Blueberry Pancakes Forever

by Angelica Banks

  ‘Yes you do, Tuesday,’ the Librarian said. ‘You do it every day.’

  ‘You mean … imagine?’

  ‘Yes, dear.’

  And so she did. Tuesday imagined, and her world spun, and grew, gathering layer, upon layer, upon layer. And at its heart, someone was standing in a striped pink-and-white shirt wearing an apron. He was mixing something in a bowl. He waved to Tuesday and – still looking through the binoculars – she waved back. The world kept forming, developing a smooth undulating surface of a landscape waiting to be made. Its creamy-white exterior gave hints of riverbeds and mountain peaks, or perhaps they were cities and towns. It could have been either; it could be anything. This was a world waiting to be furnished, however Tuesday chose.

  ‘Do you like your world? Do you?’ the Librarian asked, her eyes a little misty.

  ‘Oh yes,’ Tuesday said. ‘It’s perfect.’

  Chapter Thirty–three

  At a certain lighthouse at the end of the earth, a radio crackled into life. Beyond the lighthouse window, there was barely a smudge of light in the morning sky, and the choppy surface of the sea was still empty of the day’s flotilla of boats.

  ‘Senora Smeet, Senora Smeet,’ came a heavily-accented voice. ‘Do you copy?’

  Miss Digby had been asleep, lying on her back with a sleeping mask across her eyes, her arms folded tidily on her chest atop the covers. At the sound of Constanza’s voice, she leapt immediately out of bed in her floral nightie and snatched up the radio transmitter.

  ‘Yes, Constanza. I mean, sí, Constanza. Roger that,’ she said in a bright and cheerful voice that was meant to indicate that she had certainly not been sleeping so late. What time was it? she wondered. ‘Over,’ she added, remembering at last to let go of the transmitter button.

  ‘I have a call for you from Sarah McGeeellycoddy,’ Constanza said. ‘Connecting you now. Over.’

  ‘Hello?’ came a different voice, a voice that Miss Digby had been waiting months to hear. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hello! Oh, my goodness! Is it truly you? Are you all right? Do you need me?’

  ‘Yes! Yes, and no. No, I just wanted to tell you that I’m home again at Brown Street, and there’s nothing to worry about.’

  ‘Home again?’ repeated Miss Digby, perplexed. ‘But wherever have you been?’

  ‘It’s a long story,’ Serendipity replied. ‘But I also wanted to say thank you, Miss Digby. I cannot thank you enough for everything you’ve done for me, spending all that time at the end of the earth on my behalf.’

  Miss Digby glanced at the large aquarium across the room, where Gerald the lobster was doing an erratic dance with his tentacles and his many legs.

  ‘Don’t give it a thought,’ said Miss Digby, smiling at Gerald. ‘Honestly, it’s been no bother at all.’

  ‘I think it’s time you took a holiday, Miss Digby.’

  ‘A holiday?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Serendipity said. ‘Somewhere warm, with lots of people – art and movies.’

  ‘Aah,’ said Miss Digby. ‘That’s all very well, but …’

  ‘I insist,’ said Serendipity. ‘I think I’d like to be myself for a little while. Would that be okay with you?’

  ‘Well of course, but what about everything else? The bills? The correspondence? Your schedule? I’m not sure that …’

  ‘I have one of my oldest friends staying with me. She’s here with me right now,’ Serendipity said, and if Miss Digby had been able to peer through the radio waves and see into the house at Brown Street, she would have observed Colette Baden-Baden sitting at the kitchen table with a hairbrush, a polystyrene head covered with a wig of long, auburn curls, and a bewildered expression upon her face. ‘She’s helping me out for the next few weeks while you take some well-deserved time off. Now, I must go, Miss Digby. Thank you again. I couldn’t be me without you, you know.’

  ‘Well, goodbye then,’ said Miss Digby, somewhat wistfully.

  ‘Goodbye. Over and out.’

  Miss Digby replaced the radio handpiece and then her face fell.

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Oh dear!’

  She pulled up a chair to the side of the aquarium tank, sat down and spoke softly against the glass.

  ‘Gerald,’ she said. ‘Gerald, I don’t want you to take it personally, but, well, all good things must come to an end. Today, Gerald, will be our last day together. I’m not sure if it was good for you, but I thought you were wonderful.’

  Chapter Thirty–four

  Several weeks had passed since Tuesday had returned to Brown Street from the world of Vivienne Small, and in that time, she had been busy at school and busy at home. It was Sunday morning and Tuesday woke up feeling flat. She slipped quietly out of the house and, taking Baxterr, walked the entire length of City Park. She lingered by the lake, and stood by the fountain, and said hello to all her favourite statues. She observed snowdrops and early daffodils that lifted their heads to the light. She felt the sun on her face and her hair blow about in the early sea breeze that whispered through the city. She felt the grass beneath her shoes. In the distance she heard the rumble of traffic.

