Tiger Lilly and the Princess

by Graeme Ingham

CHAPTER 6

  A rebel,’ was the first thing Miss Penny said. ‘A glorious, wonderful, magnificent rebel and I can’t begin to describe the turmoil she caused. Believe me, Serena, when I say your mother had this country in a spin the like of which it had never known - a wonderful whirl with everyone chasing here, there and everywhere until they hardly knew their lefts and rights from their ups and downs. Talk about driving the Palace crowd mad - had them climbing its ancient walls and no wonder! Well, if she wasn’t up to her neck in a campaign for this or a petition for that, then she would surely be heading a protest here or on a march there. And the people of Mandredela? Why, they absolutely loved her. Loved her to shreds!’

  It was a long story that lasted until dark: a story that told of the things her mother had done and then, when it was nearing its end, Miss Penny told the most surprising part of all. Surprising and almost unbelievable and, when it was finished, Princess Serena knew exactly what it was she wanted more than anything else in the world. No, more than wanted. It was something she had to have. Had to! Her mother’s betrothal locket.

  Oh, she began patiently enough, asked her father for it most every day, but he did nothing but shake his head and walk away. Only once did he say anything and that was to say he regretted ever having shown it to her. Completely hopeless at times, her father! She even thought of asking Miss Penny to talk to him, but anyone with ears on his head would know they didn’t get along all that well and that was a worry in itself. Could even make things worse. Already a big worry, matter of fact and the very last thing Serena wanted right now was having to cope with a new governess. No, she alone had to be the one to make things happen. But what? That was the question. Then suddenly, for some strange reason, her father stopped his turning and his walking away and began smiling at her in a sort of a secretive, sideways way and saying not to worry, she could expect something extra special for her birthday. ‘Now don’t be asking what it is,’ he would add: ‘All I will say, is that it is something you will adore and that it will be yours on the morning you leave for Yeltsin. So you can have it for the journey.’ Said it each and every time he saw her. Never missed, and it was always with that sly, wait-and-see smile. Really, he could be so aggravating at times and perhaps even more annoying was the fact that she knew – though how she knew she did not know – that it was not her mother’s locket he had in mind Knew it for certain sure. And it wasn’t! It was a stupid ruby necklace from the Royal Collecton! Nice enough she supposed, and worth a fortune she also and rightly supposed. She kissed him on his cheek, said a thank you.

  She hated it. Hated it because it said nothing about her mother. Hated it more and more the longer she had it, was busy hating it as she sat in the coach on her way to Yeltsin and gazing steadily at nothing and thinking steadily of nothing except how she hated it, when it came to her! Like a flash from nowhere! Like magic! A plan! Oh, and how clever it was! No, more than clever - super brilliantly clever, and the more she thought about it the more super clever it became. It was a bit over dramatic, no denying, reckless perhaps, and doubtless to say it would end up with her father being super angry should he ever find out about it. My gosh yes, especially when she thought of how he went with himself the morning he handed her the stupid thing - all that non-stop lecturing about never wearing it outside the palace; about how it was a national treasure; about guarding it with her life; about his grandmamma and how she loved the idiotic thing and a zillion and a half of other do’s and as many don’t evers. Thought he’d never stop, but something had to be done to make him change his mind. And if it failed then it failed and what to lose? In any case, he never stayed angry with her for more than a day and, angry or not, she had made her decision and everything, so far, was going precisely to plan. Be decisive, her father always said and so she was being decisive, had decided

  She smiled another smile, this time a more- than-pleased-with-herself smile. What a brilliant idea to think of using this first day at the Circus as part of her plan. And that mossy old bench by the side of the road - well who would ever think to look there? She had noticed it as they neared the Palace the day they arrived at Yeltsin and that was the moment the idea had come to her like . . . well, like magic. Even now, as she thought of that moment, her heart skipped a beat. Soon the speeches would be over, and then, after a visit to the Big Top, it would time. Time to put her plan into action.

