Cuckoo Song (19 page)

Each time, something about Not-Triss’s spiny stillness and strangeness infected the room, draining the certainty from the doctor’s voice. As she left each doctor, Not-Triss clung to
her father’s arm and buried her face in his coat.

‘I don’t want to go to this place – I
hate
it. I don’t
need
to come here. I want to go home!’

She could hear that she was whining like a six-year-old. However, she could not help it. Every moment wasted here was a precious grain of sand slipping through the hourglass of her life.

After they left the ‘fresh air’ woman, they drove out of Wenwick along the narrow coast road. Not-Triss’s spirits rose a little when she saw a signpost promising Ellchester in
nineteen miles, then dropped away as they drove past it in the wrong direction.

‘Why aren’t we going home?’ she exclaimed, alarmed.

‘We’re staying at a little seaside cottage, just for tonight,’ her mother answered promptly. Her eyes were shiny, and Not-Triss wondered if she had brought some of her tonic
with her. ‘Think of it as a tiny holiday, to make up for the one that was cut short. We thought a change and some sea air might do you good.’

‘I don’t believe you!’ The panic that Not-Triss had been fighting down exploded from her. ‘It’s a trick! You’re going to take me to a rest-cure place and
leave me there!’

‘Triss!’ The tone of exhaustion in her father’s voice silenced her. ‘It’s just a cottage that was recommended to us. It sounded . . . quiet. Peaceful. No doctors, I
promise.’

He sounded as though he had been carrying a great weight for miles and had just realized that the road ahead of him wound its way up a mountain. Not-Triss felt a pained pity, but also
confusion.

‘And . . . And we’re going home tomorrow?’ she could not help asking in a whisper.

There was a pause as her father manoeuvred the car around a corner on to a narrow, sloping driveway.

‘Yes. First thing tomorrow.’

The drive twisted down through a little wood of dripping silver birches, the black crusts on their white barks like healing cuts. The woods had a rich, energetic smell of rot, and the thirsty
scent of moss. At the bottom a grey-stone cottage lurked at the base of a small cliff, as if trying to shelter from the rain. Beyond it the ground sloped downward to a beach, where the sea pawed at
loose pebbles, hushing and hushing the scene to an ever-deeper quiet.

Chapter 18

Getting out of the car, Not-Triss was struck by the chill of the down-beach wind, and the wet, salt smells of weed and rock pools. She felt as if the tide of the year had gone
out unexpectedly and left them in autumn. The light was ebbing, the cloud-smothered sun spreading dull white wings above the horizon.

Then, quite unexpectedly, the door of the little cottage opened, and a homely orange light bloomed in the doorway. A young woman with tousled hair stood there, holding up an oil lamp.

‘Mr and Mrs Crescent?’ It was so strange to hear such a warm, human sound in this grey scene. ‘Thought I heard the car coming down. I just put the kettle on – come on
in!’

While Not-Triss’s father hauled at the family’s cases, Not-Triss and her mother scampered for the bright doorway, then stood dripping in a narrow hall. Now that she was closer,
Not-Triss could see that the ‘woman’ at the door was younger than she had thought, perhaps no more then sixteen.

‘I’m Dot,’ declared the oil-lamp girl, as if this explained everything. Her face was skinny but vital, with large dark eyes and a pointed, mischievous chin. ‘Come through
– I’ve stoked up the fire.’ She led them into a small sitting room with faded curtains and walls panelled in dark wood. There was a low, scratched table, and five large, saggy
brocade chairs that smelt of dogs. ‘If you give me your over-things, I’ll hang ’em up to dry.’

Dot was dressed in a plain, practical blue frock with an apron over the top rather than a proper servant’s uniform. Her manner was surprisingly friendly too, and this confused Not-Triss.
She seemed too bold for a maid, but her Ellshire countryside accent was thick as custard, and her knees grubby from scrubbing floors. Not-Triss expected her mother to stiffen and give clipped,
disapproving responses to put the girl in her place. To her surprise, however, she simply gave a faint murmur of consent, surrendered her coat and allowed herself to be shown to a chair.

The room was lit by the blaze from the hearth and a series of small candles and lanterns arranged along the mantel and the table. Glancing around her, Not-Triss realized that she could see no
gas-fittings.

‘Where are the gaslights?’

