn had ever existed. Yet even in this plain, single time there were things she could only have learned from him, like her dread of being sentimental, or hating to lay a book open face downward. She had thought she had learned these things from Granny, and she had been wrong for four whole years. What had happened? What had she done to make him vanish so completely?

Granny came in, yawning a little from her afternoon rest. "Polly dear, have you seen Mintchoc? It's time-" She looked from the spread heaps of paper to the empty suitcases. "I thought you were going to pack."

"I got sidetracked. Mintchoc was in here awhile back," said Polly.

Mintchoc heard her name and emerged from under Polly's bed as Polly spoke, portlier these days. She picked her way through the papers toward Granny with the dignity of a lioness. A small black-and-white lioness. Granny, whiter and more withered, had much the same dignity. A small white countess or something Polly thought, watching Granny stoop lovingly and stiffly to gather up Mintchoc. "'Here my precious. Feeding time."

"Granny, do you remember Mr. Lynn?"

"Who's that? No, I don't think so."

"Oh, you must, must, Granny! Thomas Lynn. He was a cellist." Granny! Thomas Lynn. He was a cellist."

"I don't recall anyone of that name playing the cello. Here, Mintchoc." Mintchoc, with a bit of an effort on both their parts, arrived in Granny's arms. Granny stood up with her, murmuring about nice fish for supper.

She really doesn't remember! Polly thought. Neither did I. What's wrong? "Thomas Lynn, Granny. I met him by gate-crashing a funeral at Hunsdon House."

"That House?" Granny's head darted round at Polly. A strange look which, in anyone else but Granny, Polly would have thought slightly mad came into her sharp old face. "What about That House? I don't know about That House."

"Hunsdon House, Granny," Polly said. "You do. Seb comes from there. So did Mr. Lynn."

"I don't know about it," Granny repeated, still with the same look. Is she going crazy? Polly wondered. What shall I do if she is? "I've lived here for thirty years now," Granny said, "and there's only one thing I do know, Polly. Every nine years, at Halloween, a funeral comes down this road from That House. Old Mrs. Oaks told me that it's a woman every eighty-one years, and she comes down on Halloween. Every other time it's a man, and he comes down the day after."

Cold all through, with the hair p.r.i.c.king at the back of her neck, Polly knelt and stared at Granny. Mintchoc, aware that something peculiar was delaying her supper, began squirming indignantly. And Granny, who normally indulged Mintchoc's every whim,seemed not to notice. "Mrs. Oaks?" Polly asked, trying to make things seem normal again. "Is she the one you call Aches? Or is she Pains?"

"I'm talking about their mother," Granny said. "And if I were to tell you what they were in That House, you'd laugh and not believe me. Nowadays they lay it on the men not to tell, you know."

Here, to Polly's relief, Mintchoc distracted Granny by wriggling free and jumping to the floor. Granny's face took on its usual look of sharp intelligence. "She needs her supper, that cat," she said, and followed Mintchoc downstairs.

Polly got up and followed them both. Granny was in the kitchen at the sink, cutting up expensive plaice with a pair of scissors, and Mintchoc was on the draining board beside her, tail up and complaining loudly. Mintchoc had the best of everything and was very strict about the time she had it.

"I did something terrible to Mr. Lynn," said Polly, "and he went."

Granny said, while her scissors went crake-crake-crake, "Don't come to me for sympathy, then. I never did like your Seb."

"I'm not talking about Seb," Polly said. "Thomas Lynn, Granny."

"Then it's no one I know." Crake, went the scissors.

"I'm telling you," said Polly. "I did something awful, and I can't remember what I did."

'Then you'd better think, hadn't you?" crake-crake, said Granny.

"I can't-"

"Can't is won't, most like, if it's that bad, " Granny replied. "Here we are, Mintchoc. Nice fish." She pushed the plate of cut fish across the draining board. Mintchoc's head went down into it ravenously, s.n.a.t.c.h, s.n.a.t.c.h, tossing strips of fish into her gullet.

"You're hopeless when you talk in proverbs," Polly said. "You don't listen."

"I heard you," Granny said. "If you've something buried in your head, then you'll have to fetch it out before I can help you, won'tyou?"

Polly sighed. Mintchoc crouched, crunching sideways at the fish.

"I think I'll go and ask Mum if she remembers."

"Do that. You owe her a visit before you go off again." These days Granny was very particular about Polly paying Ivy regular visits. "But be back to pack," she called after Polly. "It's not right to keep Mr. Perks waiting while you do it tomorrow."

Polly went out under the tinging trees and turned right rather more quickly than usual. Hunsdon House, hidden down at the end of the street behind the yellowing leaves, seemed remarkably close at her back. It was a feeling she had not had for years now.

She walked, knowing the way too well to notice it, feeling like a thin skin bag in the shape of a person, crammed full of memories. The pictures, the appalling horse, Stow-on-the-Water, the quartet rehearsing in the green bas.e.m.e.nt, the jet of pure misery at Middleton Fair. It was like yesterday, that misery. In a way, it was yesterday, because of the blank in between. It seemed to have burst up again, just as strong, as if those four years had not been there-but altered, because of whatever she had done a month after Middleton Fair, into something urgent and angry. It hurt Polly so that she moved her eyes away from a pair of happy lovers galumphing toward her down the pavement.

