She looked at her map again. There was no Black Water marked on it anywhere near and she couldn’t recall having seen any sign of a town for some time. Strange. Ahead of her, the next place to be signposted was Fiddler’s Hollow. That was nowhere on her map, either. She wondered if the map was out of date. It was possible. It was old and had been on the boat ever since she could remember. Her papa wasn’t one for replacing things unless they were broken or lost.
If only all lost things could be replaced.
Ahead, through the trees that lined the canal, the sun broke through the clouds and glittered on the murky green water. Gypsy lifted her face to it. She wouldn’t be going home just yet.
She had a story to search for.
Seven miles away, Piper clambered into the cab of an oil tanker and pulled the door shut, his teeth chattering. It had been a filthy morning and his clothes were soaked through. He hadn’t had much luck getting people to stop on this stretch of road, but a lay-by in which a few truck drivers were taking their breaks had changed his luck.
The driver, a ruddy-faced man, climbed in on the other side. He’d been stretching his legs when Piper had approached him to ask for a ride. He handed Piper a plastic cup that he filled from a flask. ‘Get this down you, lad.’
Piper nodded his thanks, but held on to the cup, warming his hands and waiting. The driver took out another cup and filled it, then drank some himself. Only then did Piper relax; you could never be too trusting. The tea was weak and sweeter than he liked, but he was grateful for it and accepted a refill when the first cup was quickly drained.
‘Have you come far?’ the driver asked.
‘About twenty miles,’ Piper lied. It was more like six, but he didn’t care to tell strangers his business.
‘Got far to go?’
Piper sighed. Why did he always manage to get the chatterboxes? The ones who wouldn’t shut up, who wanted to hear your life story and to tell you theirs?
‘Sorry,’ the driver continued. ‘Don’t mean to be nosy. It just gets boring on the road. Nice to have a bit of company, that’s all. No problem if you don’t want to chat.’ He checked his mirrors and pulled out of the lay-by, rumbling along the road.
‘No, it’s all right,’ Piper muttered, feeling a bit rotten now. The man had been kind after all. ‘I’m just not much of a talker.’ He pushed his dripping hair out of his eyes. ‘I’m visiting my cousin in Puddletown.’ Another lie: he had no cousins.
‘Can’t say I’ve heard of it,’ the driver replied. ‘And I know pretty much every town there is around these parts.’
Piper shrugged. He’d heard of Puddletown and liked the name, but the truth was that he didn’t care where he ended up. He was feeling reckless, although he couldn’t really explain why. He leaned his head back and feigned sleep, hoping the man would take the hint.
He didn’t.
‘You travel light.’
Piper opened his eyes and glanced at his bag on the seat next to him where he’d thrown it. It was clear it didn’t hold much and, compared to his well-kept flute case, the bag was tatty like the rest of him.
‘You play?’ The driver asked, touching the flute case. His voice was still friendly, but there was a slight edge to it that Piper picked up on immediately.
He thinks I nicked it.
‘Yeah,’ he replied, then looked out of the window, deliberately evasive.
‘Go on then, give us a tune.’
Piper continued to stare out of the window as if he hadn’t heard. He could refuse, but as usual vanity won out. There were enough people in the world who thought he was a good-for-nothing toerag. He needed to remind himself at times that there was something he was good at.
He took out the flute, bringing it to his lips. It was cool in his fingertips. He thought for a moment before settling on a well-known composition – not one of his own, even though the temptation was great. One of his own tunes could prove too dangerous to someone who was driving and, besides, there was nothing Piper wanted from the man anyway, apart from the transportation he’d already offered.
‘You’re good!’ the driver told him and Piper could hear the disbelief in his voice. He finished that tune and began another. It was keeping the driver quiet, keeping Piper from answering questions, and that was fine by him.
He broke off mid-note as a sign whizzed past. ‘What did that say?’
‘Fiddler’s Hollow, two miles.’
Piper frowned. It was true that he didn’t mind where he ended up, but he’d planned to go somewhere that he’d heard of and knew he definitely wouldn’t be recognised.
