Frances Hardinge - Cuckoo Song

‘I didn’t say “Triss”.’ Once again Pen was riding to the rescue, like a mounted knight through a minefield. ‘I… said… Tris… ter. She’s called Trista.’

‘How beautiful!’ Mrs Waites beamed toothily. ‘Is that from the French?’

‘Yes!’ Pen declared impulsively, then paused, eyes burning with curiosity. ‘What does it mean in French?’

Not-Triss winced slightly, but Mrs Waites was eager to show off her knowledge and did not seem to notice the oddness of Pen’s question.

‘“Triste” is French for “sad”. Sorrowful.’

‘My name is Ruby,’ Pen announced, through a mouthful of bread. ‘Ruby Victoria – like the old queen.’

‘They’re cousins of Miss Parish,’ the landlady explained, tenderly but with emphasis, ‘come to try and smooth over family differences .’

‘You dear lambs!’ Mrs Waites responded promptly, and proceeded to pour tea for both ‘Trista’ and ‘Ruby’.

‘Well, I do feel sorry for poor Miss Parish. Her fiancé was lost in the War, is that right?’ There was a gleam of sympathy tinged with satisfaction as the girls nodded. ‘One of our Surplus Girls.’

‘What’s surplus?’ asked Pen.

‘It means “left over”, dear. On the shelf.’ The landlady spoke confidingly, as if discussing a medical complaint. ‘So many young men died during the War, you see, that now there are a million young women who cannot find a husband.’

‘They should all go to the colonies,’ declared Mrs Perth in a high, husky, genteel voice. ‘There are plenty of eligible young men out there in need of healthy wives.’

‘I do not think Miss Parish has quite the standing or means,’ demurred Mrs Waites. ‘No, she should eat humble pie and go back to her family. It hardly seems right for a girl from a respectable home to be working the way she does –’

‘– so many men out of work right now –’ contributed the landlady.

‘– breadwinners and heads of families, some of them ex-soldiers,’ continued Mrs Waites smoothly. ‘It was all very well women pitching in during the War, keeping the country running… but sad to say, some of them got a taste for it.’

‘A taste for the money is more like it!’ exclaimed the landlady. ‘Vaunting around in their sealskin coats!’

‘Where does Violet work?’ Not-Triss cut in.

‘Where has she not worked!’ The landlady raised her hands and gave heaven a quick and knowing glance. ‘She has been a waitress at Lyons cafe, a shop girl at half a dozen places, a personal assistant… but it is always the same. She turns up late, leaves early and is never there when they need her. She cannot keep a place for more than a month.’

‘And now –’ Mrs Waites looked the two girls over, apparently judging whether they were equal to her next revelation – ‘now… she calls herself a courier. Skimming around on that motorcycle of hers, working for any Tom, Dick or Harry who offers her a job. And she is extremely mysterious about her deliveries.’

‘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.

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?’