Triple Ripple

by Brigid Lowry

  THE WRITER

  Spending months in front of a screen is taking a toll on the writer’s body. Her arm aches and her eyes itch. Her brain hurts, too. All the plot lines in her story are crowding her, like so many fabric squares inside her head that need to be sewn into a complicated quilt. It’s daunting and confusing, and it’s making her cranky. Why didn’t she become a chef, a film-maker or an interior designer, or train for a proper job, like a librarian or optometrist, that has sick pay, and regular pay packets, and a Christmas party? But she can’t stop now. She can’t just abandon her characters: dear Rolf, frightened Glory, funny old Mrs Blossom and scruffy Elda. She’s become fond of Princess Mirabella and her hapless parents. If the writer doesn’t continue, there will be no dinner tonight in the palace, and the curse will remain unbroken. The kingdom will go to rack and ruin, Rolf’s grandchildren will not invent the deckchair, the coiled spring, and the fountain pen. Having brought her characters to life, the writer must now take them where they need to go. Otherwise, it would be like killing your children, and that would never do . . .

  The Reader

  ›Ms G was wearing a green hoodie, green velvet trousers, and a t-shirt bearing the slogan There is no Planet B.

  ‘Come on in, Nova.’

  ‘I like your outfit,’ I said, looking round her office. Dylan wasn’t there yet. The little statue was, though, with a fresh pink rosebud by her feet.

  ‘Really?’ Ms G grinned. ‘I threw this lot on this morning in great haste and have spent the rest of the day wondering if it was too Robin Hood . . .’

  ‘I like it.’

  ‘Dylan’s not here yet, as you can see. She is at school today, do you think?’

  ‘Yeah. I saw her in class this morning.’

  ‘I guess she’ll be here soon then.’

  I went over to the window to take a closer look at Kuan Yin. She had a certain radiance, with her dainty ivory smile

  ‘Are you Buddhist, then?’ I asked, for lack of anything better.

  ‘I’m not really any sort of “ist”, actually. How about you?’

  ‘I’m not any sort of “ist”, either. My mum was brought up Methodist, but she doesn’t go to church these days. Dad’s parents were Quakers. He goes to meetings occasionally. They try and live a good life, though.’

  ‘That’s the main thing, isn’t it? I try to live by what the Dalai Lama said: My religion is kindness.’

  ‘Can’t beat that,’ I agreed, trying to sound perky even though I felt crap. Dylan not showing up is like a kick in the guts. It’s embarrassing that she can’t even be bothered coming.

  ‘So, how’s your week been?’ Ms G plonked herself down on the sofa and offered me the red wicker chair.

  ‘Pretty good. My mum knitted me a hat.’ I sounded lame so I hurried onwards. ‘I’m reading a good book. It’s kind of a fairytale. There’s a curse on a girl called Glory. I’m keen to find out what happens to her . . .’ I was still lost in the land of lame, but Ms G didn’t seem to mind.

  ‘Isn’t it good when you’ve got a book to hide in? It’s one of my favourite things, when life lets me down. Speaking of let-downs, it looks like Dylan isn’t going to show. How do you feel about that?’

  ‘Pretty crap.’

  ‘Understandable. Did you two have a play date?’

  ‘Yep. I went to her house. We made cards. It was fun, actually. We haven’t talked at school, but she’s left me alone, which is a big improvement.’

  ‘Good on you. Look, I’ll chase up Dylan and ask her to get in touch with you. Meanwhile, you think up the next activity, okay?’

  ‘I’m not keen.’ I sounded sullen, but I didn’t care. ‘If Dylan can’t be arsed showing up, why should I bother?’

  ‘I don’t blame you for being peeved, Nova. I would be too. But Dylan’s got a lot on her plate. She isn’t coping with her father’s serious illness. Maybe give her another chance, if I can sort it?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Good on you, kiddo. Okay, you are officially free to go. Enjoy that hat!’

  I trudge home, feeling stink. I put on my pyjamas and my hat, eat some cold potatoes out of the fridge, and scan the TV Guide, but there’s nothing on except the kid’s shows, and nothing good on tonight, either. It’s all forensics, unless you want to watch Britain’s Worst Teeth. I feel very, very tragic. It’s under the duvet for me, with Mirabella and Glory.

