Chapter Ten
At Brown Street, Serendipity and Denis sat at the kitchen table. Serendipity was finishing off two crumpets with honey and a cup of strong tea. Neither one of them spoke. Having been awake the entire night, Serendipity was deeply tired, and, though he had slept a little, Denis’s face was creased and grey. The house felt very empty and very quiet without Tuesday and Baxterr.
Serendipity was thinking about the years she had spent cultivating Tuesday’s imagination, and wondering if she had done the right thing. Stories had been more than a bedtime ritual. She had made sure that stories happened at breakfast, lunch and dinner, as well as any time in between. Stories happened while they were cleaning their teeth, or vacuuming the hall, or running in the rain on the way home from the park.
‘What about …’ Tuesday would say.
‘Yes, what about …’ Serendipity would reply, and then the two of them would be off, making up a story.
If Serendipity was away on a book tour she didn’t send home postcards with Having a wonderful time, wish you were here written on them. She sent home postcards with sentences like this:
In China they eat their noodles, and in France they walk their poodles but …
And Tuesday and Denis would write back: in Australia, I have heard, that they play their didgeridoodles.
At the dinner table, Denis might suddenly say: ’My brother Michael loved peas.’
Then Serendipity would say: ‘He ate them night and day. He stuck them on his bedroom door. He mashed them with a fork and had them on toast for breakfast.’
Then Tuesday would say: ‘He lined them up on the edge of the bath.’
‘But one day…’ Denis would say.
And so the story would go on.
Tuesday’s favourite thing at bedtime when she was very small had been to say to Serendipity: ‘Tell me a story out of your voice.’
And Serendipity would give her three options.
‘Well,’ she’d say, ‘I can tell you about The Golden Swan, The House with the Blue Gate, or The Carpenter and the Walnut.’
And Tuesday would choose. Then Serendipity would begin with only her imagination to guide her along.
‘My mother makes hats for the cats of the Queen of England,’ one story began.
Another began: ‘If you knew my sister, you’d never want to be me.’
It wasn’t that Serendipity hadn’t seen it coming. She had seen that a big story would come, so big it would sweep Tuesday off her feet, but she hadn’t expected it while Tuesday was still so young. Serendipity realised it was the breadth and depth of her daughter’s imagination that worried her most. What might befall her precious Tuesday, who was still just a girl, in a place where stories were not just words?
As if he heard her thoughts, Denis said, ‘What happens to a girl who visits your place, the place writers go to, when she’s just Tuesday’s age?’
‘Well,’ said Serendipity, ‘it will be the most fantastic adventure she’s ever had.’
‘What sort of world do you think she’ll find?’ Denis asked.
Serendipity thought of Tuesday, of Tuesday’s imagination. And then it came to her. Of course. All in a rush, Serendipity remembered Louella-Bella, Tuesday’s best imaginary friend. In her mind she saw a much younger Tuesday, in her red overalls with the yellow pocket, standing beside Louella-Bella. They were at the zoo, eating from either end of a large lime-green earthworm. And yes, Louella-Bella looked just the way Tuesday had always described her, with a cloud of white frizzy hair, and rainbow-coloured tights under a hot-pink pinafore. Serendipity smiled.
‘Perhaps she’s found Louella-Bella and they’re off at the zoo,’ she said hopefully.
Denis frowned.
‘It strikes me that the young lady I saw flying out the window might have rather grown out of Louella-Bella.’
‘Oh?’ said Serendipity, looking crestfallen. ‘I expect you’re right.’
Serendipity tried again, this time with more grown-up thoughts. The world that came to her, in fleeting black and white images, seemed to be a schoolyard. It was something like the high school to which Tuesday would go soon. It had wide courtyards and bench seats under oak trees and old buildings made of stone. The students who clustered together in groups, talking and laughing, were terribly tall and terribly grown up. One of them in particular drew Serendipity’s attention – a girl with reddish-blonde hair, a sparkling smile, and a smattering of freckles on a nose that was neither too big nor too small. It was Tuesday a little older than she was now. Serendipity imagined this Tuesday swinging her school bag over one shoulder and crossing the school grounds with two friends.