  Part of the plan – perhaps the most important part - was to spend the day mingling with the ordinary folk of Yeltsin.and, though this seemed easy enough, she dared hardly think of all the sighings and the gaspings and splutterings that would echo from behind the walls of the Grand Palace when it became known that she had not only mixed with the ordinary people of Yeltsin, but had actually allowed them to crowd around her. ‘Close enough to touch, would you believe!’ And that is exactly what the Princess planned to do.

  Not that Serena was particularly looking forward to having crowds of people mingling about her and would much rather not truth to tell, but it was – what was the word? – essential. Yes, essential to the story she would be telling her father later that night. Anyway, tonight was tonight and now was now and soon the speeches would be over and then it would be time for the opening performance at the Big Top. Miss Clara Clothes Peg had been to a dress rehearsal, said it lasted about an hour. An hour! Sixty minutes and it would be time to put the plan into action. It was all so exciting and worth it for that, if nothing else!

  She had been to the Shanghasi before of course. Last time in Paris, or was it Berlin? Wherever, she could remember it as being simply wonderful. Wouldn’t be near the same here at Yeltsin and no one with a rub of sense could expect it otherwise. Not at such a backward place as this. Still, her purpose would be filled and, who to say, she might even enjoy some of the acts.

  She let her mind wander back to her last visit to the Shanghasi and the things she liked the best - decided it was the scariest of the rides she enjoyed the most. She could even remember their names: THE TEN MILE HIGH, THE RIDE OF DEATH, THE TUNNEL OF HORROR and - what was the name of the scariest ride of all? - Ah yes, that was it - THE PLUNGE!

  THE PLUNGE! What a ride!

  Miss Anastasia Naresby was her governess at the time. Nasty Anastasia herself. Oh, what a time Miss Nasty had that day; and how wonderful the fact that she was the one who had insisted on accompanying the Princess on each and every ride. No one else! Said it was her bounden duty. Thought a lot about bounden duty did Miss Nasty Anastasia - sweet as a honey pot when other people were around; used her bony fingers to dig deep as daggers when they were alone. Thought it great fun to twist her wrist until she cried. The Chinese Burn she called it. Then came THE PLUNGE! Lost her best hat and shoes did Miss Nasty and on the very first dive; ended up with her skirt tangled over her head and was so cabbage-green sick that she had to be rushed back to their hotel. Quit the next day, did Miss Anastasia Naresby. Marvellous!

  Almost as much fun was the fuss they made before she was allowed anywhere near anything that could be said to be the least bit dangerous. “Sorry, but it has to be a no, Princess.” “What if you were sick, Princess?” “Not in front of all these people, Princess.” “Sorry Serena, not in keeping.” In time, she learned to give them a choice: “Sick in public, a tantrum in public or a scary ride in public. You choose.”

  She glanced to her side. Miss Penelope Pennington was watching her closely. What else? Been with her longer than any other governess by a long mile and never took her eyes off her. Two years at least. Definitely a record. Penny Precise was her turnip name and precise is exactly what she was. No, not just precise. P-R-E -C-I-S-E Everything in its place, everywhere tidy, drawers closed, shoes in line, dresses on hangers, cupboard doors closed. Tight. Neat.

  Oh, the Princess fought hard enough. Tooth and royal nail. Clothes strewn hither and thither, socks scattered willy and nilly; shoes kicked under beds; paper baskets empty, floors full and any place that seemed the least bit tidy, scribbled and scrabbled and left in
a mess.

  All for NOTHING.

  Yes, because NOTHING is exactly what Miss Penny Precise said and did. Said nothing, did nothing - simply smiled and stepped over things. Not a word.

  Oh, not to say the Princess lost the battle. Well, not completely. Least not to admit. It was just that the whole business went on too long. On and on, and on. Add another on. Every day the same - boring like you were thinking to jump off a cliff! Well, try spending the day searching for a sock or something every bit as stupid, not finding it. Having to look again and still not finding the crack-brained thing. Try needing something in a tearing great hurry, finding it when it was a million years too late; not finding a favourite pair of shoes and having to wear those hideous things you swore never ever to be seen in again. Alive or dead. Not just boring - double, cross-eyed boring!

  Then, there was . . . well, it was just that she was sort of beginning to like Miss Penny Precise a bit. All right, perhaps a bit more than a bit. Missed her like Billy Whiz when it was her day off.

