A Corner of White

by Jaclyn Moriarty

  Madeleine’s family had been so wealthy, almost everything they’d done had been for fun or charity. One or the other.

  Holly Tully had competed on that London quiz show once as a joke, or a stunt, or for charity, Jack was not sure which, he thought maybe all three. But now the sewing machine that she’d won was all they had left.

  ‘So what happened?’ Jack had asked.

  ‘It went like this,’ Madeleine replied at once, her face breaking into a grin as if he’d asked her to share her favourite joke. ‘We were in Paris for a charity gala, so I decided to take the Eurostar to London. Just, you know, for fun. For the weekend. I used to run away sometimes, see? But before this, I always came back. Anyway, I got on the train and guess what?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Mum was there! Turned out she’d been thinking of leaving Dad, and when she realised I’d run away again, she thought: Why not come along?’

  ‘Why not?’ Jack agreed faintly. ‘All right, so you came to London on the Eurostar together, but how did you end up here in Cambridge?’

  ‘We decided to let a random stranger decide our fate. When we got off in London, we saw a woman with a green umbrella standing on the platform. We followed her and this is where she came.’

  Jack, who was never speechless, stared.

  ‘You know the funny thing?’ said Madeleine. Her smile faded and Jack leaned in, expecting a tremble, maybe tears—that she missed her father, or her wealthy life, that she wanted to go home.

  ‘In the entire seventeen-and-a-half times that I’d run away from home before, my mother had never come once?’ Abruptly, the shine and joke were back in her eyes, and before he could ask another question she was asking him instead.

  She wanted to know where his parents were. Why he lived with his grandfather. Why he wore those high-topped shoes. Whether he’d ever shaved his eyebrows. What he thought of economic liberalism.

  Jack found himself telling her about the accident that had killed his parents when he was two, about the malfunctioning fountain in his grandfather’s hometown in Italy, his own alligator phobia, the time he’d tried to climb across a drainpipe five storeys off the ground to impress a girl, the fact that he had no clue what economic liberalism was—and she listened fiercely, her hand over her mouth, her laughter spilling over and over.

  She often made Jack feel as if his future was in stand-up.

  Her mother was like that too: you could get them both to fall into hysterical laughter with a flicker of your accent. A saunter in your speech. A dumb quip about a broken teacup.

  Madeleine and her mother.

  There they went now.

  Turning to wave and grin once again, and then walking away. Trouser legs and pleated skirts streaming behind them; plastic that rippled with sun dapples.

  Jack turned to Belle and she turned to him.

  ‘We’re meeting her later to ride to Grantchester?’ Belle said.

  Jack nodded. ‘Bit hungry now though.’

  ‘Chicken souvlaki?’

  ‘You read my mind.’

  ‘Your aura’s looking a bit off,’ said Belle.

  ‘You and your auras,’ said Jack.

  ‘Sort of flecks of grass on it. You getting the sniffles or something?’

  Jack held up his middle finger. ‘Got a new wart,’ he said.

  ‘Ah. That’ll explain it then.’

  He flicked the side of her cheek, quite hard, and she said, ‘Ow,’ and then they set off.

  They were riding their bikes out to Grantchester—Madeleine, Jack and Belle—along the path through the meadows by the river.

  The wheels of Madeleine’s bike flew over dried mud, and she herself flew into a memory.

  A cow sniffed and looked her way, and she was out of it again.

  She told them the memory while they ate scones under the apple trees, deckchairs slung low to the ground.

  ‘I was riding a skateboard—we were all on skateboards—going down a hill.’

  ‘Where was this?’ said Belle, eyes closed.

  ‘Genoa. In Italy. We were there for a summer. I was going fast—I was ahead of the others and the hill was steep. The road swerved and suddenly there was an intersection with cars flying by in both directions. So I jumped off the skateboard. And that was when I realised how fast I was going. I did that thing where your feet go—’

  She stopped and drummed her fists on the table.

  ‘No. Wait. It was faster than that, more like—’

  This time she drummed her fingers instead, fingernails clicking like a typist, fingers tangling and tripping one another.

  ‘You know, when your feet are in a panic, trying to catch up with your body.’

