Frances Hardinge - Cuckoo Song

‘We’re here.’ She could force no triumph into her voice. She realized that she had no idea what to do next.

‘Triss,’ said Pen in a small voice, looking back down the slope.

Not-Triss followed her gaze and felt a tingle of panic pass through her whole frame. The following lights were closer now. She could even make out the dark shapes of figures behind them. So what if their pursuers could not hear them over the rain? They knew that the girls had nowhere to head but the road.

Not-Triss stared up and down the lane, searching blindly for inspiration, but it was Pen who spoke first, through the dripping fuzz of her hair.

‘We need to catch a lift. We need a car.’

As if Pen had spoken some summoning spell, Not-Triss realized that near the bend in the road the puddles were brightening. A moment later, two circular yellow headlights swung round the corner, their radiance dimpled by the rain.

Both girls desperately waved their arms at the oncoming car, and Pen whooped to get the driver’s attention. The car showed no sign of slowing, however, and swerved to the other side of the road.

Before Not-Triss could stop her, Pen broke away from her and sprinted into the road, so that she was standing in the middle of it as the sedan sliced past—

Bang.

There was a high-pitched, childish scream. Not-Triss stood gasping amid the rain as the car screeched to a halt ten yards on. There was a small figure lying behind it on the road, face up. Not-Triss’s skin seemed to be covered in ants and she could not feel her insides.

It was a few seconds before she recovered the use of her limbs, and by then the driver was getting out and staring in horror at Pen’s fallen form.

‘She… She ran out…’ he stammered helplessly.

‘She’s got a pulse!’ Not-Triss had insides again, though they seemed to have been jumbled and turned over like the contents of a manhandled crate. ‘She needs a hospital! You need to take her to a hospital!’

The driver crouched to examine Pen. He was young, with a nice-enough face, somewhat crumpled by uncertainty.

‘Where are your parents?’ he asked.

‘They’re not here! There’s just you, and you have to do something! She’s cold and she’s got rain falling on her face and she’s been hit by a car!’ Not-Triss could feel herself losing control. If she was not careful, soon her screams would be tearing the forests apart like a cyclone. ‘We need to take her to a hospital!’

‘Yes – yes, we will. Don’t be scared.’ The driver smoothed back his wet hair as if ordering his thoughts, then carefully scooped up Pen in his arms. He put her in the back seat, and Not-Triss climbed in next to her.

This car did not have a starter button like the Sunbeam, and Not-Triss had to watch while the driver wrestled with a crank handle on the front of the car, to get the engine started again. She was close to breaking by the time he climbed back into the driver’s seat.

As the car drove away, Not-Triss saw two lights emerge from the woods and pan after them. Her mind was so full of Pen that it took her a moment to even realize what they had been, and by then they were disappearing around the darkened bend.

Don’t you dare die, Pen. It was all Not-Triss could think, over and over. I’ll never forgive you if you die.

‘There’s a hospital near Ellchester,’ the driver said, obviously fighting to keep his voice calm. ‘It’s about twenty miles. Just twenty miles. It won’t take long.’

He kept up a countdown as he drove. Each time they passed a signpost, he let Not-Triss know how close they were.

‘Three miles,’ he said at last. ‘We’re just passing Bobbeck Ridge…’

It was at this point that something completely unexpected happened. Pen suddenly sat bolt upright, peered out through the wet glass at the signpost, then thumped the back of the driver’s seat.

‘Here! You can let us out here! I’m… feeling better now.’

The driver jumped out of his skin, and nearly hit the signpost. He pulled the car up by the side of the road and turned to stare over his shoulder.

‘What?’

Pen looked meek.

‘I’m all right now. I just fainted. And now I’m better. And we live down there.’ She pointed to a cluster of seedy-looking buildings on the banks of the estuary. ‘Thank you for the lift!’

‘Hey!’ The driver’s face reddened. ‘Were you faking back there?’

Pen did not wait to continue the conversation, but opened the door and leaped out into the rain with no obvious sign of injury. Not-Triss followed as quickly as she could. They splashed quickly away from the car as the driver gave them a suspicious scowl and began the slow and awkward task of wrestling his vehicle back on to the road.

‘You were faking!’ exclaimed Not-Triss in disbelief. ‘But… there was a bang!’

Pen shrugged. ‘I threw a rock at the side of the car, then I screamed. Cars always stop when they think they’ve hit you. You don’t know anything, do you?’ Her determinedly complacent look faded a little after a second, and her teeth started to chatter. ‘I need to use the bathroom,’ she announced without preamble, then turned and started slithering her unsteady way down the wet wooden steps to the riverside.

Not-Triss stared after her, the rain beating drums on the boardwalk before her. She wanted to throw up. She wanted to laugh.

Pen , she thought in the quiet of her own head, you’re amazing.

As Not-Triss edged and slipped her way down the wet boardwalk steps, she realized that the buildings on the riverside were surprisingly well lit and crowded for the time of night. All three buildings were made of wood, and had the words ‘J Wilkinson & Sons Boat Builders’ painted on the sides in tall, honest blue letters. The people Not-Triss could see through the windows, however, did not seem to be dressed for boat-building. She could make out sequins, bow ties and bare shoulders, and everybody seemed to be laughing about something.

Behind the drumming of the rain, music was audible. It reminded Not-Triss of the record that Mr Grace had played, and her heart gave a leap of fear. However, this was not the same crazy, breathless sound, as she quickly realized with a mixture of relief and disappointment. This was jazz that had wiped its feet and put on its best manners to meet somebody’s mother.

Over a door somebody had nailed a wooden plaque with the word ‘Pink’s’ painted across it in green and white, next to little black silhouettes of a man and woman dancing.

As Not-Triss was examining it, Pen emerged from a little outhouse nearby. She approached one of the windows and stood on tiptoe to peer in, her breath clouding the pane. As the light from the window fell on Pen’s face, Not-Triss again noticed three fine scratches that ran slantwise across the younger girl’s cheek. They were shallow but dark with dried blood, and Not-Triss felt a guilty pang.

‘I can’t see her,’ Pen muttered in an annoyed tone. ‘But she has to be here!’ The younger girl pushed her way in through the door, and with some apprehension Not-Triss followed, feeling uncertain and exposed.

There were no boats inside. Instead it was filled with dozens of people, all large and loud and moving around. From a central beam above hung a series of gently swinging lanterns made of chrome and pink glass, which bathed the hall in a patchy rosy glow and made everybody look flushed and a bit otherworldly. Lots of the women wore dresses that fell from tiny shoulder straps, and some carried feathered fans. Everybody’s hair seemed to be short and very shiny. The walls were partially concealed by hanging cloths, creamy white with fine vertical stripes of cerise.