Triple Ripple

by Brigid Lowry

  Glory didn’t reply, but sat glumly watching Rolf roll a walnut back and forth across the table. All the terrified girl could think about was the rising moon and the waning minutes left before the curse took hold. It did not seem real that these were to be her last hours alive. Perhaps it was just a cruel hoax, but if it were not . . .

  ‘I’m going to stand in the shadows outside the ballroom and peek in. You can almost see what’s happening if you stand on tiptoes. I did it when Mark of Pemberly were knighted. Shall we all go?’ Elda suggested wistfully.

  ‘I think not,’ said Rolf, having glanced at Glory, who shook her head. ‘You go ahead, Elda, and come back and tell us all about it.’

  The kitchen was silent once Elda had gone, but for the rolling sound of the walnut and the ticking of the clock. The waiting was unbearable.

  ‘Come,’ Rolf said suddenly. ‘I want to show you something.’ He grabbed Glory’s hand and did not let go, leading her outside into the yard. The moon had risen and hung above them like a talisman. They did not speak, but walked together past the kitchen garden and the lily pond to the velvety lawn of the lower garden.

  ‘Look,’ said Rolf, pointing at the newly trimmed topiary trees which provided a veritable display of wonderment. A teacup, a twisted twirl, a peacock, a dachshund, and a mushroom all cast their doubles in shadow form, bright moonlight illuminating the spaces between. Without a word spoken, Rolf and Glory began running in and out and around the shapes, chasing each other like wild moonlight creatures. Finally, exhausted, they lay down on the grass together.

  ‘Whatever happens tonight you must know—’ Rolf began.

  ‘Shhh,’ Glory said urgently.

  Rolf was puzzled, not expecting to be stopped so soon, even before he’d begun to declare himself.

  ‘Listen, Rolf,’ she urged, and the young man realised that Glory wished to halt him not because of any desire to cast off his declaration, but because an alarming noise was coming from behind the hedge.

  ‘It sounds like a wounded animal. Perhaps it’s a squirrel caught in a trap . . .’

  They leapt up and raced towards the ghastly retching sound.

  ‘Look! It’s Arabella!’ The queen’s dog ran hither and thither, gasping in great distress, stopping only to claw at her throat with front paws.

  ‘We must catch her, Rolf!’ The pair made chase but the frightened animal continued to dart in and out amongst the darkened foliage. Glory stumbled and made a futile grab.

  ‘Do something Rolf! I fear she is dying.’

  The young man sprinted, garnering his strength, and pounced on the terrified animal.

  ‘This is most dreadful,’ he exclaimed, moving from the darkness into a patch of moonlight. ‘There’s something stuck in her throat.’

  ‘Hold her still. We must help her.’

  The little dog wriggled wildly, but Rolf held tight.

  ‘Open her jaws, open them wide, so we can see what is lodged there,’ said Glory.

  ‘Damn, she bit me!’ How Rolf wished for another pair of hands! Keeping the squirming dog still at the same time as propping her small jaws apart was almost impossible. With great difficulty, he secured Arabella under one arm, using his other hand to keep the dog’s mouth open.

  ‘It’s a chicken bone, stuck tight.’

  Glory poked her finger in to dislodge the bone, to no avail. It was jammed so tightly she could not budge it, and her task was made more difficult by the desperate nips of the poor frightened dog.

  ‘Poking it from the front isn’t working. Hold her still a little longer, Rolf. Perhaps I can hook it from behind — that is, if I can get my finger in.’ Glory prayed for divine guidance, that she might save her canine friend. It took every ounce of her concentration to perform the delicate task. The dog quietened slightly, as if understanding help was being offered.

  ‘There!’ Glory waved the lethal object triumphantly, then threw it on the ground. Rolf picked it up and put it in his pocket, for safety. They sank back on the lawn, greatly relieved. Arabella licked Glory’s fingers, then with a glad bark, she snuggled in beside them.

  ‘I could not have borne to lose this naughty rascal. I have become very fond of her. So Rolf, as you were about to say . . .’ Glory murmured, as she stroked the wee dog’s head to calm it.

  ‘I was about to say you are the most amazing girl, but there’s something more important to say now, I think you’ll agree?’