  She paused.

  ‘I came so close to falling,’ she said. ‘But I didn’t. I saved myself.’

  She broke a scone in half, spread it with jam and took a bite.

  ‘That’s it? That’s the memory?’ Belle sat up, and nearly lost control of her deckchair.

  ‘No. There was a six-car pileup. While I was saving myself my skateboard rolled onto the highway.’

  ‘Oh, all right then.’ Belle regained her chair’s composure, and closed her eyes again.

  Jack hit the side of Belle’s head. ‘“Oh, all right then”? A six-car bloody pile-up. “Oh, all right then”?’

  Madeleine laughed, then looked thoughtful.

  ‘Nobody was hurt,’ she said. ‘Except the cars, I guess.’

  They all reflected on this.

  Eventually, Belle said: ‘Did you cry?’

  ‘I never cry,’ said Madeleine. ‘I’m not a crying kind of girl.’

  ‘Who were you skateboarding with?’ Jack asked. ‘Was it Tinsels and Corrigan and Warlock and that lot?’

  ‘Your friends had the daftest names,’ murmured Belle.

  ‘My father was there too,’ said Madeleine. ‘He was further up the hill, on the side of the road. I remember, when I picked up my skateboard—it got thrown into an embankment along with pieces of broken windscreen, but it was okay—anyway, when I picked it up and started heading back, I saw my dad. That was the year he had a beard. He held his hands in front of his face, clenched them into fists, and swung them down through the air. I remember it looked like he was demonstrating how much longer he planned to grow the beard. Then he turned suddenly and walked away.’

  They were quiet in their chairs.

  Jack licked the cream from his fingers. He tried to think of a joke.

  Alanna Baranski, Owner-Manager of the Watermelon Inn, wore a knitted orange hat with a pom pom the size of a tennis ball.

  When she was pleased about something, Alanna shook her head from side to side, like disbelief. Now she sat on the front steps of her inn and watched as her nephew, Elliot, approached. He wove between guests and their children playing in snow, stopping once to raise an eyebrow when a snowball hit his cheek.

  The pom pom on Alanna’s hat set to swinging. She leapt up to give him a hug.

  Elliot felt her shoulder blades right through her parka. He stepped back and studied the lines of her cheekbones, while she herself studied the bruises on his face.

  They sat down on the steps. The sky was high with blue. Sunlight glared at the snow and glanced off the side-mirrors of cars in the parking lot. Beyond the parking lot, the river flashed and glinted.

  ‘How are things?’ Elliot said.

  ‘Well.’ She tapped her fingers in turn. ‘Corrie-Lynn’s nightmares have just about stopped. We’re halfway full which is better than we’ve done in a while, what with nobody getting any contractors in, crops being how they are. And the pipes didn’t freeze overnight. So, I think it’s safe to say, Elliot, that things are looking up.’

  Elliot reached a gloved hand behind him, and knocked on the wood of the door.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Alanna. ‘You’re always thinking, Elliot.’

  He smiled. ‘Where is she?’ he said, and squinted out at the jumble of kids in snowsuits.

  Alanna pointe
d through snowball fights and snowmen to Elliot’s little cousin, Corrie-Lynn. She was digging in the snow with a spade.

  ‘She’s trying to find the new sprinkler system,’ Alanna explained. ‘I got it installed just yesterday for the gardens, and now she’s furious with the snowstorm for burying it.’

  They both watched Corrie-Lynn. She was crouching low, hacking at the snow, ferocious with concentration.

  ‘Anything I can do?’ Elliot tilted his head back toward the Inn.

  Alanna shook her head again. ‘You’re such a sweetheart. One day you might put up some coat hooks for me by the front desk, but there’s no rush for that. I hear you’re staying in town for two weeks this time, until after the finals, and you’ve already fixed the wiring in your greenhouse!’

  Elliot raised his eyebrows. ‘What are you, psychic? I finished that wiring ten minutes ago.’

  ‘I was talking to your mother on the phone just now. She also said you rebuilt the pyramid of pumpkins this morning.’

  ‘Not me. The town.’