‘Oh, there’s no gas in the cottage,’ Dot declared cheerfully. ‘Wasn’t worth their while, building the pipes down the hill just for this place. But there’s
good hearths in most of the rooms, and a decent stock of candles.’

By the time Not-Triss’s father had heaved the cases into the house, both Not-Triss and her mother were sipping hot cocoa and watching their coats dry.

‘Look at that! The rain’s letting up. Always the way. Stops as soon as you’re indoors . . .’ Dot continued her warm, effortless prattle, and Not-Triss found herself
feeling profoundly grateful to her, as bridge after bridge of Dot’s words were strung out over the gaping chasms of the waiting silences.

‘I expect you’d like to see your rooms?’

The staircase was dark, cramped and narrow, the stairs dipping smoothly in the centre where they had been worn by centuries of feet. The bedroom door frames were short and irregular, and her
father had to stoop to pass through them. ‘Sir, ma’am, this is your room. There’s a family of house martins in the eaves by the window, and they chirrup something frightful of a
morning, but if you close the shutter it cuts out the sound. This little room is yours, miss. You can look out and see the lighthouse of Wellweather Island.’ The chamber was small,
low-ceilinged and wood-panelled, half-comforting, half-claustrophobic. The only light came from another oil lamp on the table. ‘I’ll leave you to get settled. If you need anything,
I’ll be in the kitchen preparing dinner.’

At the word ‘dinner’ Not-Triss felt her terrible hunger stir once more, like a great mastiff rousing itself from slumber.

Left alone in her room to ‘refresh’, Not-Triss waited for a few seconds, listening to the creaks of her parents edging their way back down the stairs. Only when these sounds faded
did she unlatch her case and fling its contents on to her bed. She snatched up and swallowed an embroidered handkerchief, a bundle of postcards and a pair of gloves, then leaned against the wall,
trying to rally her mental forces.

The fire in the hearth was only just gathering life, and the air was cold enough that each breath summoned a brief flicker of vapour.

Why had her parents brought her here?

Perhaps this was still a trick. Perhaps this was a ‘rest cure’ after all. Perhaps doctors didn’t think that gas was ‘restful’ enough.

The house was still as snow. Not-Triss strained to hear her parents’ voices, and could not. How long had it been since they had left their room? Gripped by panic, she tore down the stairs,
nearly stumbling on the sloping steps, and crashed into the sitting room. It was empty. There was nobody in the neighbouring parlour, nor in the poky eating room.

Dot looked up from chopping vegetables as Not-Triss hurtled into the long stone-flagged kitchen. She seemed surprised, her narrow face side-lit by the blaze from the great hearth.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘They’re gone!’ Not-Triss was shaking with a mixture of terror and anger. ‘They’ve left me behind, haven’t they?’

‘Who have?’ Dot frowned, wiping onion juice from her hands. ‘Do you mean your parents? They stepped out for a walk, lambkin. They’ll be back soon enough.’

‘I don’t believe you!’ shouted Not-Triss, fighting back the silken tears that threatened to creep into her eyes.

Dot didn’t seem at all upset by this outburst. Instead she pushed her tongue into her cheek thoughtfully.

‘Well, if they headed back to Ellchester, they’ve got a long walk ahead of them. I didn’t hear the car leave, did you?’ She laughed as Not-Triss’s face flushed with
new hope. ‘You go and have a look, put your mind at rest.’

Not-Triss scampered back to the front door, and eased it open. With colossal relief she saw that the Sunbeam was still parked outside, its flanks darkening to cedar-green in the deepening
twilight.

Further down the beach, distinct against the leaden grey of the sea, she could make out the figures of her parents. Her mother’s head had drooped to rest against her father’s chest,
and he was holding her tightly against him. Not-Triss remembered seeing her father wrap his arms around her mother many times, but usually gently and firmly, as if he was holding together a broken
thing long enough for the glue to set. This time there was something fierce and desperate about it, as if he needed the contact as much as she did.

Not-Triss’s mother raised her head and said something too soft to be overheard, and Not-Triss’s father nodded slowly and kissed his wife’s forehead with absolute
tenderness.

Not-Triss carefully closed the door and returned to the kitchen, where she hovered shame-faced in the doorway.

‘I’m sorry,’ she muttered. ‘Sorry I shouted at you.’