‘Perhaps her story is a mystery. Set in a high school, where …’ Serendipity began, and then trailed off, rubbing at her eyes that were so itchy with sleeplessness.
A weary weight settled upon her shoulders.
‘I think you’re forgetting that she went looking for you …’ Denis said.
‘So, what do you think she’s doing? I’m so tired I can’t even think.’
‘Well,’ said Denis,‘I wouldn’t be at all surprised if she didn’t run into the world of Vivienne Small’s adventures.’
‘But why?’ Serendipity asked, yawning. ‘Why would she imagine that?’
‘Because that’s where she’d expect to find you.’
Serendipity thought for a moment, then turned grey with worry.
‘What if she … oh, no. Oh, Denis – Vivienne’s world is full of danger,’ she said, her face crumpling. ‘Tuesday’s not … well, she’s never been … she could so easily get hurt … she …’
‘Come with me,’ said Denis, rising from the table and putting his arms around his wife.
Together they walked up the stairs to their bedroom. Denis folded down the bedcovers and handed Serendipity her pyjamas from the hook on the back of the door.
‘Sleep now. I’ll wait up and when she arrives home, we’ll wake you,’ he said. And just as he had done for Tuesday the night before, Denis tucked Serendipity into bed. This time he did turn off the light and close the door, which was just the way Serendipity liked it.
Chapter Eleven
Tuesday and Baxterr emerged on the far side of the Peppermint Forest and found themselves on a cliff overlooking the Restless Sea, which was crumpled by a gentle breeze. Waves rolled in on a rocky shoreline below and several giant white clouds ambled across the sky. Before leaving Vivienne’s shattered tree house they had consumed most of the Food For The Road they had taken from the Library’s buffet and refilled their water bottles at a nearby stream. As they surveyed the scene before them, taking in the cliff path that sloped downwards to the shore and a sandy cove beyond, Tuesday broke off a piece of the chocolate bar for herself, and offered some cheese and biscuits to Baxterr, who gulped them down happily.
When they arrived on the beach, Tuesday took from her backpack the glass bottle containing the tiny boat, then fished in her pocket for the silver and gold marble. She placed the bottle carefully on the sand, unscrewed the two parts of the marble and screwed the silver half onto the neck of the bottle, and the gold half into the small groove in the bottle’s base. Then she sat back and watched. The bottle wriggled a little, as if experiencing a small tremor, and then it split open. The two halves of the bottle fell onto the sand and the boat began to grow. At first it was no bigger than a bath toy, then it was the size of a model you might set upon your shelf. Tuesday and Baxterr watched as it continued growing into a dinghy suitable for one or two sailors at most. It was exactly the same as its tiny model version, with a gleaming red hull and two crisp white sails. These sails caught the breeze and flapped, tugging at the ropes that lay coiled on the deck.
‘Well, hello, Vivacious!’ said Tuesday, very pleased with her work.
She had read about Vivienne Small doing this countless times: taking her yacht-in-a-bottle and her marble out of her pocket, then escaping from Mothwood under sail, outmanoeuvring The Silverfish until she had reached safety.
Tuesday ruffled Baxterr’s ears and said: ‘What do you think of that, doggo?’
Baxterr barked his approval.
‘We do have a small problem,’ said Tuesday. ‘Which is that I don’t have the first clue how to sail a boat. Still, we have to try. Because I expect that if we set sail, we are almost certain to come across The Silverfish. And Vivienne Small and Mum, with any luck.’
Tuesday shivered a little at the thought of encountering The Silverfish and Carsten Mothwood. If her mother had been captured by Mothwood, Tuesday hadn’t the first idea of how she might rescue her. But she also knew that if Vivienne Small was there, then Vivienne would somehow make the impossible possible.
Tuesday unlaced her shoes and peeled off her socks. She collected the two halves of the glass bottle off the sand and rolled them carefully inside one sock. With an attitude of resolve, she shoved all her belongings into her backpack and stowed them into a little cupboard at the front of the boat. She zipped herself into the orange life jacket that lay in the bottom of the dinghy, then pushed the vessel across the wet sand and into the swirling water.