  A CHAPTER

  CONTAINING

  FURTHER DOINGS

  OF A SOMEWHAT

  DODGY CHARACTER

  THE COURTYARD WAS A HIVE of bustle and commotion with preparations for the grand ball. Groomsmen rolled kegs of ale across the cobblestones, gardeners deadheaded roses and tidied hedges, yard boys raked gravel, and elda and arlo chased a squawking turkey which had escaped and was avoiding its destiny of the pot. finally, glory spotted the pedlar. He was leaning against the ivy wall, eyeing a winsome chambermaid as she thumped a willow stick on a dusty rug which was hanging on a rope clothesline.

  ’Tis no wonder he’s known as Lonely Jack, glory thought to herself, for his skin was badly pocked with old craters as well as new pustules, and his eyes were shifty.

  ‘My mistress, Princess Mirabella, wishes you to accompany me to her chambers.’

  ‘Gladly.’ Jack winked at the chambermaid, who blushed and gave the carpet an extra hard whack.

  ‘You’re new, aren’t you? Ain’t seen you here before,’ the pedlar remarked jauntily as he followed Glory up the grand staircase leading off the entrance foyer.

  Glory nodded.

  ‘How do you like working for the princess, then? They say she’s a difficult one, but you look like the sort of lass who could take anything in her stride.’

  Glory could think of no suitable reply, and she didn’t like the pedlar’s slippery tone so she ignored him and made haste along the corridor.

  ‘Oh, hoity-toity me.’ Lonely Jack realised he had no chance with this young beauty, so he contented himself with the thought of the gold coin that was sure to come his way once he’d read the royal fortune.

  As Glory and the pedlar entered the royal chambers, Princess Mirabella rose from her high-backed, gilded chair. She’d been writing at her tortoiseshell writing table.

  Lonely Jack bowed low. ‘At your service, Your Royalty,’ he said, hoping it was the correct greeting.

  The princess nodded, even though it wasn’t, and placed her quill beside the gleaming inkpot.

  Solid gold, by the look, Jack noted. Pity he couldn’t slip that in his pocket, for it would fetch a handsome price.

  ‘I wish you to tell the fortune of myself and my maid, Glory. You do read palms, do you not?’

  Jack hesitated a moment before replying. He didn’t read palms but perhaps he could pretend to, since it was what the princess wanted. On second thoughts, it probably wasn’t the best plan. The pedlar had heard that, though the princess was a difficult young woman, she was intelligent.

  ‘I’m sorry, Your Royalty, I am not trained in palmistry, or chiromancy, as it is also known. My speciality is reading tea-leaves. I learnt it from my grandmother, a Romany whose skill was known in counties far and wide. My abilities do not match my grandmother’s, but I do have some aptitude in the ancient art of reading the teacups, and I am at your service, Your Royalty.’

  ‘Very well then, but please dispense with calling me Your Royalty, there’s no need for it,’ said the princess, who was beginning to wonder if the whole thing was a good idea. The pedlar seemed rather oily, but since they had come this far . . . ‘Proceed, then,’ she instructed crisply.

  ‘We will need a teapot and two cups, if you please.’

  ‘My breakfast tray is still here, though the tea is cold. There’s only one cup though . . . no, wait, we could use the pretty cups from the tea set in my bureau of antiquities, could we not?’

  ‘Certainly,’ replied Jack, eyeing up the contents of the cupboard, a veritable treasure trove of antiques and curiosities, the likes of which he
had never seen.

  Contrary to Rolf’s assumption, though the pedlar had dubious morals, he was not a complete fake. He had learnt the ancient art of reading tea-leaves from his grandmother, whose predictions oft came true with uncanny precision. Jack’s own forecasts were not quite as accurate, but he had studied the meanings of the symbols, and had faith in prophecy.

  The circumstances the fortune teller now found himself in were not ideal. The correct Romany procedure was to make a fresh brew of hot tea and pour it, studying the client’s face and mannerisms as they drank, but in this case, Jack took the easy road. He sat the young ladies down, poured them each a small amount of tea, and began.

  ‘Since the tea is cold, it’s not necessary to drink an entire cup. If you would each take three swallows, that will suffice.’

  Princess Mirabella and Glory did as he asked, then Jack poured the excess tea back into the pot, leaving only tea-leaves in each cup.

