Frances Hardinge - Cuckoo Song

Triss’s father hesitated, the lid tottering on the boiling pot of his temper. Then he knelt down beside her.

‘Triss – how are you? What do you want to do? Do you want to stay here and see what their dresses are like, or shall we go somewhere else?’

‘It’s all right,’ piped up Triss. ‘I don’t mind if we stay here.’ It was true, she realized. She was shaken, but did not feel bodily affected by the shock the way her father seemed to expect. Triss even felt slightly guilty about it, as if after his speech she had a duty to be more stricken.

‘If you are sure.’ Her father briefly glanced across at the stout man who had offered the dress and discounted suit. ‘Triss, I need to talk to the manager about a few things. If I leave you to be measured, will you be all right?’

‘But we know my measurements,’ Triss exclaimed, surprised.

‘I think you should be measured again, love,’ her father said quietly but firmly, and again Triss saw the ghost of anxiety stalk past behind his smile. ‘Dr Mellow says… that you may have lost a little weight.’

Lost weight? Lost weight? With incredulity Triss recalled all the food she had devoured over the last three days. How could she have lost weight? Now she thought about it, though, the doctor had looked rather taken aback when she climbed on the scales.

Still turning this revelation over in her head, Triss was led through a door marked ‘Reserved for Special Guests of Grace & Scarp’. The room on the other side was small, but much grander than the main shop floor and startlingly empty of people. The walls were patterned in serious-looking dark blue and silver-grey, and the furniture was mostly chrome and glossy leather. From racks along one wall hung folded bolts of black, brown and navy-blue cloth. It was all very sensible and gentlemanly, and made Triss feel silly and out of place, like a dollop of jam on a newspaper.

‘Please, do take a seat.’ The man who had shown her into this grand room pulled forward a large leather chair for her. ‘This is our VIP room – reserved for royalty, the extravagant and those we attack with scissors.’

At first glance Triss had thought that the man was quite young. His hair was oiled to a fashionable treacly gleam. His smile was youthful as well, quick and humorous. Now that she took the time to look at him, however, she noticed horizontal lines creasing his forehead and a touch of greyness in his cheeks. His motions had a slight stiffness as well, and she realized that he must be older than her father. His manner was playful, but it was the careful playfulness of an old dog who no longer chases every ball. When he crossed the room, he walked with a shadow of a limp, though it was almost hidden by the neatness of his step.

‘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.