Cuckoo Song (8 page)

‘My name is Joseph Grace,’ he continued, ‘and since my partner is arranging your father’s fitting, I shall be looking after you.’

Triss seated herself on the throne-like chair. Now that the door had been closed behind her, cutting out the babble of voices in the main shop, she found she could hear music. It was a lilting
violin piece, so clear that Triss cast a glance around, just in case there were live musicians like in the Lyons tea shops, but instead her eye fell on a gramophone in the corner, its turntable
spinning, the mouth of its curved horn pointing into the room.

‘Now,’ continued Mr Grace, ‘what will you have? Tea and cake? Lemonade? Cocktails and oysters?’

Triss gave a little surprised squeak of laughter. ‘Tea – just tea, please. And . . . cake.’

‘Of course.’ Mr Grace called through a door, and a little later a short young woman in a trim blue dress suit tripped in with a plate heaped with angel cakes, and tea in a bone-china
cup.

Triss grinned, forgetting her duty to look woebegone. Perhaps the room seemed surprised to find a frilly eleven-year-old in it, but Mr Grace was not treating her with pained, nervous courtesy,
as if she was some brittle brat who might fall into convulsions or tantrums at any moment. He was smiling at her gently and easily, as though they were old friends who had unexpectedly run into
each other. He put a style-book in Triss’s hands, filled with fashion plates and pinned fabric swatches. He flicked past countless pages of elegant men-about-town and oblongs of dull suit
fabric until he reached the brightly coloured ladies’ pages at the back. Triss turned the pages, feeling a fizz of power as she made her choices.

A smart young woman with stiffly curled golden hair led Triss to a changing room and took her measurements. After this, Triss was escorted back to the VIP room, where rolls of
fabric were brought for her to feel. All of this made her feel quite queenly.

She did not notice how quickly the cakes beside her were vanishing until her groping hand found an empty plate.

‘Oh! I . . . I’m sorry.’ Triss realized how rude she must seem.

‘Please do not trouble yourself.’ The tailor waved away her apology. ‘VIPs are allowed infinite cake. Would you . . . care for more?’

Triss nodded, and watched hypnotized as two further platters arrived, stacked with fruit cake lined with royal icing. When she managed to unglue her eyes from the sight, she found that the
tailor was studying her, a look of wry speculation in his large, serious brown eyes.

‘Recovering your strength after an illness, isn’t that right?’ he asked quietly.

‘Yes . . .’ Triss became aware that her massacre of the cake plate was not really in keeping with the picture of delicacy her father had painted. ‘I’ve lost
weight,’ she declared, defensively.

‘Cake is the very best medicine.’ He gave Triss a small, confidential smile. ‘I’m sure a doctor told me that once. Personally I
always
take cake for my
leg.’ He glanced ruefully at his slightly lame left leg. ‘And if one of our VIP guests decided to eat six plates’ worth or more, nobody will hear of it from me.’

Triss stripped the newly arrived plates of their cargo in minutes, and another three plates were brought in almost immediately, loaded with muffins. Triss attacked them without hesitation. It
was such a relief not to have to hold back that she could have cried.
If I can eat enough here, without my family knowing, then perhaps I won’t need more than an ordinary dinner tonight.
I can seem normal.

‘Your leg – was that from the War?’ Triss did not exactly mean to ask the question, but it slipped out.

‘Yes,’ said Mr Grace calmly. ‘A little souvenir from France.’

Triss thought of Sebastian. She wondered how life would have been if he had come home from the War, saddened and limping but still kind and clever. The thought gave her a surprising hollow pain
in her middle. She liked Mr Grace, she decided.

As she was thinking this, she noticed for the first time that the tailor was wearing a black silk armband, almost camouflaged against his dark sleeve. It looked like a mourning band. Mr Grace
noticed the direction of her gaze.

‘Ah.’ He touched the silk with a fingertip. ‘Another old wound. Older than the War, in fact.’

‘That’s a long time.’ Triss had never heard of anybody wearing a mourning band for years.

‘Somebody I loved passed on because I put my faith in a doctor who told me not to worry,’ Mr Grace said quietly. ‘I wear it to remind myself that blind trust has
consequences.’ He stared through Triss for a second or two, then gave her a rueful smile. ‘Forgive me – and let me find an antidote to such a melancholy subject.’