Vivacious rocked wildly as the first wave caught her, and Tuesday quickly scrambled aboard, but Baxterr was still in the water and barking. She jumped out of the boat again just as another wave hit and this time Vivacious was caught side-on. The boat tipped onto its side, sails dragging in the water, ropes streaming overboard. Tuesday battled to haul the boat upright, but it wasn’t easy. She succeeded with some effort, while Baxterr barked.
‘Quiet, doggo,’ Tuesday said sharply, and Baxterr hushed.
Tuesday pulled the bow of the boat back into the waves.
‘In,’ she said to Baxterr, ‘and sit down.’
Tuesday was learning the first rule of skippering a boat: that it is necessary at times to be a little bossy with your crew. Tuesday walked the boat out deeper this time, water rising up around her knees. She held on grimly as the first wave tried to tip the boat up. She checked the sails and then tightened a couple of ropes. Instantly the sails filled with wind and the little boat leapt out of Tuesday’s grasp. Baxterr, aboard alone, looked back at her just before the next wave caught Vivacious, again tipping her sidewards, sending Baxterr sprawling into the sea. He bobbed up quickly and swam ashore. Tuesday heaved the boat out of the shallows, righting it on the shore once more, but both girl and dog were entirely bedraggled.
Tuesday slumped. She sat on the sand and unzipped the life jacket that felt quite tight around her middle. Baxterr stood beside her and – as if to remind her that it had been her bright idea for him to sit in the boat in the first place – shook himself vigorously all over her.
‘I’m sorry, doggo,’ she said. ‘Are you all right?’
Baxterr gave a small whine as if to reassure her that it was only his pride that was hurt.
‘Oh, Baxterr, what are we going to do? I don’t know anything about sailing.’
Baxterr lay in the sand and rolled onto his back. He seemed very happy to be on dry land. And while Tuesday felt much the same, she kept looking at the boat and at the sea as if they were a puzzle she simply had to solve. It was a long way back to the Library to ask for help, and even if she went there, the Librarian was unlikely to be particularly happy with Tuesday; not after she had dashed off into the world of Vivienne Small against the Librarian’s best advice.
‘But I’m utterly stuck,’ Tuesday thought. ‘And the Librarian is the only one who can help me.’ She thought again of the Library with its endless bookshelves, the binoculars on the balcony and the writers at work at their desks. The great word Imagine carved above the doors. But how did imagining help in a situation like this? she wondered.
‘I’m just going to have to work it out,’ Tuesday said. She clambered into the little dinghy as it sat on the shore. The sails were flapping and the wooden beam that held the large sail to the mast swung towards her. She pushed it away, but it jerked back, the boat tilting wildly. Ducking to avoid being hit in the head, Tuesday fell out of the boat, and landed face down on the beach.
She rolled over and spat sand out of her mouth. She needed water. And not salt water. She dusted herself off and reached into the boat where she had stowed her backpack. As she was rummaging around for her water bottle she spotted something wrapped in an old oilcloth and bound tightly with a length of twine. She rinsed the sand from between her teeth, took a few swallows of water and replaced the lid.
Pulling the oilcloth parcel onto her lap, she worked at the string. The knot slipped easily. Layer after layer, she unbound the parcel, until inside she found a book. It had a photograph of a small dinghy on the cover and it was titled How to Sail Small Boats: A Beginner’s Guide, by S.W. Luffy. Within its covers were pictures, photographs and diagrams. There were simple instructions and explanations on such topics as Knowing Your Sailing Terms, Rigging Your Small Boat, Launching Your Small Boat, Reading the Wind, Knowing your Sails, TrimmingYour Sails, and Sailing to a Destination.
Tuesday read swiftly and carefully, quickly gaining an understanding of how, when launching Vivacious, she must head the bow of the boat into the wind so as not to be knocked over by waves. How she must go aboard from the stern, so as not to tip the boat. She must insert the centreboard (a large slice of varnished wood she had seen on the floor of Vivacious, not knowing its purpose) into the slot in the middle of the boat to ensure it sailed in the right direction, but only when the water was deep enough. She also had to steer with a ‘rudder’ attached to the handle at the back of the boat called ‘the tiller’– rather like steering a car, she presumed, except that the sea was the road and the tiller was her steering wheel. Ropes were called ‘sheets’ and the wooden beam that had almost knocked her senseless was called ‘the boom’.