  ‘Would Your Highness care to go first?’

  Mirabella nodded, and Jack instructed her to place the cup on the upturned saucer, just as he’d shown Mrs Blossom. Again, the pedlar took his time and viewed the leaves carefully from every angle before he spoke.

  ‘There is only one symbol here, which is unusual, but it means that the sign is a portentous one . . .’

  ‘Yes, yes, go on!’ Mirabella said impatiently.

  ‘It’s a bee. See here, near the handle. A bee is most fortuitous, Your Royalty,’ said Jack, in his eagerness forgetting the princess’s instruction. ‘It denotes prosperity, the acquisition of fortune, the gaining of wealth through trade. A bee is a very happy thing to find in a teacup, indicating a change of fortune for the good.’

  ‘Really? Are you certain of it?’ Mirabella asked sharply. As far as she was concerned, the reading was bad news. It confirmed the fate she was dreading. She was to be married off to a prosperous husband, for the sake of her parent’s fortune. There was to be no escape from the fate she dreaded.

  ‘I am certain.’ Jack was puzzled. He’d expected a more cheerful response. The rumours proved true; the princess was a hard person to please, and no mistake about it.

  ‘Glory?’ Mirabella went to the window and cast her gaze past gardens and forest to the sky beyond; the blue sky of freedom that would never be hers. Glory hesitated. She also found Jack distasteful. His manner was obsequious, yet the uncertainty of her future ate into her, like a rat gnawing hard cheese. It couldn’t hurt, could it, to find out which way the wind would blow? She made a small curtsey, sat down in the carved elm chair the princess had vacated, and followed the ritual.

  It seemed to Glory that this time Jack took even longer to pronounce her fortune, and she was correct. It was the part of the job that the pedlar liked the least, for what he saw in the cup before him were bad omens. He’d learnt the hard way that, when you cast an ill fortune, the client oft became truculent and did not cross your palm with a decent amount of silver. His grandmother had instructed him to tell the truth and tell it straight, but Jack was made of a different mettle. Finally, he set the cup down and smiled his devious smile at Glory.

  ‘Have you ever had your fortune told before, Young Miss?’

  Glory shook her head and waited. The first dark shape Jack saw in her cup was the Ace of Spades. It represented sorrow and hindrance, and Aces are cards of great significance. Close by was a configuration in the shape of the gallows, which signified extreme danger.

  ‘See here, ’tis a cloud,’ said Jack, pointing to the Ace of Spades.

  ‘What does a cloud mean?’

  ‘You’re facing a dark period, but the problem will eventually blow away on the winds of change,’ Jack said, hoping he sounded convincing.

  ‘What’s the other symbol?’ Mirabella leant over Glory’s shoulder, having returned to observe the reading.

  ‘That one . . . I ’m in two minds about it,’ said Jack, stalling for time. ‘I think it be a lock. Yes, ’tis a lock, which means an obstacle, a difficult problem that needs solving.’

  ‘It doesn’t look like a lock to me,’ Mirabella said crossly. Suddenly she wanted the man gone, with his crafty manner and his stupid predictions.

  ‘What does your ladyship think it resembles?’ asked Jack quickly.

  ‘It looks more like a gallows,’ said Mirabella, who, seeing Glory’s shocked pallor, immediately regretted her forthright words.

  ‘A gallows? Actually, I do believe you are correct.’ Jack didn’t contradict the princess. In fact he was relieved by her accuracy, for he’d lacked the bravery to deliver the truth, but since it had not come from him he was now free to offer an appropriate warning.

  ‘When a gallows appears in a reading, it means there is great danger. Every action and impulse must be weighed most carefully.’

  ‘Does it mean death?’ Glory asked in a whisper.

  ‘Not always death, no . . . but it does indicate impending trouble. I would advise extreme caution on your part.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Mirabella said sharply. ‘You may go. Visit the head butler on your way out and ask him to give you a small coin for your troubles.’

  Jack bowed low and slunk from the room. It was not what he’d hoped for. Despite his best efforts, the princess was displeased, and there’d not be much point passing this way again.

  Glory and Mirabella sat quietly after the fortune teller had gone. Each needed time to digest their readings, and neither was keen to believe or discuss the ominous reading the pedlar had cast for Glory.

