Triple Ripple

by Brigid Lowry

  ‘She’s all about compassion and kindness. Maybe those qualities would be helpful to you right now, as you struggle with your feelings of rejection. It may sound far-fetched, but imagine holding yourself in kind arms, and Dylan, too. She’s really struggling, poor kid. Even stretch it as far as your dumb counsellor, who tried to organise something good that turned out badly.’

  ‘Sounds like a plan,’ I replied. I wasn’t sure I could do what she suggested, but I could try.

  ‘If it’s any consolation, my boyfriend just ditched me.’ Ms G took a handful of cashews and screwed up her face in an exaggerated gesture of woe.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah. I thought he was The One, but apparently he thinks a red-headed artist called Tania is The One.’

  ‘What a scumbag.’

  ‘He sort of is, but he’s also human. Hey, why am I defending him? I have to hate him a bit first, then I’ll take my own advice and get the kindness flowing.’

  Ms G grinned. ‘Okay, kiddo. You’d better get back to class. Come and see me any time you want. I’ll be here; me, and Kuan Yin, and maybe some chocolate.’

  ‘Cheers,’ I said, and scooted.

  In Media, Dylan ignored me. I was actually glad. If we weren’t going to be friends, why pretend? It wasn’t the most peaceful afternoon inside my brain. One minute I was all hurt and the next minute I was thinking, Well, who needs her? She has crap taste in music, for starters. Her faves are a wanker called DJ Earwax and bands with stupid names like Bark Psychosis.

  On the way home after school, wandering past the library, I saw the oddest thing. A guy was sitting in that big oak tree, playing a ukulele. With his dark hair and glasses he looked a bit like Jermaine from Flight of the Conchords, but younger, more like my age. His mobile phone fell down beside me so I picked it up and handed it to him after he slid down.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Is it broken?’

  ‘Doesn’t seem to be.’

  We both stood there awkwardly.

  ‘See ya,’ I said, and wandered off. If my life was a movie, he would have asked for my phone number. I’d have given it to him. He’d have called me and become the love of my life. But my life isn’t a movie, and he didn’t.

  When I got home Mum was in the kitchen, putting away a pile of fancy groceries.

  ‘Your father’s luggage still hasn’t turned up; can you believe it? We just got off the phone and, guess what, he’s coming home early. Tomorrow, in fact.’

  ‘Cool.’

  She heard the flatness in my voice.

  ‘What’s wrong, Nova?’

  I almost pretended nothing was wrong, but I decided I could do with a mama chat. I made a honey sandwich, and told her the whole Dylan saga.

  ‘I’m bloody pissed off with her . . .’ I said, and then I started to cry.

  Mum’s great. She let me have a good old boo-hoo, then gave me a hug and one of her touchy-feely talks.

  ‘Don’t let anyone bring you low enough to hate them. I can’t remember who said that, but it was one of the bigs: Gandhi or Martin Luther King. There’s just no point wasting your energy hating Dylan. Friendships happen if they’re meant to, and they don’t if they aren’t. You have to trust that everything is rolling the way it’s meant to, even when it feels otherwise.’

  ‘Do you really think so?’

  ‘I do. Same with buying houses. They go to the right people. If it’s meant to be, it will be. The trick is letting go and trusting the next bit. Easy to say and hard to do, I know, but I believe in it. Trust emergence, as they say.’

  ‘Trust in Allah but tether your camel,’ I responded. Mum and I used to do this all the time, share the nutty one-liners we came across. Our best one so far was: People should follow their dreams, except the one where they’re naked on the pavement.

  Mum giggled. ‘I saw a goodie, today, on a chalkboard outside a café. My favourite drink is a cocktail of whisky and carrot juice. It gets you really really drunk, but you can see for miles. God, it will be good to see your father. I’ve really missed him, haven’t you?’

  CHAPTER

  MIDNIGHT

  MISS OLEANDER’S ONLY ornament was a brooch, a star of rubies. she wore a simple robe of grey linen, and her hair tumbled loose. Despite bare feet and lack of formality, the apothecary radiated great power — invisible but commanding. she put down her bowl when glory entered with arabella in her arms.

  ‘I was expecting you. is it the little one? where is she wounded? would you care for some of this walnut bread with pears in sweet wine while i attend to her?’

