Frances Hardinge - Cuckoo Song

Only gradually did the bliss of it start to develop a bitter edge. There was something dreamlike about it, a continual ritual of disappointment. It seemed to her that every time she reached for a serving bowl she found it empty. She was vaguely aware that full plates were being brought in to replace these, but they were not brought fast enough, and eventually she awoke to the dull, horrified realization that the arrival of loaded dishes had trickled to a halt.

She stared at all the empty plates before her, breathing heavily. What was wrong? Why had they stopped bringing more food? She looked around, aware for the first time that all sounds of dining had ceased around the table, that the rest of her family was mutely observing her as she scraped at each bowl for crumbs or traces of sauce.

‘That’s enough, Triss,’ her mother said gently, with the tiniest touch of panic in her voice. ‘That must be enough.’

Enough? Triss could barely understand the word. She might as well have been asked whether she had had ‘enough’ air, and was ready to stop breathing.

‘But I’m still hungry !’ she exclaimed. There was nothing in her head except need, and it made her angry, terrified and childish. ‘You said I could eat as much as I liked! I’m still hungry!’ Her voice was louder than she intended, but why not? She was desperate. And they had promised her all the dinner she wanted! If they loved her, why was there not more food?

‘Darling,’ her mother said, gently and shakily, ‘you’ve eaten half the pantry. Now, unless you want to eat dry oats or flour…’

‘Oats – I could have porridge! Porridge!’

‘No!’ snapped her mother, then closed her eyes and smoothed her own hair. ‘No,’ she added more gently. ‘That… That really is enough, Triss.’

‘You promised!’ The yell tore its way out of Triss as she jumped to her feet. ‘You promised I could have as much as I wanted!’ She felt impossibly angry, as if she had been tricked into giving full rein to her appetite. Her plate was gripped tightly in her hands, and it seemed possible that she might smash it on the table, watch its little blue-white Chinese scene shatter into bits. Why were her parents starving her? What was wrong with them?

‘Triss!’ It was her father’s voice, and it was sharp enough to penetrate the fury and desperation that had enveloped her. It was not a tone he had ever used towards her before, and it stung her to the quick.

She became abruptly aware of herself, standing by an overturned chair, gripping a plate, white-knuckled. Her mother had one hand raised protectively to her throat, a sign that she was particularly nervous or shocked. Pen was struggling to keep a look of mock shock on her face, her eyes alive with glee, fascination and triumph.

The plate rattled as Triss hastily set it back on the table. Her mouth was too dry to form words. She mutely fled the dining room.

Back in her room, Triss lay on her bed, curled into a ball.

When a knock sounded, she raised her head, but could not face opening the door.

‘Triss?’ It was her father’s voice. It was gentler than before, but Triss did not want to see his face, in case it wore some of the hardness and disappointment she often saw when he looked at Pen.

‘I’m… I’m sorry,’ she croaked.

The door opened. Her father entered, and his face was not hard. It was tired and sad, which made Triss feel even worse.

‘That sort of behaviour was not something I expected from my Triss,’ he said softly. ‘My Triss is a sweet, quiet, well-behaved girl. She doesn’t stamp and scream at the dinner table.’

‘I’m so sorry,’ whispered Triss. ‘I couldn’t…’ I couldn’t help it, I think I went a bit mad, I felt like you were starving me and I was going to die, I felt like you hated me and I hated you. ‘I think I might be… running a bit of a temperature.’ It was the easy lie, the much-stamped passport to forgiveness, and Triss felt sick as she heard herself say the words.

‘Yes.’ Some of the sober tension went out of her father’s posture, and he came over to sit next to her on the bed. ‘Yes, that’s probably it. I did think you looked a bit flushed when we left the dressmakers’.’ He touched the back of his hand to her forehead, and seemed satisfied. ‘It has been a long day, hasn’t it? Lots of shocks too.’

He put an arm around her and she threw both of hers around him, clinging on as if otherwise she might drown, her face buried in his waistcoat.

Help me help me help me…

‘What you need,’ her father said at last, ‘is an early night. You’ll feel a lot better after a good, long rest.’

He gave her a brief squeeze and stood up, pausing to gaze fondly down at her. Triss managed to force a smile and nod.

The door closed behind him, and Triss was alone and at the mercy of her thoughts.

Pen had told Triss that she was doing everything a little bit wrong. It’s true, she reflected, I am doing everything wrong. I lied to the doctor when he tried to help me, and it didn’t even do any good – if I keep screaming at everybody, they’re going to decide I’m crazy anyway.

So what can I do? I have to get better without the doctor’s help. I have to get better really quickly before they realize just how sick I am. I can’t go on like this.

She had to get well. Perhaps it was all a matter of willpower. Perhaps she could force herself not to eat everything in the house. Maybe she could make herself stop seeing strange things that could not exist.

Perhaps when Angelina had started screaming, she should just have ignored it and carried on packing. Perhaps if she had stared down the shifting shop mannequins instead of running away, they would have returned to being decently inanimate again. Perhaps the dolls in her room had not really been moving in her peripheral vision…

Her eye strayed towards the wardrobe where she had hastily bundled all her dolls, and she sat irresolute, chewing her lip.

They won’t move , she told herself, as she edged gingerly towards the door. And even if they do, I’ll know it’s not real. I’ll just stare at them and stare at them until they go back to being normal.

When she opened the wardrobe door, the lumpy pillowcase bundle within showed a reassuring disinclination to writhe or struggle. With her foot, Triss nudged it on to its side, stepping back quickly. As it slouched and fell open, a single doll felt out of the opening. It was a china half-doll with a glazed pompadour hairstyle, narrow-waisted blue dress and a pincushion where its lower body should be.

Very slowly and deliberately, Triss crouched beside the bundle and picked up the doll. The pincushion was just small enough to fit into her splayed hand, the china head, neck and torso four inches tall altogether. The doll had its eyes lowered so that they looked shut, and its delicate little hands rested on its lace neckline and the rose on its bodice, as if it was adjusting its dress.

You’re just a doll. You’re just a doll. You’re just a…

The first movement was very slight. A tiny hand, delicate as a minnow fin, shifted its position on the porcelain lace. Slowly, stealthily, it reached out towards Triss’s encircling hand, and Triss felt tiny, cold fingertips grate lightly down the fine grain of her thumb pad. It did not turn its head. Its eyes were closed and it moved its hands like a blind thing, searchingly.

It took all of Triss’s willpower not to hurl it away. There was a horror in the idea of it smashing, however, the elegant neck snapping like a celery stick. Her hand shook, but she tried to focus all her attention on the idea that what she was seeing was not real.