The tailor walked over to the gramophone and delicately lifted the needle so that the violins stopped mid-warble. He lifted out the record and tucked it back into its waiting sleeve, then pulled
out another disc and placed it on the turntable. When the needle was lowered on to the record it gave a short cough of static, as if clearing its throat, and then music began to play.

But this was not proper music! All the instruments plunged in at once, as if they had been holding a party and somebody had opened a door on them. Where was the tune? It was in there somewhere,
but the instruments fought over it, tossed it between them, dropped it and trod on it, did something else, then picked it up again and flung it in the air just when you were least expecting it.

There were trumpets and horns, but they didn’t sound solemn in the way they did when they boomed out against a background of silence to remind everyone of the dead. Instead they were noisy
and irrepressible as a farmyard – they whinnied and squawked and mooed and didn’t care what anyone thought. Sometimes they made harsh, cheeky noises like a blown raspberry, or high,
giddy squiggles of sound for the sheer joy of it.

And nothing stopped and nobody breathed and there was no to-and-fro pat-a-cake pattern and instead it was a tangle of noise with threads winding through and over each other and it was exhausting
to listen to and it made her feel she could never be exhausted again.

And Triss knew what it was. She had heard the wireless spit out the starting chords of such wild, blaring music, only to have her father tut and turn it off.

This was jazz.

‘Do you like it?’ asked Mr Grace.

Triss could barely answer, and became aware that her heels were drumming against the chair legs, in an excitable, seated dance. She wondered if this was what drunk felt like. Perhaps she
was
drunk. Cake-drunk.

She was having
fun
. When had she last had fun? Treats, pampering, protection, oh yes, she had all these things in abundance. But fun?

Jazz was not respectable. She was not supposed to hear it, and nobody was meant to play it to her. She was sure that Mr Grace knew that, and she gave him a look of glee. His feet were not
tapping, she noticed. He simply stood by the gramophone, watching her and smiling.

One of the shop women put her head round the door, and Mr Grace quickly lifted the needle from the record.

‘The young lady’s father is ready to take her home,’ she said.

Triss felt a throb of disappointment. Mr Grace grabbed a clothes brush and helped her dust off the cake crumbs, even taking a moment to pluck a loose hair from her sleeve.

When Triss was taken back to her father, she knew that her eyes must still be shining and her face pink from icing and jazz. Her father looked her over, frowned very slightly
and touched his fingers briefly to her forehead to check for fever. Despite herself, Triss felt a tiny pang of resentment. Couldn’t she be happy without it being a sign of a temperature?

‘If you would like to bring Theresa back in a week for a first fitting . . .’ Hearing these words, Triss’s mouth twitched. She was coming back here. Instantly she was filled
with a rush of guilty glee.

Only as she was leaving did her spirits cool a little. Over on the reception desk she could see the scissors that had nearly fallen on her. A bright cloth had been thrown over them, but the tips
of the blades still pointed out. The weather-worn iron was blackened and unforgiving, and the points looked sharp.

Chapter 7

Triss rode home with jazz in her blood. More than once she caught herself trying to hum one of the strange leaping melodies under her breath, but it came out as a tuneless
murmur. She was filled with a wild sense that everything was possible.

As she neared home, however, this strange new confidence peeled away. Her Trissness closed in around her again, like cold, damp swaddling clothes. As she saw her house hove into view, the last
fizz of enthusiasm left her.

Her mind was so crowded with thoughts that for a moment she could not quite work out why the house looked different from usual. Then she realized that there was a dark angular blot in front of
the garage door. A motorcycle had been parked there with an insolent obstructiveness, blocking the Sunbeam’s easy cruise into the garage itself.

‘Of all the nerve!’ exclaimed her father, bringing the car to a sharp stop at the kerb.

The motorbike was a lean black creature with a tan body and sidecar. It was mud-spattered, and looked as out of place in the prim, trimmed square as a footprint on an embroidered tablecloth.
There was something bold and ugly about the way it let you see right into its metal works. It had the rough cockiness of a stray dog one hair’s breadth away from snarling.