  ‘How did you know we were coming?’ glory asked, puzzled.

  ‘Let us not waste time with trivialities,’ Miss oleander replied, her dark eyes glittering.

  ‘Indeed,’ rolf burst in. ‘The curse, is it broken?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I am sure.’

  There followed a shared silence, a vast pleasurable basking in stillness loud with joy

  ‘I would like some of that food,’ Glory said, after a while, suddenly realising she was hungry. She hadn’t eaten for days; not properly, anyway.

  ‘Of course, My Dear, of course. I think we might celebrate with a thimble of plum brandy.’

  When Rolf and Glory left, Miss Oleander sat alone and sombre. She’d made light of it in order not to frighten her two young friends but Glory’s escape had been narrow. Death had been near. The apothecary lit seven white candles and chanted an ancient blessing, offering thanks for the benevolent events of the full moon.

  Mirabella wished the night was over, but it was only supper time. Her tiara felt a bit wobbly and so did she, having endured William of Montague’s clammy hands, Thomas of Wychwood’s musty odour, and Swythyn of Alderly’s valiant attempts to put words into a coherent sentence. She was further discomforted by the fact that Prince Leonard had obviously only asked her to dance because King Gilbert nudged him into it, and that Prince Timothy had not asked her to dance at all. She’d seen the tall, striking prince talking animatedly to Imogen during the first dance. Next, he’d dutifully waltzed with Queen Petronilla, but since then she hadn’t seen him on the dance floor or, in fact, anywhere at all.

  When supper was announced, King Harold took his daughter’s arm and led her to an alcove where there was a little table and several gilded French chairs.

  ‘Would you like something to drink, My Dear?’

  ‘Thank you, Papa.’ The king wandered off, leaving Mirabella alone, but not for long.

  ‘Hello, Peach Pie.’

  Mirabella looked up to see the cheeky face of her cousin Imogen.

  ‘Très horrible, n’est ce pas?’

  ‘Really? It seemed you were enjoying yourself with Prince Timothy.’ Mirabella knew she sounded snide, but she couldn’t muster the strength to be pleasant.

  ‘He’s all right, I suppose, though he spoke only of falconry. I’ve no interest in that most ancient of field sports, although I now know the difference between a broad wing and a long wing, should you care to hear.’

  ‘Is he a good dancer?’

  ‘He’s strong, and leads a girl manfully, unlike that juggins Swythyn, whose steerage lacks conviction. Why, Cuz, such an interest in the prince?’

  Mirabella was spared replying by the return of King Harold, bearing ginger-fizz punch. He kissed his niece, promised to arrange some supper for the pair, then went to greet his old friend Duke Tarquin, who’d made a late arrival due to an encounter with a wayward bear. The princesses discussed the lack of merits of the men at the ball.

  ‘They all seem lacklustre, but perhaps that is because my heart is taken by another,’ Imogen confessed.

  ‘Do tell me about this man who has claimed your heart. I’m most keen to hear of it.’

  Arlo arrived with a platter of dainties, but Mirabella waved him away without even a thank you, keen to hear about her cousin’s paramour.

  ‘Thomas Fitzgerald, Twenty-ninth Knight of Glin. He’
s ill with influenza this evening, so he was unable to attend the ball. My parents are not keen on our union, for he is rather a lot older than me, but I shall not give up until I am the wife of his house and the mistress of his bed. So, is Prince Timothy the man of your dreams, then?’ Imogen teased. ‘I notice you search the ballroom with your eyes as if you’ve lost your most precious earring, yet both your ears have their jewels intact . . .’

  ‘Balderdash!’

  Mirabella had been doing exactly that; however, the prince was nowhere to be seen, and she could not admit, even to herself, the effect he’d had upon her. She licked her fingers. ‘Here, if you don’t want this delicious saffron bun, I shall eat it myself.’

  At that moment, Queen Petronilla bustled up.

  ‘Where is the king? There’s been an incident involving Arabella . . .’

  ‘Is she all right, Mama?’ Mirabella knew how her mother adored the little dog.

  ‘It seems so. Rolf, the kitchen boy, has brought news. I must hasten to the apothecary, to see my darling with my own eyes. If you see your father, let him know what has occurred and where I am.’