  ‘The Sheriff must be over the moon,’ Alanna sighed. ‘He wants that royal tour here so badly! Can’t think why. I mean, those Princess Sisters . . .’

  They both chuckled.

  In the distance, a train whistle sounded.

  ‘The Selectors will be on that train, I think,’ Alanna said. ‘Let’s hope they like your pyramid.’

  Elliot laughed. ‘It’s not mine,’ he said.

  The train whistle sounded once again.

  At the Bonfire Railway Station, Hector Samuels, County Sheriff, was running from his car to the platform.

  The train approached fast. The station guard was waving a flag, and picking something out of his teeth.

  The Sheriff stood tall. In his head, he was practising a dignified, ‘Welcome to Bonfire,’ and holding up a hand to help the Selectors down.

  Tears formed in his eyes. Somehow they had built a new pyramid. His town had built a better, smarter pyramid. Like a phoenix rising from the ashes of the snowstorm; like a surprise party just for Hector.

  That Elliot Baranski, he made your heart hurt. The things he’d been through this last year, yet he’d rolled into town last night, and rebuilt the pyramid this morning.

  They’d get selected, it was certain. Those Princess Sisters would roll into Bonfire themselves soon, and flags would unfurl, the high-school band would play, trumpets—

  Hector realised he was wearing his old duffel coat and wondered if he had time to get his good jacket from the backseat.

  But no, the train was here: a sudden shock of clatter and roar into the station.

  And then, through the roar, cutting through the engine and the shrieking of the brakes, cutting through the station guard’s whistle—cutting through it all came the low, deep throb of the warning bells.

  The warning bells were also ringing through the town.

  At the Watermelon Inn, it seemed for a moment like the sky was joining in with the clamour and laughter of the children playing in snow.

  Then the place flew apart like hands tearing at a jigsaw puzzle.

  The doors of the Inn were thrown open, and people pushed, shoved and poured inside. Voices screamed the names of children, or shouted, ‘What is it? What’s the code?’ Then, as the bells carried on, ‘It’s a Grey, it’s a fifth-level Grey!’

  Within moments, the doors, security gates and shutters had all slid, rattled and slammed shut.

  Scarves and bags were left scattered on the snow, alongside upturned snowmen.

  At the station, the train almost stopped.

  It slowed to an almost stop, then as its engine hushed, the warning bells filled the air instead.

  The Sheriff’s hand was already raised in greeting. He could see their faces—the Selectors’ faces—just behind the window of the first class carriage doorway, ready to disembark.

  That was the point when the train’s security shutters clanged down—bang, bang, bang, all along the carriages—and the train picked up its pace, resumed its rattling roar, and sped away down the line.

  The station guard was bolting the door to his guardhouse when he realised that the Sheriff was still outside. Standing frozen at the edge of the platform, one hand in the air, his old coat flying outward in the wind.

  The guard had to fumble for his own safety jacket, unbolt the door, run across to him.

  By the time he got there, the fifth-level Grey had torn bloody stripes into the Sheriff’s bare hands and right across the flesh of his face. It had ripped through the cartilage in his knee.

  Long after the warning bells had stopped, the front room of the Watermelon Inn retained its hushed, excited jitter.

  The guests wanted to stay and talk, repeating the same stories. Phone calls were made and word passed around that Hector, the Sheriff, was in Emergency but would most likely recover. Everyone else in town, it seemed, was safe.

  Talk changed to other things. Three different seasons were expected for tomorrow. Somebody thought that the Butterfly Child had been found by the Chokeberry River, but others thought that that had been a hoax. Le Petit Restaurant did the best roast duck-with-a-maple-glaze in the province, and their vanilla-pear brûlée was to die for.

  Behind the talk came the clink, drip and splat of snow melting outside. Alanna and Elliot handed out coffees and slices of pecan pie.

  Across the room, Corrie-Lynn was curled on a couch by the fireplace, reading a book.

  ‘That’s the owner’s daughter,’ somebody murmured. ‘Poor little thing.’

  Elliot paused at the coffee urn.

  ‘I know,’ replied another guest. ‘Her father was killed in an attack a year ago.’