‘There’s no such place as Fiddler’s Hollow. I’ve never heard of it.’ He pressed his nose to the window. Had they gone off track, down some unmarked country lane?
The driver chuckled. ‘I drive this route week in, week out. I can promise you there is such a place.’
Piper stared at him, trying to work out if they’d met before . . . if perhaps he had crossed him in the past, but there was nothing about the man’s face that he recognised. He wasn’t about to take any chances, though.
‘Let me out,’ he said.
‘Eh? I can’t stop here; you’ll have to wait—’
‘Stop, right now.’ Piper shoved his flute back in its case and grabbed his bag. He tried the door handle, but it wouldn’t budge.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ the driver demanded. ‘It’s a safety lock; the door won’t open while we’re moving!’
‘Let me out!’ Piper yelled.
The driver swore, all good humour gone, and swerved dangerously to the side of the road. The tanker jerked to a stop and there was a click as the safety lock unlatched. ‘Go on then.’ He glared at Piper. ‘That’s the last time I do one of your lot a good turn.’
Piper didn’t answer. He scrambled out of the cab, landing light as a cat. The truck growled away from him, spraying gravel into his face. He was alone on a country lane, breathing raggedly.
He caught his breath and set off, making no attempt to thumb another ride. He had no idea where he was going, or where he’d sleep, but walking would keep him warm. It had stopped raining at least and, oddly, the ground underfoot was dry, like this place had missed the earlier downpour entirely.
He had walked about a mile when he saw a signpost and the outskirts of a town up ahead. Soon he was close enough to read what it said.
If only he could read.
He stomped on, passing a pub and a church. Both were closed. It was still early. He crossed the town square, empty except for some sort of huge bonfire waiting to be lit. On the other side was a bakery and it was open. He went in and the scent of fresh bread around him was like a warm hug.
‘What town’s this?’ he asked the sleepy-eyed girl behind the counter.
‘Fiddler’s Hollow,’ she replied.
So the driver hadn’t lied. Piper frowned. ‘Is this anywhere near Puddletown? I think I’m a bit lost.’
‘Can’t say I’ve heard of it,’ she said.
He closed his eyes in annoyance. Did no one know their way around in these parts? ‘How much are the bread rolls?’ he asked abruptly.
‘Thirty pence, or four for a pound.’
He stared at her, confused. ‘Eh?’
She repeated herself, then pointed to the price list, which he ignored.
‘How many do you want?’
‘Er . . .’ He rummaged in his pockets, scraping out the few coins there.
The girl looked at him kindly. ‘What have you got? If it’s a bit short, I can let you off. You look hungry.’
‘I am.’ Shamefaced, he held up his hand, showing her what he had.
She peered at the money. ‘What currency is that? It’s foreign, ain’t it? I can’t take it.’
He blinked. ‘Foreign?’
She shook her head. ‘You really are lost, aren’t you?’ She glanced over her shoulder, then pushed a paper bag at him. ‘Here. Take it, quickly, before the boss sees.’
He took the
bag, the bread inside warming his numbed fingers. ‘You mean . . . I can’t spend this money here?’
She shook her head again. ‘You’d better hop it, or we’ll both be in trouble.’
He muttered his thanks and stepped out on to the street, trying to make sense of it all as he wolfed down the hot bread. The knowledge that his money was useless here was confusing him, though he wasn’t too worried about having none. He could easily get money, whatever it was they used here.
He just had to figure out where ‘here’ actually was. And that was what worried him.
There Alice stopped. She had done what she could – all she could. At least this way, Gypsy and Piper stood a chance of finding each other before they found her. As for what happened next, she didn’t know. Perhaps her bringing them here, meeting them, would change that.
Alice put down her pen.
13
Gingerbread Cottages
wHEN I FINISHED, I TUCKED the crumpled paper in my pocket and sat in silence. In the kitchen, I could hear Piper and Tabitha talking in low voices, and the occasional clink as Gypsy fixed the lock.
So this was what Alice had been writing last night, before she disappeared. I remembered her panicked words . . .
. . . . thought maybe if I was the one to bring them here, I could still control them somehow. And then I changed my mind . . . or tried to.