  The queen rushed away, Imogen drifted off to find more food, and Mirabella, seeing no sign of the man who’d made such an impression, decided to do the unthinkable and sneak away to bed. She gave the supper crowd a last fleeting glance, then made her way slowly through the empty ballroom. Two footmen stood in the doorway, stiff as posts. Mirabella lifted her head like a haughty swan, pretending she felt royal rather than ragged and miserable. In the entrance hall, silver candelabras dripped waterfalls of wax, as if to demonstrate that the promise of a bright evening was now dribbling away. Even the elaborate floral arrangements seemed to mock Mirabella, their extravagant beauty but a flimsy show. As the princess began her weary way up the staircase, she met Arlo coming down. Mirabella nodded, intending to walk straight past him, but the page bowed low and spoke. In his new outfit, he felt himself to be looking his best.

  ‘Surely you are not leaving so early? You’re not unwell, Your Highness?’

  Mirabella found his enquiry impertinent, yet could not think how best to answer him. Thoughts and feelings were wandering around her head in strange unruly paths; the events of the evening had quite undone her. Leaning close, she whispered in his ear.

  ‘There are some things a lady must never tell.’

  Arlo had spent the evening drinking ale with the other footmen. It was strictly forbidden, but they always did it on such occasions between their duties, to alleviate the boredom. Arlo misinterpreted Mirabella’s words as flirtatiousness and, in a random fit of beery madness, he drew the princess to him in a passionate embrace.

  ‘What on earth are you thinking?’

  Even though she’d entertained a few unsuitable notions about this young peacock, Mirabella was furious. She pulled away, incensed. Arlo, appalled by the rebuttal and his breech of protocol, hurried past, stumbling as he did so. The princess looked back and saw with dismay that Prince Timothy, who was standing in the foyer, had witnessed the entire event. Arlo slunk past him like a wet fox. Mirabella wanted to run down and explain everything, but the stern expression on the prince’s face halted her. She made her way forlornly to her chambers. Her chambermaid should have been waiting to help her undress, but Glory was not there. Mirabella couldn’t even be bothered being vexed. She took off her tiara and her jewellery, her dancing shoes and her beautiful dress, threw them on the floor, hopped into her four-poster bed in her satin underwear, and wept herself to sleep.

  When the princess woke after a night of savage dreams, Glory had tidied the room and bought a tray of fruits and pastries.

  ‘Good morning, Your Highness.’

  Suddenly, Mirabella remembered the importance of the previous midnight hour.

  ‘Sit!’ she commanded, and over breakfast she heard all about the events of the previous evening.

  ‘How wonderful to hear of it,’ Mirabella said with genuine relief.

  ‘Oh, my goodness!’ Glory leapt to her feet and curtsied low. ‘I’m so very sorry, Your Highness!’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I am not myself! I completely forgot. King Gilbert and his sons stayed at the palace last night, and I’m to give you this . . .’

  Glory slid a small green envelope with a falcon crest from the pocket of her apron and handed it to Mirabella.

  ‘Thank you. You may return my tray now.’ The princess wished to read the note in privacy.

  Would you care to come riding this morning? It was signed with the letter T.

  When Glory arrived in the kitchen, Mrs Blossom had just made a pot of tea strong enough for a mouse to trot on. She gathered Glory to her massive bosom with joy.

  ‘Plum diddly! Dear Child, you are saved!’

  Elda was humming, Rolf was whistling . . .

  THE WRITER

  Rolf was whistling, and then what the hell happened? Anyway, he’s always whistling. He needs to be doing something else. The writer reaches into her brain, seeking an alternative activity to indicate Rolf’s happiness, but finds only emptiness. Writing the end of this book is the hardest part of all. The blue pieces don’t seem to fit, and she hasn’t got enough red pieces. The whole quilt suddenly seems to have been a complete waste of time. She wanted her book to have, as Dickens said, comedy and tragedy mixed together like streaky bacon, but fears it might be turning out like a bad pie with a soggy crust and dodgy filling. The writer swears she will never write another book again. She wanders from the fridge to the garden, eating dark chocolate, and pulling up dandelions. A more famous writer said that near the end of a novel everything fits into your book: the three-legged dog you see in the park, the particular piece of music you hear in a café, the wet rose in the evening light. How delightful this sounds, the writer says bitterly, but it is poppycock–a word she aimed to put in her book but hasn’t been able to find the right place for. However, she can’t give up. It’s as if the world is channelling the story straight to your fingers, the famous one said. Mirabella has to resolve her love stuff, and Glory has a trip to make, and . . .