  Anyway, enough of that! Soon this dreary ceremony would be over and then it would be time for the Big Top to be opening its doors. Surprisingly good it was too - least from all she’d been told by Clara Clothes Peg and Councillor Drawing Pin who had been ‘specially invited to a rehearsal.’

  ‘A dress rehearsal, yes, but absolutely breathtaking,’ added Clara Clothes Peg. ‘Can’t wait to see it again.’ ‘Stunning,’ agreed Councillor Drawing Pin. Not that Serena cared a cat’s meow what they thought ­- good, bad or please itself, the Circus would serve her purpose, give her what she wanted. In less than an hour, the performance at the Big Top would be over and then, after the usual curtsies and a fussing chorus of ’thank you for comings,’ it would be time for the rides.

  She’d go on every single one, even the boring ones that weren’t the least bit scary and then, after she had been on them all – some maybe twice - she’d stroll amongst the stalls, taking time to stop every now and then to admire the goods for sale and chatting with everyone around. Oh yes indeed, chatting and charming and smiling her painted on smile and – what was the expression? - rubbing shoulders with the common people of Yeltsin. Her father would be leaving as soon as the Big Top finished – another starchified meeting – but no matter. The longer it took and the more people she met, so much the better. She smiled another smile. Then it would be home - if you could ever call the Summer Palace home - to where the Prince would be waiting and he would rush out to greet her, would squeeze her tight and then, with that huge, bellowing laugh of his, would swing her high off the ground as he always did. And then, as he also always did, he would kiss her on her forehead and say: ‘Your daddy missed you today, Serena. So go change and come down to dinner. Quick like a bunny!’

  A bunny at her age, would you believe?

  And that would be the moment. THE MOMENT And how good it was to be able to say to herself how thorough she had been and how everything had been planned to the second. Pleased or not, she went through it once again. Not that she minded - she enjoyed going through it, especially the part where she would smile at her father, would turn and walk towards the stairs and, as she walked, she would begin to unfasten her cape, slowly and deliberately, taking her time. The third stair was the one: built extra wide to take in the turn of the stairs and high enough to bring her face to face, eye to eye with her father. Perfect! Then, as she reached it and began to turn, she would stop, stand for a second, swivel round on her heels, take a deep breath and scream: ‘The necklace! It’s gone! Stolen! At the Circus! The necklace! It’s gone!

  Everything to plan.

  Oh, she knew well enough that the real test would come later, but she also knew her father. A quick tear from his one and only daughter and he’d be in a complete frenzy. She could see him now, careering about the place like a man gone mad, shouting for his Chief of Police, the Royal Guard, the Fire Brigade, anyone he could think of. Next to exploding is how he would be: jumping hoops and promising her the world; anything to make her feel better. She‘d make no mention of her mother’s locket. Not then. Not immediately. Tomorrow would be soon enough. Would do fine.

  And what an act that would be! She’d arrive at breakfast looking like she’d barely slept a wink: hair a haystack, eyes puffed red - a good rub with a towel would see to that – and she’d push her breakfast about her plate, take not a single bite, and then, at precisely the right moment, she would look up and say: ‘Daddy I can’t begin to say how terrible I feel about the necklace.’ She would then pause, give a sob and add: ‘Really, Daddy, I can’t think of anything nicer you could have given me for my birthday.’ Another sob. ‘Except . . . that is . . . . of course . . . my mother’s locket.’ That would do it! For certain sure! She remembered the word. Inconsolable. Yes, that’s what she’d be. Inconsolable!

  Couldn’t miss!

  And the necklace? Simple really! Two, maybe three days later, a letter would arrive at the Palace. What was called an anonymous letter. She hadn’t decided on the exact words – lots of time for that - but it would say something about the writer being sorry for taking the necklace and how she – or maybe it would be a he – was really sorry and wanted to return it to its rightful owner. The letter would then go on to say that he - or maybe it would be a she - had placed the necklace under a log that looked like a bench and that the bench could be found at the side of the road that ran from Yeltsin to Suchno. Close to where the circus was being held. She’d throw in a few more details of course, but more or less that is what it would say. Simple and also double brilliant!