Cuckoo Song (29 page)

‘Rude, in fact,’ sniffed the landlady.

‘Tell me, in past years, did Miss Parish ever show any signs that she might turn out a bit . . . wild?’

Before the girls could answer, however, a sleep-fuddled figure appeared at the parlour door. Violet’s hair was tousled, her makeup hastily applied and her frown deep enough to suggest that
she had overheard the last few words.

‘Yes,’ she declared, in answer to the hanging question. ‘I spent my entire childhood completely naked.’ As she glanced around the room, the sight of the two girls seated
at the table seemed to jar her into alertness. She gave them an interrogative glare.

‘Cousin Violet!’ called out Pen with slightly manic enthusiasm. ‘Father sent us to talk to you, so you can eat humble pie and come back to the family!’

Violet gave a faint groan and pinched the bridge of her nose.

‘Oh, he did, did he?’ she muttered. ‘How tip-top of him. Why don’t I take the pair of you out to buy an ice cream so that we can talk about it?’

The three women at the breakfast table looked disappointed as their morning’s entertainment disappeared stage left to play the next act in the wings.

Violet said nothing to the two girls as they left the boarding house but looked tight-jawed and angry. She led them across the road into a dull, dust-windowed tea shop. It was almost empty, so
it was easy to find a solitary table. When the elderly proprietor had brought them some weak tea and sad-looking biscuits, then shuffled back into the kitchen, Violet finally let out a long breath
of exasperation.

‘Of all the silly pranks!’ She pushed back her hair in frustration. ‘Pen, I told you that I was taking a risk letting you stay with me without telling your parents. I could get
into a lot of trouble. A
lot
of trouble, do you understand? And I told you that I expected to hear an explanation of all of
this
–’ her eye fled to Not-Triss –
‘when I woke up. Instead, both of you disappear from my room. And then I come down and find you eating breakfast with my landlady!’

‘But we didn’t tell her that we were in your room last night!’ protested Pen.

‘We were already outside when she saw us,’ added Not-Triss. ‘She invited us in.’

‘So you told her that you were my cousins?’ demanded Violet.

‘But it doesn’t matter!’ Pen protested. ‘They believed us!’

‘Of course it matters!’ Violet shook her head. The bell of the tea-shop door jingled and she flinched, glanced towards it, then continued in a lower tone. ‘If those nosy old
crows ask questions, they’ll find out I only have male cousins. And now you’ve been seen here, visiting me. Do you understand? If your parents think to come to my lodgings asking
questions, somebody will tell them that you were here. I could get into trouble with the
police
, Pen. Now, tell me what the . . . the deuce is going on, and give me one good reason why I
should not take you back to your parents
right now.
’

‘Actually,’ said a soft and earnest voice behind the two girls, ‘that would be the best thing you could possibly do.’

Not-Triss spun around in her seat, but already know what she would see. There, not two paces away, was Mr Grace the tailor.

Chapter 27

Mr Grace was right there in front of her, with his gentle smile and kind, earnest eyes.

At the sight of him, Not-Triss’s world turned white and terrible. The terror was pure and blinding, like staring into a camera flash. Her body seemed to act of its own accord, and she
watched as it leaped from the chair, scrambled around the table to be away from Mr Grace and dived into the corner behind Violet. Not-Triss’s skin was tingling with the heat from remembered
flames. She could barely recall how to breathe.

‘It’s him! It’s him!’ Pen was screaming. ‘He’s the one! He tried to burn Triss! He told Father to throw her in the fire!’ She too scampered to
Violet’s side, so that now all three of them were facing Mr Grace over the table, with the wall at their backs.

‘Miss Parish!’ The tailor was trying to talk over Pen, in his calm and carrying tones. ‘Miss Parish, please listen—’

‘Will everybody
shut up
for a moment!’ Violet bellowed, jumping to her feet, and was rewarded by an unwilling hush.

During the pause the old woman who ran the tea shop opened the door from the kitchen and glanced around quizzically, apparently to investigate the source of the sound, then raised her eyebrows
and withdrew.

‘That’s better,’ declared Violet, her voice somewhat uncertain, as if she had not quite expected to be obeyed. ‘Now – you seem to know my name, sir. And I am
absolutely bloody sure that
I
do not know
you
from Adam. So who
are
you, and what the
hell
is going on?’