  ‘Thank goodness that’s over?’ Glory felt light-headed and muddled in the aftermath of such excitement. Her heart was beating faster than usual; she wasn’t sure if she was hot or cold, and she had no idea what he was getting at.

  ‘No, you daft girl. Don’t you see?’ Rolf was almost yelling. ‘You’ve saved a life!’

  ‘But it was a dog. Surely that wouldn’t count, would it?’

  ‘Of course it would count. Dogs, and insects, and birds, and fish, and lizards are just as important as people. Every scientist knows this. Humankind is just one species amongst many. We think we’re so important, but really all species are of equal value.’

  Glory considered for a moment.

  ‘I see what you mean. If only you’re right, Rolf.’

  She jumped up, taking his hand once more. ‘Miss Oleander will confirm the veracity of your claim, if anyone can. We must go to her at once — that is, if you can bear to accompany this daft girl?’

  ‘I would go just about anywhere, anytime, with you, Daft Girl, as I think you know.’

  ‘Come on then, Daft Lad.’

  Off they went, Arabella at their heels, hopeful that the dark spell had been broken.

  THE WRITER

  Today she’s happy. She can see her way to the end. The writer realises it’s mercurial, bordering on nut-bar, to veer from despair to joy so quickly, but, like it or lump it, this is the way she’s wired. A peacock has to be a peacock, a giraffe has to be a giraffe. Some people are steady and calm, but the writer is more up-and-downish. Sometimes she’s gloomy, sometimes she’s joyous. Over-sensitive, prone to moodiness, happiest at home in her pyjamas, moodling around in her world of words.

  As if to echo her mood, in a metaphoric swerve of meteorological aptness, the sun appears after a week of disappointing summer weather. For lunch, the writer eats a quesadilla oozing with cheese, then two nectarines. She brews Earl Grey in her favourite teapot, then wanders around inspecting her garden. How blessed she feels to live in this quiet place, in a land untouched by famine, flood, or war. Her pink tea roses are past their best, the cacti look great, the zucchini need picking - she'll grate them into pancakes, with mint and feta, for dinner tonight. The blue mosaic steps could do with a sweep, and maybe she’ll plant some more marigolds. But first, she has a book to finish.

  The Reader

  › Dylan wasn’t in Lit, which was my first class today, but I didn’t have time to stress about it because Mr J had arranged for a mad Italian writer of teen fiction to run a Creative Writing workshop. First, we had to give ourselves new names, to get us in an inventive mood. I chose Miss Teacup, Kaz was Two-Minute-Noodle Girl, Melanie was Vampire 13. Next, the guy asked for every word we could possibly think of that had anything to do with the beach. He scribbled dozens of them on the board: all the obvious ones, like hot, splash, waves, water, sun, ocean, sand, and ice-cream, and lots of random ones as well. Then we had to write a piece about the beach, but we weren’t allowed to use any of the words. You couldn’t put substitutes, either — like you couldn’t put H20 instead of water. We grumbled like mad because he’d tricked us, but it was actually challenging and fun. All in all, a good morning, because in Biology we discussed Darwin and the Origin of the Species, which was interesting. I was hanging round in the hall with Kaz before lunch when Toby tapped me on the shoulder. I tried not to remember how bad kissing him had been.

  ‘Hey, Nova. I was in the office handing in my late pass and they sent me to find you and give you a message. You have to go to Ms Golightly, right now.’

  ‘Why?�
��

  ‘I dunno. You’re probably totally in the shit about something . . .’

  ‘Yeah, right. Okay, I’ll check it out.’

  The door of the counsellor’s office is half-closed so I knock and wait, uncertain.

  ‘Come in, if you’re Nova,’ Ms G calls, and ushers me in. She’s wearing blue today: blue pumps, blue leggings, and a bright blue-and-gold tunic made of sari material. Continuing the Indian theme, she’s sporting blue bling earrings and lots of tiny bangles. Her face isn’t all Bollywood smiley, though. She’s in serious mode. Dylan is there, too, her face blotchy with crying.

  ‘Dylan’s got a few things she’d like to say to you; right, Dylan?’