Tuesday scanned the horizon. Though she saw no sign of Mothwood’s ship, she did notice the sun was no longer high in the sky, though the day was still warm. She felt sure she would have a better view once they had sailed out beyond the cove.
‘We’d best make some progress before nightfall,’ she said.
Calling Baxterr to her, Tuesday zipped her life jacket once again and set about preparing for another launch. She commanded a reluctant Baxterr aboard before pulling the bow of the boat out as far as she could beyond the breaking point of the waves.Water rose up around her waist. Baxterr watched her warily from inside the boat. Next she slipped along the boat, all the while holding onto the sides, and lowered the rudder into the water, then she kicked herself in over the stern. She quickly pushed the centreboard into the slot and, holding fast to the tiller, she headed Vivacious away from the wind, pulling the ropes – no, sheets, she reminded herself – to tighten the sails.
And then, by a beautiful miracle of wind and wood and water, they were sailing. Gulls on a rock observed the small craft silently and Tuesday couldn’t help but feel rather delighted as she passed by them. Here she was, at sea, and looking for all the world like a sailor. Though he would normally have barked at the birds, Baxterr ignored them, pointing his nose straight ahead as if he understood that to be a sea dog was a noble thing.
They sailed away from the beach and past the rocky point. A long stretch of coast led away south. Tuesday was determined to follow the cliffs, but she realised that if she was not careful, the breeze would take her in the opposite direction, out to the open sea. She would have to do what the book had termed ‘tacking’. She pulled the book out once more, furiously reading that part again. It seemed easy enough. But of course it wasn’t easy at all.
Away from the protection of the bay, the breeze had stiffened. Small white-capped waves were running across the sea and Vivacious had picked up speed. As soon as Tuesday pushed the tiller firmly to one side to change direction, the sails flapped and banged loudly above her and the boat jolted. Baxterr barked. The boom swung wildly again, making Tuesday dive to the floor. Tuesday glimpsed the direction she wanted to go and pulled on the tiller while grasping at the sheets to bring in the sails. The little boat steadi
ed and they were underway again, this time towards the cliffs in the distance. Tuesday’s heart slowed to a normal pace. Baxterr looked at her as if he were wondering what was in store next.
‘It’s all right, doggo,’ she said gently, breathing out. ‘We’re okay now.’
She looked ahead and saw the sea darkening.
‘What’s that on the water?’ she said.
A dark line on the water ahead means only one thing to a sailor. Wind. When it reached them, it buffeted Vivacious. The sails filled and the boat tipped precariously. Tuesday leaned back over the side of the boat, holding fast to the tiller. The boat flattened a little and they flew across the water, spray from the oncoming waves washing over the bow of the boat and drenching Tuesday. She tasted salt on her lips and blinked it from her eyes. The boat continued across the water, the breeze strengthening. The cliffs ahead were coming up fast and Tuesday could see she would soon have to change direction again. She was heading for a crop of rocky islands. Gulls circled in the sky. Tuesday could see thick brown strands of kelp clinging to the rocks ahead, washing into the water as the breaking waves receded.
She steeled herself, running through all that she was going to have to do. Her eyes flew from the sails to the water ahead.
‘Baxterr, stay there and don’t move, no matter what!’ she said.
Baxterr whined and hunkered down on the floor. Tuesday pushed the tiller over and tried to release the sails, but the wind was too strong. The sails back-filled and the boat tipped violently. Before they had a moment to think, Tuesday and Baxterr were tumbled into the sea. Instinctively Tuesday kicked away from the boat, turning to watch as Vivacious rolled right over, white sails and mast disappearing beneath the sea, leaving nothing but an upturned hull washing towards the rocks. Tuesday swam around the boat, calling to Baxterr.
But Baxterr did not reply.
Finding Serendipity Page 8