  ‘I heard that two other locals disappeared the same night,’ chimed in a third voice. ‘The little girl’s uncle, I think—used to run an electronics repair shop downtown. And a local teacher too. Vanished. Both of them.’

  ‘Not a trace?’

  Elliot scratched his neck. He set down the cup he’d been about to fill.

  He moved through the murmurs and stopped at Corrie-Lynn.

  She did not look at him. She was staring at a page in her book.

  Elliot turned his head to read the title of the book.

  The Kingdom of Cello: An Illustrated Travel Guide.

  He’d seen it here before. They kept it on the mantelpiece, along with tourist brochures and pamphlets on local attractions.

  He lifted the book out of her hands, but still Corrie-Lynn did not look at him. Her gaze transferred itself to her empty palms.

  He watched her a moment, then read the open page:

  A NOTE ON COLOURS

  While Cello is a wonderfully ‘colourful’ place, in the traditional sense of that word, it is also home to a large population of ‘Colours’. These are living organisms: a kind of rogue subclass of the colours that we see when we look at a red apple or blue sky.

  Now I happen to know a man (Wilbur) who has had nothing but luck as far as Colours are concerned. He’s only ever encountered the sweeter Colours—fourth-level Pinks (cast a whole new light on things for you); second-level Greens (coax out the beauty of your smile); and so on.

  However, let me be honest. Wilbur’s experience is rare (and I do sometimes wonder if he might be having me on). The fact is, there are dangerous Colours in our Kingdom. I myself have a very fine scar across my left wrist—the result of an encounter with the tail end of an Amaranth Cerise (mistook it for a Crimson), and during your visit to Cello, you are likely to meet locals who have lost family members to attacks of Grey or splashes of Violet. The risk should not be underestimated: a major attack of first-level Yellow (also known as Lemon Yellow) can kill off (or, at the very least, blind) an entire city.

  However, do not be alarmed! Major attacks are rare, and you simply need to be equipped with the appropriate protective clothing. You should probably also get to know the system of warning bells.

  By no means should you let the remote possibility of a Colour attack deter you fro
m a visit to Cello.

  Elliot closed the book. He felt a gathering inside him. He was going to throw the book across the room. It would hit the wall, its pages would fan out, it would crumple to the floor with a thud. He felt the throw inside him, his shoulders tensed ready.

  Then he curled it back down.

  He put the book back on the mantelpiece. He straightened its edges.

  He sat down next to Corrie-Lynn, gathered her onto his lap and held her tight.

  1

  It was Monday again.

  In Federico’s office, Belle stood to tell them who Charles Babbage was.

  She began by unfolding the name from the hat and holding it out for them to see.

  ‘Charles Babbage,’ she said. ‘His name rhymes with cabbage.’

  Federico nodded firmly. ‘It does.’

  ‘And it sounds a lot like baggage,’ she offered next.

  There was a long pause. Belle leaned the backs of her thighs against a chair and turned to gaze through the window. The silence continued.

  ‘Got any more than that?’ wondered Jack.

  ‘I’m not really fond of cabbage,’ said Madeleine.

  Belle turned abruptly, her eyes astonished. ‘Aren’t you?’ she said. ‘But what’s not to like?’ Then she burst out laughing.

  Jack and Madeleine laughed too.

  There was a sound like someone trying to start a pull-string lawnmower. It cut into their laughter.

  It was Federico sighing. Sometimes he sighed in a deliberately noisy, guttural way, repeating the sigh, escalating the sigh, until they noticed.

  ‘All right,’ said Belle, easily. ‘Well, as far as I can see, Charles Babbage was the guy that invented the computer. Only this was in the days before computers, so he didn’t really invent it after all.’

  She sat down.

  Federico’s face furrowed. ‘I see what you are saying,’ he said—then in a mildly thunderous voice: ‘Say more!’

  ‘Ah.’ Belle stood up again. ‘Charles Babbage was all right,’ she said. ‘He invented a couple of machines cause he was sick of adding things up in his head. But he couldn’t build them, see? What with no money and no technology in those days. So, like I said, he didn’t actually invent the computer. But the half-arse machines he did build, those kind of like were early computers.’