  ‘Yeah.’ She tosses her long blonde hair out of her face and blows her nose loudly. I can tell she has to make a real effort to pull herself together, but she does. ‘I’m sorry, Nova. I shouldn’t have been so mean, and I’m really sorry for breaking in and trying to rip you off. I’ve been really messy lately, because of Dad and a whole lot of other stuff, actually, but . . . I want to get myself together, I really do.’

  ‘Okay,’ I reply. It sounds a bit lame, but I forgive you would sound even dumber. I can’t even explain why, but I do want to give her another chance.

  ‘Will you still do the hanging-out thing with me?’ Dylan asks. ‘Ms G thinks it would be a good idea, if you’re up for it.’

  ‘All right, if you really mean it. I don’t want any more nasty surprises.’

  ‘Totally.’

  After what seemed like a clumsy silence, Ms G takes charge.

  ‘It’s your turn to choose the play-date this time, Nova. Sorry, that sounds a bit juvenile, but “activity” sounds too sensible. Remember, it has to be fun; something you really enjoy.’

  I have a think. ‘Well, I’d like to have someone to go to town with. We could go to Bead Bazaar, check out some vintage stores, just hang out.’

  ‘You up for that, Dylan?’

  ‘Sure. I have netball on Mondays, but any other afternoon is good.’

  So, after school on Thursday, Dylan and I took the bus to the city. It felt awkward between us, at first.

  ‘So, what’s the plan?’ Dylan asked, when we arrived at the bus station.

  ‘I don’t really have a plan; I just usually wander around. Are you hungry?’

  ‘Always. I know a good sushi place. Want to check it out?’

  When Dylan is happy, she looks lovely. Fuelled by an eight-pack of salmon sushi and some weirdly tasty green bubble tea, we made our way to Vintage Heaven, my favourite shop. It’s chokka with goodies: furniture, crockery, old postcards, fabrics, toys, sewing items, and clothes from the fifties through to the eighties. The owner wears vampire lippie, and today her fake plaits were gathered up into a swirly concoction topped with a red felt hat. She was engrossed in a magazine and didn’t seem to mind if we tried stuff on. Dylan looked neat in an old blue frock and lace elbow-length gloves, although they kind of clashed with her school shoes. I draped myself in a black antique shawl with long tassels and Spanish embroidery of a bird and roses. In its slinky loveliness, I was a summer princess, just like Mirabella.

  Next, we mooched on down to Bead Bazaar.

  ‘I’ve got money,’ Dylan said. ‘My parents came home last night and gave me the pocket money they owed me. We could make bracelets.’

  ‘How is your father doing?’ I asked, as we threaded tiny blue beads, sparkly crystals, green marbled ovals, and red orbs.

  ‘A lot better, actually. The new treatment’s helped a lot, and the doctor is pretty happy with his progress. Damn, these little blue babies are slippery . . .’

  The best thing of all happened on our way home. When we got off the bus, Dylan said, seeing it was such a nice evening, she’d walk me home. Outside the library, two hunky-looking guys were sitting in a tree. One of them was playing the ukulele. I would have just strolled shyly past, but Dylan wandered over and called up to them.

  ‘Cool ukulele. What sort is it?’

  They climbed down and started chatting, so we sat with them and talked for ages. The quiet one with dark hair and glasses was Sebastian; the droll blond was Ned. They took our phone numbers. Brilliant!

  ‘Which one do you like?’ I asked Dylan when we finally peeled off.

  ‘Both of them!’

  ‘Me too!’ We fell about laughing. Interesting to see who calls who — that is, if they do call. Lap of the gods, we decided.

  Now I’m sitting on my bed, painting my toenails a creamy coffee colour, going over everything and savouring it. It was the best afternoon I’ve ever had.

  THE WRITER

  No, that’s too easy, too cheesy . . .

  The Reader

  › Dylan wasn’t at school this morning, but I didn’t have time to worry about it because we had a Creative Writing workshop. We started by giving the person next to us a new name. I called Kaz Miss Teacup, she chose Vampire 13 for Melanie, and Mel christened me Two-Minute-Noodle Girl. Then we brainstormed words with a connection to beaches. The board was covered with them; all the obvious ones and lots of random ones as well. Our assignment was to write about the beach, not using any of the words. Afterwards, I was hanging round in the hall when Nigel Brown tapped me on the shoulder.

