Triple Ripple

by Brigid Lowry

  The Reader

  › I’m not sure where the story is going but I like books with a bit of mystery. Anyway, my book is more interesting than my life right now. School is dreary, and it’s a great pity my mother didn’t sort herself out a bit more before she decided to accept herself just the way she was. She pounces on me before I’m even halfway in the door. Hello, Nova darling. How was school? Anything interesting happen? I don’t want to share my day. It’s private. The other worst thing about my mother is how she’s always trying to improve me: a little tidying here, a small suggestion there. Because Dad’s away all the time, she focuses on me far too much. She can’t allow me the dignity of being myself. I wish she’d accept that sometimes I’m grumpy and pessimistic, muddled and messy, lazy and lost. She should stop reading all those self-help books. They aren’t doing her much good.

  Dad is gone again. The house is strangely quiet. Mum’s having a cleaning frenzy, and is snappy with me because she misses him. Go figure.

  THE WRITER

  The writer goes for her daily walk, hoping for a line, a good thought, a solid idea, a small miracle. She has no idea where her book is heading. She urges herself not to panic, but to get back to her desk. Sit down. Take a breath. Write the next bit. Let the story arrive.

  CHAPTER TWO

  THE DAY OF Glory’s departure from the village of Myddle styx was a sad one. Her mother wept softly, her brothers howled and snivelled, glory sobbed in noisy bursts. even Mr Hobbs, the coachman, blew his nose into his large red handkerchief.

  ‘when will i see you again, Mama?’

  ‘Try not to think like that, Chickadee. This is the beginning of a great journey for you. enter your new life fully and don’t look back. Courage, my beloved girl. All will be well.’

  At that, Mr Hobbs gave his horse a great wallop, and they set off. Plum blossom fell dainty as snow as they travelled along the sunny riverbank, but it was not long before the dappled, leafy light faded and their carriage entered the gloomy woods. As her mother had instructed, Glory did not look back. There were no other passengers. Mr Hobbs sat like a giant at the front, and a load of boxes rattled and bounced on the wagon behind, as they tumbled onwards into the blackness. The fat moon rose. Glory fell asleep in a dreamy muddle of anticipation and fear.

  At the palace, preparations for the grand ball were afoot. The invitations had been sent, the menu had been planned. The king and queen had arranged many suitors for Princess Mirabella to look at or, rather, many suitors to look at her. It wasn’t true love her parents had in mind for their only daughter. In recent years the royal fortune had lessened considerably. There was the ill-fated battle in which they lost the river border, and the plague of locusts which decimated the wheat crop, but the main reason for their current predicament was that the king lacked the necessary skills for strong leadership. Easily flustered, he fumbled the affairs of state and lacked critical focus when it came to important decisions. If Mirabella could be married off to a rich prince from another kingdom, the royal fortune of the House of Hanover would be doubled. There’d be twice the army, twice the power. Princess Mirabella had no desire to be a pawn in this ancient game, but she saw no escape from it. The king had gone hunting, as usual, in order to avoid the queen’s ranting about ruin.

  ‘So I’m left here with these ridiculous baubles.’ Mirabella sulked for a while, but then her vanity sneaked in on tiny rabbit paws. ‘It will be the most horrid ball in the world, but I might as well look my best,’ she decided. The princess set aside a necklace with a missing ruby, a teardrop earring without a partner, a sapphire and silver brooch which needed polishing. She tried on some necklaces but none of them appealed. Arlo delivered a towering pile of tiara boxes — eight of them — then lingered in the doorway.

  ‘Yes? What is it?’

  ‘It’s Cherry, Milady. She’s been taken ill.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear it. You can go now.’ Really, she thought, he is the most annoying person. Fancy expecting her to be concerned about her maid’s little troubles when she had these tiaras to deal with. The princess didn’t bother trying them all on — it would have been too dreary for words — but she quite fancied the Razzle Dazzle Tiara. She twirled around in front of the mirror and found her reflection reasonably pleasing, yet perhaps she could do better? The Dancing Duchess Tiara was horribly heavy, the Blue dream Tiara was far too big, the stardust Tiara made her look like a wedding cake, the wistful rose Tiara had three rubies missing, and the sugar-Plum Tiara was somewhat ordinary. The final box contained the Magic Blossom Tiara, which belonged to her eccentric aunt agatha, duchess of amberly. it was a delicate crown of diamonds and pearls set out in an intricate pattern of fleur-de-lis. it fitted perfectly, and the princess looked enchanting, but all this hard work tired her, so she decided to take a little nap.