Alice had made it happen, but she hadn’t meant it to. It was just her mind’s way of wandering, trying to figure out solutions to the story’s problems. Instead, when she’d thrown the page at the fire and missed, she’d created a bigger one, not only by leaving the story unfinished but by taking it in a new direction. The crumpled page in my pocket was just another piece of a puzzle that only seemed to be growing, and there was still more I had to figure out. I crept upstairs into my parents’ room again, poking about under the bed. It was a couple of minutes before I found what I was looking for, hidden under odd socks and dust balls.
A small wooden box, just like Alice had described.
Somewhere within it was the answer to finding her father. I took it downstairs, its contents rattling as though trying to escape. I wasn’t sure I could keep doing this alone, or how much longer I could hide the truth from Gypsy and Piper. As soon as Piper took us to the other part of the story that he’d stolen, Gypsy would want to read it – and if it mentioned either of them the game would be up.
I pushed the thought away and skulked into the kitchen like a dog that had stolen a biscuit.
Piper looked up. ‘Did it work? Did you speak to Alice?’
I nodded. My mouth was dry all of a sudden.
‘Where is she?’
‘I’m not sure.’ I looked down at my hands. There were specks of black dust on them. I thought of the smudges on Alice’s face. Not bruises after all. Coal dust.
Gypsy put down the screwdriver she was holding and came towards me, jotting words down.
What did she tell you? Do you know how to find her, or what’s going on?
I shook my head. ‘I . . . I messed it up. I asked a question without really meaning to. But she gave me a clue. We have to find her father. She thinks he can help us.’
‘Your father?’ Piper asked. ‘Don’t you know where he is?’
‘Alice has a different father to me,’ I explained. ‘He’s a Romany traveller, a writer like her. She hardly knows him.’
What does her father have to do with any of this? Gypsy wrote.
‘Alice has a belief about her stories,’ I said. ‘That every story she starts has to be finished. I thought it was a superstition, but now I wonder if she was . . . afraid not to.’
‘Afraid?’ Tabitha asked. ‘Why?’
‘Alice thinks she’s cursed,’ I said. ‘All I know is that it’s something to do with her father, but she never told me what. But now . . .’ I hesitated, remembering how obsessive Alice was about this. It wasn’t normal, or healthy. ‘I think maybe that is the curse, that Alice believes something terrible will happen if she doesn’t finish a story.’
‘Then why didn’t she just finish it?’ Piper asked.
‘That’s my point,’ I told him. ‘She couldn’t. She was stuck and had been for weeks.’
Gypsy pushed her notepad towards me.
You were upstairs for a long time. Is that all Alice told you?
I nodded, unable to speak at first. Guilt lodged in my throat like coal dust. I coughed and stared at the box in my hands. ‘I was a long time, because I was searching for this.’
‘What’s inside?’ Tabitha asked, prowling along the table.
‘I haven’t looked yet. Alice told me to find it. Whatever it has inside will lead us to her father.’
I set the box down on the table. It was made of dark brown wood, beautifully varnished and carved into two halves to look like a book. I hadn’t noticed this at first, for the carvings were subtle and it was so well made that the joins were difficult to see. It looked valuable, not something you’d see every day.
‘Nice,’ said Piper. ‘Handmade by the looks of it. Probably worth a bit.’
‘Probably, so keep your paws off.’ I glared at him and lifted the lid. A couple of photographs floated to the floor. I picked them up. They were of Mum, when she was younger, with a baby Alice and a man who had silver-grey eyes. Alice’s father.
There were other things loose at the bottom. A postcard. An ornate ring set with a pale stone. Two tiny bands with writing on. I read them, finding my name and date of birth on one and Alice’s on the other. They were the little bands that go on a baby’s wrist in hospital when they’re born, to stop them getting mixed up with other babies.