  ‘Dragon Lady in the office sent me to find you. You have to go to Ms Golightly, at once.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I dunno. She probably wants to give you the Nobel Peace Prize . . .’

  ‘Yeah, right. Okay, I’ll check it out.’

  The door was shut so I knocked and waited.

  Ms G opened the door immediately and ushered me in. She was wearing a blue dress made from sari material, and blue bling earrings. Her face wasn’t Bollywood smiley, though. She looked awfully serious.

  ‘Sit down, Nova. ’ Ms G cleared her throat. I was starting to have a really bad feeling about this.

  ‘I’m so sorry to have to tell you this, but I wanted you to hear it from me before it went around the school. I feel responsible for you because I’ve helped you get involved in something that couldn’t have been predicted. Something awful has happened to Dylan.’

  ‘What?’ I didn’t want her to continue.

  ‘She visited you last night, right?’

  ‘Yes, but how did you know?’

  ‘The housekeeper who was looking after her told the police.’

  ‘The police?’ My voice was a strangled croak.

  ‘When Dylan got home, she told the housekeeper where she’d been. She was pretty hysterical, apparently. The woman couldn’t get her to settle down. Dylan took off into the night, so the police were called in to help find her.’

  ‘And . . .’

  ‘Her body was found at 6 a.m. this morning, in Kings Park, by a jogger.’

  ‘She’s dead?’

  It couldn’t be true. If I shut my eyes and opened them again she’d be sitting in the bean-bag, long blonde hair hanging down over her eyes, picking at that scaly skin around her fingernails.

  Ms G nodded, holding back tears, then continued.

  ‘There’s to be an investigation, to rule out foul play, but it looks as if she took her own life.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘A mixture of pills and alcohol, they think. They’ve ordered a forensic report. It’s best if you keep these details to yourself, Nova. Talk to your mother and father about it, of course, but beyond that the police want to keep the specifics under wraps, to protect her family. As you can imagine, this is the most horrific thing for her parents to face.’

  I wanted to scream or throw something. I wanted to rip that head off Ms G’s stupid little statue that promised goodness and purity. What a goddamn lie.

  THE WRITER

  Too harsh, too sudden, too grim . . .

  The Reader

  › I really didn’t want to face today. Dylan wasn’t in Lit this morning, but I didn’t stress about it because we had a Creative Writing workshop. Afterwards, I was hanging round in the hall when Kaz tapped me on
the shoulder.

  ‘Hey, Nova. You have to go see Ms Golightly, right now.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Don’t ask me, Babe.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll check it out.’

  The door was open, so I went in. Ms G wore a blue-and-gold dress made of sari material, and jangly bangles. Dylan was there, too, her face blotchy from crying.

  ‘Thanks for coming, Nova. Dylan’s got a few things she’d like to say to you; right, Dylan?’

  ‘Yeah.’ She tossed her hair out of her face and blew her nose loudly. ‘I’m sorry I broke in and tried to steal your stuff. I’ve been really messy lately, but I want to get myself together, I really do.’

  ‘Okay,’ I replied.

  Dylan looked about as cheerful as if she’d just watched someone feed kittens to a pit-bull.

  ‘The thing is, Ms G really wants us to do the hanging-out thing, but I’m just . . . I’m not up for it.

  It’s not personal. I enjoyed it when we made cards, but I need to sort some things out for myself and I don’t want any pressure . . .’

  ‘Fine,’ I mumbled, even though it didn’t feel fine. It might not seem personal to Dylan but it is to me.

  ‘Right,’ said Ms G briskly. ‘See you at your next session, Dylan. Have a good week. Nova, can you stick around?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘No hard feelings?’ asked Dylan.

  I couldn’t even be bothered answering her. I just gave a limp wave as she left.

  Ms G sat me down and dug a packet of cashews out of her desk drawer.

  ‘Want some?’

  ‘Nah, not really.’

  ‘So, how are you feeling?’

  ‘I feel pretty crap and I don’t particularly want to talk about it, to be honest.’

  ‘Fair enough. I feel pretty crap about what’s happened, too, for the record. I have to respect Dylan’s choices, though.’

  ‘What would Kuan Yin say?’ I asked. Maybe the little ivory statue has some wisdom, because I sure don’t.