  CHAPTER TWO

  AND A BIT

  THE KITCHEN WAS fragrant with vanilla and spices, for ’twas Tuesday, the day on which cakes and dainties were baked.

  ‘why is the queen so grumpy?’ asked elda. ‘I Theard there was fierce quarrelling, and that Princess Mirabella had been banished to her chamber.’ elda enjoyed nothing more than enlivening the kitchen with a scrap of gossip whenever she could.

  ‘Maybe her crown is too tight?’ Mrs Blossom believed a stupid question deserved a stupid answer. ‘Best to keep your nose in your own business, Lass. Now get on with grinding those almonds; I need them for my cake.’

  ‘Maybe a tiny insect flew into her ear and made a nest there?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Rolf.’ Mrs Blossom was getting grumpy. Her legs ached, and now that she’d added the eggs, her butter and sugar mixture was starting to curdle.

  ‘Maybe she isn’t getting enough rumpty-tumpty?’ offered Dirk, the beekeeper, who hadn’t had any rumpty-tumpty himself for quite some time. Dirk loved to hang around the kitchen when he delivered the honey, for he didn’t get to see womenfolk very often, spending his life on the road and in the fields, with only himself and the bees for company.

  ‘Now, now,’ clucked Mrs Blossom, but she couldn’t help a smile. ‘That’s most pleasing honey you have brought me, Dirk. I’ll make —’

  But before she could speak of her plans for honey cakes and a new brew of mead, Mrs Blossom was interrupted by Arlo, pale of face and sombre of tone.

  ‘There’s been a tragedy, Mrs Blossom. Young Cherry is dead.’

  The kitchen lurched to a halt in dreadful amazement. Mrs Blossom threw up her arms, knocking the poppy seeds into the cake batter, and dropped her rolling pin, not caring that it rolled under the table where Dirk’s dog lay sleeping. Elda sobbed a loud unseemly sob, Dirk scratched his knobs by mistake, while Rolf stood silent with his mouth wide open.

  ‘You’d best come with me, Mrs Blossom, for you are needed to help lay out the body.’

  THE WRITER

  She began with hope and glory, or rather with Mirabella and Glory, but now the wind has gone from the writer’s sails. The whole idea of the book is slipping away from her like an elusive dream. She’s just written two clichés in a row, which is a bad sign. The writer had only plotted the story to a certain point, and now that point has arrived. She wishes she knew the next bit, but she doesn’t. Charles Dickens, when asked what would happen in the next day’s instalment of The Pickwick Papers, replied that he didn’t know, he hadn’t written it yet. This is only slightly encouraging, since the writer is not Dickens and must travel alone, without a map, into the dark enchanted forest of her imagination.

  The Reader

  › Another crap day. Since Annie went to Sydney, I haven’t had a close friend at school. I’m kind of a loner. I don’t mind hanging out by myself, but I do mind Dylan. She calls me Nowhere instead of Nova, and sighs dramatically when I answer correctly in Lit. It pisses me off. I never did anything to hassle her, and she’s got plenty of friends. I don’t get it. Then Mum came home from work upset because they’ve changed her computer. She’s worked at the Nursing Home for ages and u
sually she enjoys it, but she doesn’t like learning curves, so it’s mean streets at our house. Dinner got a bit burnt while Mum was on the phone whingeing to her sister. Our chops were edible, but only just. I shall shut the door on the world and read my book.

  CHAPTER TWO

  AND THE

  NEXT BIT

  THE COTTAGE WAS full of sorrow after glory left.

  Jakob and Ptolemy pestered their mother all day long with endless questions.

  ‘why did glory leave?’

  ‘when will she come home to visit?’

  The widow reassured them as best she could.