At the sight of it, Triss felt her spirits sink further, though it took her a moment or two to remember why. She had seen the motorbike before, and its presence meant trouble. It meant scenes;
it meant both her parents being angry and upset.

As Triss’s father made a great show of laboriously parking on the pavement, Triss caught sight of the motorcycle’s owner, standing with hands on hips and an air of impatience. The
tall, slender figure was dressed in a long, earth-brown overcoat with a high collar, thick leather gloves and a tight black leather driving cap trimmed with fleece. Beneath the coat, however,
divided skirts were just visible, and jaw-length dark hair peeped out from under the cap. Legs were visible almost up to the knee, and were shiny with nylon. It was unmistakably a woman, a woman
with a long pale face and forward-jutting chin. As the intruder shielded her eyes to peer past the Sunbeam’s headlights Triss recognized her.

It was Violet Parish. Violet Parish who had been Sebastian’s fiancée when he went off to war. Once she had been ‘Violet’. After Sebastian’s departure she had been
‘poor Violet’. And then somehow, in the years since his death, her name had blackened and speckled in Triss’s family home, like a fruit left to rot, until it was thrown out and no
longer allowed in the house.

‘Stay in the car,’ Triss’s father murmured, then opened his car door and climbed out. Triss peered out through the windscreen, her stomach tensing as if for impact.

‘Mr Crescent!’ called Violet as he approached. Her voice had a studied, London-ish drawl to it, but with an underlying bite of anger. ‘Do you know that your wife has left me on
your doorstep for over an hour?’

‘Miss Parish, what are you doing here?’ Triss’s father was clearly trying to moderate his tone so that Triss would not hear, but he was not doing it very well. ‘I told
you to visit my office next week to discuss your so-called grievance. How dare you come here and bother my family!’

‘Yes, you did tell me you couldn’t meet me until next week – something about the whole family being on holiday, wasn’t it?’ Violet’s London drawl was rubbing
off like old paint, showing the rough metal of an Ellchester accent underneath. ‘And then today I saw your car in town. I know when I’m being sold a line, Mr Crescent.’

‘If you must know, Theresa was taken ill, so we came home early.’

Violet’s dark gaze flicked to the car, and Triss sitting muffled on the back seat. Out of instinctive loyalty to her father, Triss wrinkled her brow and thought sickly, woebegone thoughts.
A look of impatient contempt flashed across Violet’s face; Triss could not tell if it was contempt for her or for her father’s words.

‘Really? And what would the excuse be next week? For years you refused even to talk to me about my request, or admit that all of Sebastian’s belongings were brought home to you. And
now that you can’t deny it any more, you’re finding every way to avoid talking to me about it. I turned up here because then you
can’t
ignore me.’

‘Oh, I rather think I can,’ snapped Triss’s father. ‘What made you believe that you could turn up at this time in the evening, on
that
, and be allowed inside my
house? Perhaps this passes for a reasonable visiting hour among your crowd, but nobody with a ounce of consideration would dream of calling by this late, without warning or invitation, and expect
to be let in.’

‘Just give me what’s mine,’ Violet continued, through her teeth, ‘and you never have to see me again. Only the things Sebastian’s letter said he wanted me to have
if he died – the service watch, the cigarette case and his ring.’

‘So that you can sell them, the way you have sold your engagement ring, my son’s books and everything else of his you could lay your hands on?’ Triss’s father was now
bitterly, quiveringly angry. It terrified Triss and sent her thoughts scattering like rabbits. ‘To us, all these things are precious beyond all measure, because they were
his
. To
you, they are worth nothing more than their shop value. I gave you money at the end of the War, to help you find your feet, and since then all you have done is make demands. We owe you
nothing.’

‘Who are you to tell me whether I can sell what is mine? Sebastian
wanted
me to have those things!’

‘Because he mistakenly thought you would value them. He had no idea what a cold-blooded vulture you could be.’

‘Do you think I care what you call me?’ shouted Violet. ‘Do you think I care what you think of me?’ She did not look as if she did not care. For the moment she was like
the motorcycle, all her angry, grimy inner workings visible to the eye.