There were two things left in the box. A long, thin tube of paper tied with silver ribbon and something squarish wrapped in a dark blue cloth. I took the cloth object out and unwrapped it. On the other side, the cloth was dotted with tiny silver stars. Inside it was a deck of cards, held together by a thin silver ribbon, but they were not ordinary playing cards, or like any others I’d seen before. They were beautifully painted with curious little pictures. The first was of a girl with a sad expression, wearing patched clothes, sweeping out a fireplace. The second showed twelve dancing girls, each wearing a little crown. I felt like I’d stumbled on some kind of secret. I’d never seen Mum with these or heard her talk about them, but I was sure I’d seen this silvery-starred fabric before. Only in Alice’s room, not Mum’s.
‘What are these?’ I wondered aloud. ‘Tarot cards?’ I’d never seen any tarot cards before, but Alice had written a story about some once, so I knew they were supposed to be quite mystical and used to look into the future.
‘Close,’ said Piper. ‘They’re fortune cards.’
‘Isn’t that the same sort of thing?’ I asked.
‘Similar,’ said Piper. ‘With the Tarot, there are loads of different packs, but they’ve always got the same or very similar cards, like the Moon, or the Fool. Fortune cards are different, ’cos no two packs are the same. They’re made for the owner alone.’ He leaned in. ‘See, these are hand-painted. It’s a sign of how special they are to whoever they belong to.’
‘But Mum’s never mentioned anything like this,’ I said. ‘They can’t belong to her. She doesn’t read her horoscope and she gets annoyed when Alice talks about curses or superstitious stuff. She says it’s all rubbish.’
Piper shrugged. ‘Maybe she does now, but perhaps there was a time when she didn’t.’
I thought of Mum’s life before she had me. Her life with Alice’s father, a life of stories and superstition and living wild; about as far as you could get from how she was now. She never spoke about it. It seemed that Alice, and the contents of this box, were the only things from that part of her life that were left.
I thumbed through the cards. At first, I couldn’t make any sense of them. They were odd images, like pieces from different puzzles that would never fit together, and yet there was something familiar about them. A swan, a tower, a mirror. A black cat, a pumpkin.
A strange little house made of sweets . . .
‘They’re all things from stories,’ I said. ‘It’s the gingerbread cottage from Hansel and Gretel. And look.’ I went back to the sweeping girl. ‘This must be Cinderella.’
‘Cinder-what-a?’ Piper looked dubious. ‘We call her Ashputtel.’
‘How can these be used to tell fortunes?’ I asked.
‘Easy,’ said Piper. ‘You just have to look at what they mean. Everyone knows these stories.’ He reddened. ‘Even people who can’t read. Take this one.’ He picked up the Ashputtel card. ‘I’d say it means there’s gonna be hard work ahead. Unfair treatment perhaps. And the gingerbread cottage . . . something or someone that appears good and sweet at first, but turns out to be a trap. Something too good to be true.’
Or perhaps somewhere that wasn’t safe. I glanced at the back door, uneasy. It was fixed now, but it had been broken through as easily as if it were made of gingerbread.
‘Our mum used to love stories,’ I said quietly. ‘That’s why Alice loves them. Lots of the books in Alice’s room were Mum’s. All the fairy tales and fables and myths.’
I couldn’t imagine Mum ever reading those sorts of stories now. There were no books in her room, and downstairs the shelves held only practical ones: a few biographies, nature books, an encyclopaedia and a dictionary: the kind of books Mum published at work. She had stopped reading anything that was ‘made up’ when Alice’s father had left. She said that real life was enough of a story and there were too many lies in the world already.
I wrapped the cards up in the cloth again. I’d look through them properly later.
The final thing in the box was the rolled paper. I could see traces of writing on the other side, but they were too faint to read. I already knew what it was. Alice had told me about the story many times.
‘What’s that?’ Tabitha asked, her tail curling into the box and touching the paper.
‘A story,’ I answered. ‘Alice’s father gave it to our mother when they first met.’ I wondered when Mum had last read it. The ribbon around it was knotted tightly, but I could still make out a name inked on to it faintly: Ramone Silver. His name. I left it where it was. I felt sure Alice would have read it; she wouldn’t have been able to help herself. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know what it said, or that we had any right to look. I put everything back in the box and closed it.
The Other Alice Page 13