‘I’m used to it,’ Dot answered, flashing her a grin. ‘I come from a big family. Nothing but shouting, all day long. Only way to make yourself heard.’ She blew a
stray tress out of her eyes and took stock of Not-Triss’s trembling uncertainty. ‘Do you want to come in and watch me make dinner? It’s warmer by the fire than it is over there.
If you’re really worried about your parents driving away, you can leave the door open so you’ll hear the engine.’

Not-Triss ventured into the kitchen, fascinated by the great black kettle next to the hearth, the butter moulds, the blackened patches on the white plaster ceiling. She had never been invited to
watch Mrs Basset cooking. It had been something that she knew she was not really supposed to look at, like ladies dipping into their powder compacts. On the table was a pile of crisp, dark spinach
leaves and some turnips shaggy with black earth. Beside these lay a dead rabbit. The head and feet had been removed, but with a creeping of the skin Not-Triss knew what it was.

‘Did you ever see anybody skin a rabbit?’ asked Dot, picking up a small, sharp knife.

Not-Triss shook her head, mouth dry.
But I don’t want to see it
. Those were the words waiting on her tongue, but somehow she did not get them out in time.

It was all so quick, deft and no-nonsense. Dot slit it down the middle, then made a workman-like cut across, and next moment she was peeling the fur off the body, just as if she was taking off a
jacket. Not-Triss stared at what was left. It was strangely bloodless, a glossy misshapen thing that looked absolutely nothing like a rabbit at all. She wanted to unsee what she had just seen, but
she could not stop looking at it.

‘Are you all right?’ asked Dot, looking her up and down. ‘Not going to faint, are you?’

Not-Triss shook her head. The sight had been shocking, but Dot’s directness was curiously comforting. Seeing somebody dealing so calmly with horrible things made her feel that perhaps she
herself was not so terrible, and might not strike fear into every heart.

‘No,’ Dot went on, ‘I don’t reckon
you’re
the fainter in the family, are you?’ She gave Not-Triss a conspiratorial smirk. ‘Your mother came
over nervous, so your father took her out to find some air. And they said
you
were highly strung. All I can say is,
you’re
not the one I’d be dragging to
doctors.’

Not-Triss could only gape. She was so used to everybody treating Piers Crescent and his family as sacred. And yet here was this odd girl fearlessly dissecting the Crescents’ private
affairs, as swiftly and matter-of-factly as she had skinned the rabbit. Not-Triss was shocked and horrified, but also excited and fascinated, in an uncomfortable, pins-and-needles way. Dot was
doing something else with the rabbit and the knife now, and Not-Triss looked away for a bit.

When she looked back, the rabbit was becoming chunks of pink meat, some pale, some darkly marbled. After that, the turnips were diced, the cubes glowing amber in the firelight. The greens were
shredded. From time to time Dot muttered and added more wood to the fire.

‘What’s the point of having a great hearth like this if you don’t use it?’ she asked, and laughed when it spat sparks on her feet.

As Dot finished preparing the ingredients, Not-Triss looked around and realized for the first time that there was something missing, among the bound herbs and long spoons hanging from the
beams.

‘Where are your pots and pans?’

‘I haven’t got them out yet. Wait a moment – I’ll show them to you.’ Dot receded into a dark corner of the room, and returned with a square box, about six inches
across. She set it down carefully before the hearth and lifted the lid. Inside, Not-Triss could just make out white, rounded shapes nestling in a bed of fine, wispy straw.

Slowly and respectfully, Dot pulled out pale shape after pale shape and set them next to each other on the floor. They were eggshells, their crowns broken away and their insides scooped out. The
ragged hole of each shell was spanned by a loop of cotton like a miniature handle. Although they were perfectly clean, Dot pulled out a handkerchief and began delicately wiping them, inside and
out.

Then, as if she was performing the most ordinary act in the world, she took one of the shells to the table and very carefully pushed some shreds of spinach into it, followed by a cube of turnip,
a piece of rabbit and a tiny dribble of stock.

Not-Triss stared at her, looking for the flicker of a smile to show that this was a joke, but Dot’s manner remained perfectly serious and offhand as she carried the shell back to the
hearth and used the cotton handle to hang it from a hook over the fire, just as if it was a tiny cooking pot.

Not-Triss gave a snort of a laughter as Dot began doing the same with a second eggshell.