‘Perhaps you should read this.’ Mr Grace did not advance, remaining a pace away from the table, but pulled out a letter and carefully held it out towards Violet. With an air of
reluctance and suspicion she took it, unfolded it and began to read.

Standing behind Violet, Not-Triss could see very little of her face, but just enough to observe that her frown was deepening. Parts of the letter were visible, however, and Not-Triss recognized
the handwriting of Piers Crescent.

. . .
are asked to assist the carrier of this letter, Mr Joseph Grace, in recovering my daughters Theresa and Penelope . . .

It was all happening again. Violet would listen to Mr Grace now. Everybody always listened to Mr Grace. All the adults did. Violet was louder than he was, but he was calmer, and his calmness
would win out over her loudness in the end. It was all happening again.

Not-Triss had to run. Everything was an enemy. She was shaking like a flag in the wind. For the moment she pushed herself back into the corner, hard enough that the walls bruised her
shoulders.

‘Miss Parish, you have done nothing wrong.’ The tailor continued to talk in a steady, measured voice, maintaining eye contact with Violet. He kept his hands slightly raised and
spread, as if Violet’s temper was a gun. ‘I am sure the girls turned up on your doorstep in a state of distress. You have been looking after them and trying to calm them down, so that
you can decide what to do next. Any reasonable and humane person would have done the same.

‘You have kept them both safe, and I am sure their parents will be very grateful. But as you can see from that letter, I have been sent as a representative of Mr and Mrs Crescent, who are
desperate to recover their daughters. Miss, I am sorry to trouble you further, but I must ask for your help – we need to take Penny and Theresa home.’

‘Don’t listen to him, Violet!’ shouted Pen.

‘Pen, will you
be quiet
!’ snapped Violet, then turned her attention back to the tailor. ‘Mr . . . Grace, is it? This letter –’ she flicked at it with a
forefinger – ‘says that you’ve been sent by Pen and Triss’s parents, right enough. But there are a lot of things it doesn’t tell me. I still don’t know who you
are, or what happened to make
both
these girls run away.’

Mr Grace hesitated, pressing his lips together.

‘There are certain delicate family matters that I would be uncomfortable discussing without the permission of Mr and Mrs Crescent,’ he answered carefully.

‘Well, you’ll damn well have to if you want to get past me!’ Violet’s temper seemed to be slipping its reins, all attempts to moderate her language in front of the girls
forgotten. ‘Triss is terrified by the mere
sight
of you, and I want to know why!’

Through the numbness of her terror, Not-Triss felt the wheels of disaster catch on an unexpected stone. Mr Grace had played a trump card, and his victory was inevitable. However, somehow the
inevitable did not seem to have happened quite yet.

‘Very well.’ Mr Grace sighed. ‘So be it. The family does not want this widely known, but . . . there is a problem with young Theresa. You know she has been ill for some
time?’

Violet nodded.

‘Perhaps,’ continued the tailor, ‘you are also aware that sometimes a severe brain fever has . . . lasting effects. Theresa was very ill recently, and since then she has been,
well, unpredictable.
Extremely
unpredictable.’ His tone was delicate but meaningful. ‘She urgently needs the proper treatment – for her own sake, and the sake of
everybody around her. Unfortunately it looks as if the first course of the treatment scared and confused her, so she ran away –’

‘VioletVioletViolet!’ Pen was dragging at Violet’s sleeve, almost on the verge of tears. ‘Don’t believe him, Violet! You
can’t
believe him! You
can’t
!’

But Not-Triss knew that Violet could believe him and would. On the one side there was Mr Grace, a respectable adult carrying the authority of the great Piers Crescent, and on the other a mad
girl, whose words could no longer be trusted. There was still Pen, of course, but nobody would ever, ever listen to Pen.

With the odd lucidity of panic, Not-Triss’s gaze flitted round the room.
Hot tea in the pot. I can throw that at somebody if I have to. Door to the kitchens. But there might not be a
back way out. Front door . . .

There was something hanging from the ‘open/closed’ sign that had not been there when she entered. A small set of scissors. The tailor had blocked her retreat.

‘I need you to take Penny home,’ the tailor was continuing. ‘I will look after Theresa. I know I am a stranger to you, but you
must
trust me.’

‘This treatment,’ Violet said slowly, ‘did it involve . . . fire?’

Mr Grace hesitated a moment too long. ‘Fire?’