  The Reader

  › Last night, I dreamt about the boy in the tree. His name was Sebastian. In real life, I’d rather he were called Ned. Anyhow, in my dream I kissed him. It was a light, elegant kiss. He tasted like seaweed and honey.

  THE LOVEY-

  DOVEY CHAPTER

  ‘OF COURSE I will come riding with you!’ Mirabella yelled as she jumped out of bed. ‘where’s Glory when i need her?’ she rang her bell loudly, and Arlo skulked in. He’d been lurking in the hall, trying to muster the courage to apologise before he lost his job or his head.

  ‘Last night did not happen. That’s that,’ Mirabella said in a voice of steel.

  Arlo nodded with relief.

  ‘Now, deliver this message to Prince Timothy. you’ll probably find him in the breakfast room, dining with my parents. Tell him the princess is keen to ride, and will meet him at the stables. Hurry!’

  The princess donned her riding outfit, spat on her boots, wiped them with her sleeve, tucked her hair into a french roll, pinched her cheeks to make them pinker, smudged rose balm on her lips, and made her way to the stables. The prince wasn’t there when she arrived, but Mirabella didn’t worry unduly; not at first. She inspected Oak’s hooves and chatted to the groomsmen about saddlery, but as time passed she became impatient. Surely the prince should be here by now? Was he playing a cruel trick on her? Perhaps Arlo didn’t deliver her note safely? Mirabella’s thoughts became angrier as time passed. It seemed to her that the stable boy and the head groomsman were whispering about her as they shovelled straw. Perhaps the prince wanted to humiliate her, because he had seen what happened on the stairs? How could he be such a cruel person? Finally, the princess lost patience all together. I’ll ride without him, she decided. So, Mirabella mounted Oak, gave him a good strong kick, and galloped off.

  She rode hard, over hill and down dale. Her favourite ride was across the pasture beyond th
e castle, over a hedge or two, then through the woods, returning slowly along the bank of the stream. She usually stopped to rest when she came out of the woods, where the stream began, at the site of a ruined mill. Her thoughts were wild and muddled, so the princess gave Oak his rein, and her trusty steed traversed their usual path at tremendous gait. Both horse and rider were hot and bothered by the time they arrived at the glade.

  Prince Timothy was a clever man. He knew many things beside the intricacies of falconry. He knew

  it was time he took a wife. His father, King Gilbert, was unwell, and soon he himself would inherit the crown. Running a kingdom was no job for a lonely bachelor. Princess Mirabella was known to be difficult and unwilling to marry, but her feisty reputation intrigued the prince, who enjoyed a challenge. When he set eyes on Mirabella, he was dazzled — not only by her beauty, but by an indescribable essence that other women lacked. Heart and mind concurred. I shall risk all, he decided, and court her. The prince knew that, with women as with falcons, an obvious move is not the best one. He’d planned to ask Mirabella for the last dance, to make her wait a little for his attentions, if you like. However, her sulky decision to leave the ball early had foiled that particular manoeuvre, so he’d followed her from the ballroom, desiring to speak with her. The prince had seen what happened on the stairs, but it hadn’t deterred him. He spent the early hours in the East Gallery, drinking strong mead and gambling on cards with Prince Leonard, King Gilbert, Duke Tarquin, and King Harold.

  ‘I want to marry your daughter,’ he’d told King Harold, just before they retired, seeing no point beating about the bush. Prince Leonard nearly choked on his drink, Tarquin raised a quizzical eyebrow, and his father kicked him under the table to advise caution, but King Harold was delighted, both by Timothy’s honesty and his intent.

  ‘There’s nothing I would like more, but I’m afraid Mirabella is a very stubborn young woman. She’s determined not to be married off like a sack of potatoes, as she sees it.’

  ‘So I’ve heard. However, if I can persuade your daughter to be my wife, you have no objection?’