She saw them, even with her eyes on the fence. They had their arms round one another, pulling one another from side to side, laughing. The girl shone out in glistening purple and green. Her hair was crimson. Polly did not look at her pulling the boy almost over into the road. Nina Carrington, she thought, as she had thought many times, with yet another boyfriend. This boy was good-looking, with curly fair hair.

Then she looked. The boy was Leslie. "h.e.l.lo, Nina!" she said.

Nina paused, clinging to Leslie's arm with both her own shiny green ones, and gave Polly a puzzled, unfriendly look. "Oh, h.e.l.lo," she said, and tried to pull Leslie on again.

Leslie, however, was true to Polly's hidden memories of him. He hung back and peered at Polly round Nina's crimson head. He grinned at her. "Who's your friend?" he asked Nina. It was clear to Polly that he had not the least idea who she was.

"Polly Whittacker," said Nina. "And she's not my friend. She's anintellectual."

"Oh come off it, Nina!" said Polly. "We've known each other forever."

Nina heaved at Leslie to make him walk on again. "We have?" she said coldly. "You've not spoken one word to me since we were in Junior School. So why the sudden interest?"

This was true, according to Polly's plain, single memories. And Polly herself had believed it enough almost to walk straight past without speaking. Nina obviously resented it, and resented even more the way Leslie was grinning at Polly.

"My name's Leslie," he said. "Live in Middleton, do you, Polly?"

Polly nodded. "I live quite near Hunsdon House," she said deliberately. "Do you know the Leroys?"

'The Leroys." Leslie's face suddenly looked as if a pink light was shining on it. And, Polly thought, it took quite a lot to make Leslie blush. "Sort of," he admitted. But he was obviously too uncomfortable to go on talking, and he let Nina pull him on pastPolly.

h.e.l.l! Polly thought. That worked a bit too well! "Leslie," she called after him. "If you know the Leroys, you must know Tom too!"

Leslie's too pink face turned to look back at her. "I don't think so. What name?"

"Thomas Lynn," said Polly.

Nina turned round too. "Eff off, " she said.

Leslie was shaking his head and clearly not faking it. Polly could see he did not know Thomas Lynn any more than he had known her. "It doesn't matter," she called, and let them go on, wrestling and pushing and laughing, down the street.

She walked the other way, in an empty kind of horror. Real life, which yesterday had seemed safe and dullish and ordinary, was not real at all. It was a sham. Nina should have known her. So should Leslie. And what, in Heaven's name, did the sham hide?

She reached the road where she had once lived. The bushy tree across the road, where she remembered Seb once lurking, had beencut down. She wondered when. Ivy's house needed painting, badly. She had not noticed that either, till now. Inside, it was even shabbier, with most of the pretty floral wallpaper from Polly's childhood still there, but stained and faded. Polly went in through the small, untidy kitchen and found Ivy in the front room, aimlessly watching television. Ivy's face sagged these days and she had put on weight. She had obviously not been to work that day, for she was wearing a greasy old padded dressing gown, and her these-days bulging feet were shoved into man's slippers. But she had made a bit of an effort with her hair, enough to put it in curlers.

Polly, who had still been seeing her as the young, pretty Ivy of her childhood, stood and stared. My G.o.d! she thought. She's turned into the way I used to imagine Edna! "Mum! You're not ill, areyou?"

Ivy turned, nursing a mug of tea in both frayed-looking hands. "Oh it's you. There's some tea if you want to get yourself a cup." She nodded to the teapot on the floor beside her. "I'm all right. Don't worry about me. It's only my nerves again."

Polly, as she went to find a cup, told herself that this was not the real Ivy. The real Ivy was the one she remembered, bustling about, keeping the house pretty, keeping herself pretty, making strenuous efforts to keep things together after the divorce. Ivy and she were quite fond of one another these days. Life had not been kind to Ivy.

"I'm off to college tomorrow," she said, coming back and pouring herself some tea. She had to shout a little because Ivy had the television turned up very loud.

"That's right. Go and waste your time reading useless books," Ivy said in her usual gloomy, matter-of-fact way. "Run through the taxpayers' money. See your stuck-up boyfriend and never think about me. Never care that I'm sitting here a bundle of nerves, with the new lodger starting deceiving me already, and not a soul to turn to in my trouble."

She always talks this way, Polly told herself. She steeled herself to listen sympathetically as usual.

"I only asked for a little happiness," Ivy began again. "You have to go out and take it in this world. Happiness won't come to you. I thought I'd found it this time, but he's being so secretive, Polly."

Polly found herself attending properly to this. And it was such nonsense. It always had been. "Oh, honestly, Mum! You and your search for happiness!" she said. She tried to say it in a light and kindly way, but it took such an effort that her hands shook round her teacup. "Happiness isn't a thing. thing. You can't go out and get it like a cup of tea. It's the way you feel about things." You can't go out and get it like a cup of tea. It's the way you feel about things."

"But things have to go right if you're to feel happy," Ivy retorted. "And it's only my own little share of happiness that I want. Everyone's due to that. I'm only asking for what should be mine."