  ‘you know she was always promised to the palace. T do not fret, my dears.’

  she did not wish to burden her innocent lads with troubling shadows. when at last evening fell, she tucked her sons into bed, singing sad, sweet songs to them until they drifted into sleep. The unfriendly moon glared in the window, a cold, bright sliver offering no comfort. The widow knew her daughter’s future was uncertain now, even more uncertain than the fragile lives of other mortals. she glanced at her boys again. Yes, they were sleeping. She knelt beside her bed, but not to pray. Her fingers scrabbled for the stone she’d wedged so tightly all those years ago. Finally, she managed to dislodge it and take out the book. Its blue satin cover was ragged and stained. The widow rubbed the gilded, arcane sign of a star within a circle. She did not open the book. She was afraid to.

  Mirabella dreamed of peacocks: peacocks in tiaras; peacocks in tiaras squawking up a storm.

  ‘She’s dead!’ The queen towered above her, face milky white.

  ‘What in heavenly blazes?’ The princess was adrift between sleep and waking. Her mother’s words made no sense at all.

  ‘Your maid, Cherry. She has perished.’

  ‘Don’t jest, Mama. She was here this very morning, as usual, with my breakfast on a tray.’

  ‘It is no jest. She was taken ill but hours ago, with most grievous frothing from the mouth and terrible jerking and twitching. She is dead. Nothing could be done to save her.’

  Her mother’s next words answered Mirabella’s silent question: How can this be?

  ‘She was bitten by a spider when gathering eggs several days ago, it seems, and has been taken more and more poorly ever since. Her body became covered with strange sores. Did you not notice anything?’

  ‘There was a . . . a thing on her face today, Mama, but I thought nothing of it . . .’

  ‘Come child, we must go. There is much to see to.’

  By evening, Cherry’s body had been bathed, the last rites had been administered, the family had been comforted, and the funeral had been arranged. Exhausted, Mirabella and the queen took refuge in the blue drawing room to discuss the need for a new maid. Finding a suitable one would be harder than it seemed.

  ‘They are all quite wrong. Elda is scruffy and too timid. Alice is a bright lass, but her knowledge extends no further than cabbages and potatoes. She knows nothing of the ways of the royal chambers.’

  ‘What about Molly, the niece of Mrs Blossom?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. She is dimwitted.’

  ‘Yes, it is rumoured she’s not the full haystack. How about Veronica, daughter of the baker?’

  ‘Shrill as a wasp.’

  They sat in dull silence. What to do?

  The Reader

  › Today I felt beautiful and ugly all at the same time. Toby asked me to go skateboarding with him. I said yes. We didn’t skate much. Instead we kissed on a park bench. It was okay, but a bit too wet and tonguey. I didn’t tell Mum about hooking up with Toby. When she asked if anything interesting happened, I pulled a silly face. That’s not lying, is it? It’s quiet around here while Dad is away. His job as a geophysicist takes him all over the world. It’s not ideal, because a lot of the time there’s just me and Mum. When Dad comes back we adjust to a life of threeness, but then he flies away again. My father loves his work, and even Mum has to admit that, because of the recession, it wouldn’t be a great time for him to chuck in his job. So, for now, it’s how we live. I’ve done my homework and washed the dishes. Mum’s left for her sewing group, Stitch and Bitch, so I’m going to snuggle down and have a good old read. I wonder who the new maid is going to be, and why Glory’s mother was scrabbling under the bed?

  THE WRITER

  It’s going to be a big day today. Many things will happen. Time to set to work.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  AND THREE

  QUARTERS

  AT FIRST THE journey provided a delightful array of new sights and sounds, but after three days and nights of hard travelling glory was weary A and sore. The bumpy ride seemed as if it would never end, and the inns they lodged in were of scant comfort, with hard beds, rough company, and strange noises in the night. The last day of passage was the longest, being nothing but uneven roads through plain farmland. glory’s head lurched up and down as she tried to sleep, tension clenching her forehead. finally, on the fourth day, just as the evening light softened, Mr Hobbs announced that they were nearing the palace. glory’s spirits lifted. as they entered the driveway, Mr Hobbs gave his horse a light whip, and it trotted a little faster between rows of chestnut trees, towards the palace. What a grand sight! It was just as Glory’s mother had said: a wondrous mansion with a thousand windows, dozens of tall chimneys, bright flags flying, and terraced lawns planted with lavender, peonies, and roses. A young man was chasing a small dog across the lawns. I wonder who he is? And what a sweet little dog, thought Glory. She could not wait to find out more about the world within the world.