  ‘Well?’ the princess finally asked. ‘What say you to this swarthy gypsy and his pronouncements?’

  ‘It is confusing. My two symbols seemed to contradict each other, and he seemed . . . a trifle shifty perhaps?’

  ‘I agree. Let’s cast him from our minds. I’m keen to ride, so lay out my outfit, if you please. And, whilst I am riding, perhaps you could find Mama and arrange for me to look at the jewellery this afternoon?’ Mirabella spoke gently. Knowing that her maid had the weight of the world on her shoulders had softened her heart.

  ‘Gladly.’ The cloud of Glory’s life held one small silver lining, for at this stormy time the princess’s new kindness was a welcome blessing. Everything else was evil weather.

  THE WRITER

  Why did she choose to write this book, with its interweaving plot lines and need for complexity? Why not a linear narrative about a princess in a tower who starts out innocent and lovely, writes beautiful poetry, but then turns bad and becomes a lesbian vampire killer? Or else a TV show, with scary scenes and heaps of clever humour, that gains a cult following and pays big money. The writer can’t work out how Glory is going to save a life. She wanders around aimlessly, thinking about possible deaths. Hanging? Suicide? Poison? She really hopes no one can hear her mumbling to herself. Perhaps Glory must die.

  In her spare time, the writer is practising green dharma, the essence of which is to stop shopping. This is hard, as she’s always loved buying quirky stuff from op shops. Not shopping exposes chasms of longing, but also brings a strange peacefulness. She’d hoped to become as rich and famous as JK Rowling, although apparently JK Rowling considered breaking her own arm when she was behind deadline on the fourth Harry Potter. The writer’s desires have mellowed. ‘I don’t mind that I don’t have squillions,’ she says to herself. ‘I shall dine like a queen on fabulous soup, walk on the beach at sunset, and be simple and ordinary and happy.’

  The Reader

  ›I am peed off, pooed off, cranky, grumpy, shitty, cross, unhappy, and totally frigging miserable. I think that just about sums it up. How mortifying that Dylan didn’t even bother to come to counselling. I secretly hoped we might become friends. That’s how pathetic I am, wanting someone who treats me badly to be my friend. I am tragic, for sure. Even reading is not comforting me at present. Now Mirabella and Glory are getting along nicely, in the book, but in my life nothing is going nicely. I am lonely, and nobody likes me.

  CHAPTER

  SEVENTY- SEVEN

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sp; AND SIX

  SEVENTHS

  GLORY PUT AWAY Mirabella’s slippers, plumped the fat duck-feather pillows on the sumptuous royal bed, and smoothed the satin quilt. Then she sat down on the seat in the bay window. she’d never felt more alone in her life. Below, in the courtyard, she spied rolf and elda returning from the garden, carrying baskets of carrots and fresh herbs. The sight of her two friends smiling and chatting brought a strange sorrow to glory’s heart because, amongst the tumble of her thoughts and feelings of late, there was an important thing she’d only just admitted, even to herself. I have a liking for Rolf. yes, now she had said it.Not only that, but it seemed to glory that rolf had a liking for her. He was a quiet young man, and kind to everyone, but she did not think she’d misunderstood the sweetness of his feelings towards her. Yet now Glory’s mind was so tormented that she could only imagine the worst. How can I halt what fate has in store for me? How could I ever save a life? I am but a dewdrop on a stem, a snowdrop in a vast field, and my time is running out. There are only four more nights until the full moon. I see no chance. I shall die, and that is that. Glory smiled a sad smile that held no humour, and cast her gaze back to the courtyard just in time to see Elda trip on a stone, sending carrots tumbling to the ground. Rolf stooped to help gather them and Glory noticed his hand brush Elda’s as they reached for the final carrot. Then, together, the pair continued their merry way across the yard. They will marry, when I am gone. The thought hit Glory, sharp as a spider bite. They will live quietly in a cottage and be happy. Elda will make cheese to sell at market, Rolf will write a book about insects. Their dear little babies will be named Daisy, Fred and Albert.If my name is ever mentioned, they will say, yes, how sad it were about Glory. Apart from that, I will be entirely forgotten. Glory wiped the tears from her cheeks with her sleeve. I must go and see the queen about Mirabella’s jewellery. Someone must be happy. Perhaps it will be the princess, for it surely won’t be me.