‘Yes, fire.’ Violet’s voice had an edge of steel. ‘Triss is terrified of it. I noticed that last night. And she’s scared witless of
you
. Why would that
be?’

Mr Grace nodded slowly as if surveying a chess board and realizing the inevitability of checkmate. His look of sadness deepened.

‘Because of these,’ he answered, before pulling handfuls of small metal objects out of his pockets and casting them on to the table.

Some of the pairs of scissors fell open as they landed. Many were old and blackened, a few looking as if they had been hammered into shape by hand. All sent something singing in Not-Triss veins.
They hated her. Their blades could sense her skin.

The wail that had been trapped inside her since the appearance of Mr Grace finally escaped. Wallpaper bulged, burst then peeled away. In a dresser by the door, crockery exploded like plates at a
fairground rifle range.

Violet swore violently and spun to look at Not-Triss. The colour drained from her long face.

‘Look at her!’ called out Mr Grace. ‘Miss Parish – take a good look at her! I am sorry to have misled you before . . . but I wanted to avoid this scene, for your sake.
Now,
please
, take Penny’s hand and lead her away from the creature in the corner. It is
not
Theresa. I think you can see that now. Quickly! You are both in
danger!’

‘Triss!’ hissed Pen, urgently and vainly. ‘Don’t! Don’t! You need to stop it!’ The younger girl’s face was a picture of dread, but Not-Triss only made
sense of her words when she looked down at her own hands and saw the long thorn-claws extending from her fingertips and the fine, deep grooves they had already etched in the wall. She knew that her
mouth must be a horror of thorns, her countenance wild and unchildlike.

Violet’s eyes were fixed on Not-Triss’s face. They were a dark, wet-weather grey, and they had a question in them.

Not-Triss managed to find her own tongue again.

‘I’m sorry.’ Her voice was still hoarse from the scream, and fluted strangely, like a breeze in a chimney flue. ‘I’m not Triss. I thought I was – I wanted to
be – I
tried
to be – but it wasn’t good enough. I can’t
be
her. I’m something else, and I can’t help it. And when they found out I wasn’t
their little girl, they tried to burn me. They thought it would bring their daughter back, but it won’t. It will only kill me.’

‘It
is
pitiable,’ murmured Mr Grace sadly, as if answering an unspoken thought. ‘Its instinct is to tug at the heart, even after the mask has slipped. Like a cuckoo
trying to sing.’

Violet stared at Not-Triss, apparently hypnotized. The wet weather behind her eyes was on the move, clouds shifting formation. Then her scowl deepened again and she turned back to Mr Grace.

‘All right,’ she growled. ‘I’m convinced. She’s not Theresa.’

Mr Grace’s tension seemed to subside slightly into relief. ‘Thank you, Miss Parish—’

‘Which means,’ continued Violet with the steely relentlessness of a torpedo, ‘that she isn’t Mr Crescent’s daughter, and he has no rights over her. Which means you
don’t either. So she’ll be coming with me.’

Suddenly Not-Triss’s lungs were full of too much air, and she did not know what to do with it all.

‘Please do not do this!’ exclaimed Mr Grace. ‘Think of Penny! At least let me take Penny back to her parents! Remember, that letter gives me authority—’

‘No, it doesn’t.’ Violet crumpled the letter and thrust it into her pocket. ‘Not any more.’ She leaned forward and jutted her long jaw. ‘So I don’t
think you’ll be taking Pen either. Now get out of our way, or I will start screaming the place down. They know me in this tea shop . . . and they won’t know you from Jack Frost. Who do
you think they’ll believe?’

Watching Violet and Mr Grace stare at each other across the table, Not-Triss realized that they were about the same height. It baffled her, for Mr Grace had quietly become a towering figure of
fire in her imagination. Only now, when he no longer seemed unstoppable, could she see that he was not that tall for a man. Violet
was
tall for a woman, stubbornly lanky like a
thistle.

‘Violet,’ piped up Pen, ‘he keeps looking at the
clock
.’

Belatedly, Not-Triss realized that Pen was right. Mr Grace had been glancing repeatedly at something on the wall behind them.

He was clock-watching. He was waiting for something to happen. Perhaps when he had seen the three of them walk into the tea shop he had not followed them in immediately. Perhaps he had sent off
a hansom cab or message to somebody . . . maybe even Piers Crescent.