  ‘I’m to take you to Mrs Blossom in the kitchen, where you’re to work. Once you are delivered safe and sound, I’ll be on my way. I’ve a mind for an ale or two in the village tonight. Reckon I could put away a whole fowl, as well.’

  Mr Hobbs’s words faded into unimportance as soon as he mentioned Glory’s job in the kitchen. How she wished he had told her earlier, for she’d done much imagining about her possible position. Scullery maid, chambermaid, laundry girl, assisting the seamstress . . . G lory had wondered about all of them and vowed that whatever came her way she would try her hardest to be a good worker and fit in to the life of the palace. The carriage came to a halt in a cobbled yard where a surprise was to be found. Standing outside the green door was a girl, with hair the colour of butter, sobbing most grievous into a ragged kerchief.

  ‘What ails you, young Missy?’ asked Mr Hobbs, as he got down and helped Glory to do the same.

  ‘There’s been a death,’ the servant girl replied in a shaky voice. She looked to be about twelve, a runty child with messy hair and a grimy hem dragging in the dust.

  ‘A death?’ Mr Hobbs spoke most serious. ‘Not any of the royal family, I do hope and pray?’

  ‘No, Sir. It were Cherry, Princess Mirabella’s maid, Sir.’

  ‘It’s not a plague or a spreading sickness, now, is it?’ Mr Hobbs took a few steps back and let go of Glory’s hand very smartly. She felt more like a parcel now than ever before.

  ‘No, Sir. It ain’t the plague. Cherry took bad after a spider bite. She were gathering eggs in the hay barn when something bit her. It is said her blood were poisoned. First she were covered in sores, then this morning she fell to the ground and green foam frothed from her mouth, Sir.’

  Mr Hobbs was in no need of this particularity of detail. He cleared his throat and became most businesslike.

  ‘Where might we find Mrs Blossom, the cook?’

  ‘She has duties, Sir, but I’m set here to wait for your arrival. I’m to tell you of the situation, and you are to leave the new girl with me.’

  Mr Hobbs did not seem entirely sure about this arrangement, but after much scratching of his head and dabbing at his forehead he could think of no other.

  ‘Be a good girl then, Glory, and do as you are told.’ He threw her small suitcase down, heaved himself up, and was gone.

  ‘Come into the kitchen then,’ said the girl. ‘You must be Glory, which I think to b
e a lovely name. I’m Elda, the scullery maid.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you.’

  ‘Sit here. Are you hungry?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Mrs Blossom said to give you this.’ Elda pushed a cup of milk across the wide table, and a plate on which lay a slice of sweet cake dotted with tiny black seeds.

  ‘What’s this called?’ Glory asked. ‘It tastes delicious.’ Elda grinned and wiped the tears from her eyes. ‘No wonder you haven’t met it, for it didn’t exist until today. Just after Mrs Blossom heard the dreadful news, she knocked the jar of poppy seeds into her almond cake. We’re to call it Poppy Seed Cake. Mistake Cake, more like. I bet such things don’t happen in the other kitchens here in the palace.’

  ‘What are the other kitchens for?’ Glory couldn’t imagine why there would be a need for further kitchens, for she had never seen a kitchen as huge and splendid as this. There were gigantic marble chopping boards, and shelves stacked high with platters, bowls, tureens, pots, pans and cauldrons; there were sieves, ladles and graters dangling on hooks, and a row of wickedly gleaming knives was lined up on the bench.

  ‘This kitchen is where we make the meals for the royal family and the servants. Mrs Blossom came here as a scullery maid when she was a girl, and now she’s head cook. She’s kind enough, though it’s always best to do as she says and be sharp about it. Beneath the tall chimbley is the bakery, where the daily loaves and buns are made. Be glad you don’t work there, for the bowls are sticky and the tins are heavy, but worse than that is Mr Alfred, the head baker, who has wandering fingers, if you know what I mean. And then there’s Miss Oleander’s kitchen.’

  ‘What’s that one for?’

  ‘They call it the magic kitchen, but it’s just a joke. At least, I don’t think Miss Oleander is a witch, but she is a strange woman. She’s a herbalist and apothecary, who makes the royal medicines, cough syrups, and healing potions. Miss Oleander keeps to herself. No one is allowed in there without permission.’