  In the tall apartments on one side of the park Tuesday saw windows glinting, and she tried to imagine who was inside eating eggs and bacon, toast and marmalade or even Colette’s idea of breakfast – muesli. She wondered if any of them were making pancakes. She wondered whether she would ever meet anyone else who made polka dot brownies or ham-on-cheese-on-more-cheese toast.

  She sat on a park bench and took out a notebook. Baxterr settled at her feet, his ears twitching as he watched ducks paddling about in the early-morning light. The new page in the notebook was perfectly blank. Tuesday smoothed it down and uncapped her black pen.

  ‘Dear Dad,’ she wrote, ‘I will always think of you at the park throwing the frisbee to Baxterr. I’ll always remember you making up rhymes on the walk home. And the way you took my hand as we crossed the street. At night I’ll think of you leaving the lamp on and the door open, just the way I used to like it. And the way you always knew what day I needed my sports shoes.’

  She continued on for a page or more, noting all the things Denis had done that she would never forget. When she had finished writing, she closed the notebook and capped the pen. She had the feeling that there were many more words to be written about Denis, and that it might take weeks or months or maybe even years to write them all down. But this was enough for now.

  ‘Come on, doggo,’ she said, getting to her feet.

  As they passed the wishing pond, Tuesday dug a small silver coin from her pocket and flipped it into the water. She didn’t stay to watch as it settled to the bottom. If she had, she might have noticed that it sparkled.

  As they walked home, she said to Baxterr, ‘It will always be different without Dad. But it doesn’t mean there won’t be great days.’

  Baxterr ruffed as if in agreement. As they neared Brown Street, he dashed a little way ahead of Tuesday, his tail wagging and his fur shining in every shade of golden brown. He raced up the steps and waited for Tuesday to open the door. Tuesday climbed the steps. There it was, home. All five storeys of it.

  Next door, their neighbour Mr Garfunkle was coming out his front door with Gloria, his new cocker spaniel puppy, leaping in excitement at his feet. Tuesday waved and Mr Garfunkle waved back.

  ‘Some things go on being the same, doggo, and some things don’t,’ she said.

  The front door suddenly swung open and Blake Luckhurst was standing before them.

  ‘Surprise! I came on the early train at Colette’s invitation.’

  He grabbed Tuesday by the shoulder and gave her a hug as they walked inside.

  ‘Ha, there you are,’ said Colette, emerging from the front room. ‘Lucky you’re not there. I was starting to get a little worried. Come, I have a surprise for you.’

  In the front room, Colette’s many silver suitcases were neatly stacked to one side. Serendipity was sitting on the couch in her pyjamas and dressing-gow
n. The painting had been removed again from one wall and the projector set-up to face the large white space.

  ‘Sit,’ instructed Colette.

  As soon as Tuesday and Baxterr had obediently taken their places on the couch beside Serendipity, Colette said, ‘Well, we leave you to it.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to stay?’ asked Serendipity.

  ‘No,’ said Colette. ‘My assistant chef and I have a very important recipe to create. Breakfast will be served at the end of the screening.’

  Tuesday and Serendipity glanced at each other and raised their eyebrows. Serendipity put her arm around Tuesday and pulled her in close. She tapped a button on the remote and the wall lit up.

  The words on the screen said: For Serendipity and Tuesday. Music began. The first picture was a baby with a curl of dark hair. Serendipity gasped and covered her mouth. Next there was a toddler in blue-and-white-striped shorts and a red t-shirt. And the same boy chewing an enormous biscuit.

  ‘Is that Dad?’ Tuesday asked.

  ‘It is,’ said Serendipity, holding her daughter tight.

  Tuesday began smiling and didn’t stop. Here were all the years she had never known her father. Photos and films that she had never seen. Denis as a boy on a three-wheeler bike. Denis holding a teddy bear. Denis dressed up as a cowboy, and beside him a girl dressed as a lion, her arms crossed and her teeth bared. She looked remarkably like Colette.

  ‘Is that …?’ whispered Tuesday.

  ‘It is,’ replied Serendipity.

  There was a young Denis in a school uniform. Denis sleeping under a tree with a book in his hands. Denis as a boy decorating a large square cake. And proudly presenting a tray of chocolate eclairs. Denis with another cake. And another. Denis winning a prize for the best cake. Denis working in a restaurant kitchen. Denis in a tuxedo. Denis shaking hands with two people who appeared to be famous. Denis standing outside a restaurant beside a very tall girl. Tuesday stared.

  ‘It’s Colette again!’ she gasped.

  Serendipity was crying, but she was laughing too.

  And then came Denis with Serendipity on a couch. Denis beside a woman holding a pot plant in an elaborate macramé holder who Tuesday knew from photographs was Serendipity’s mother. Serendipity and Denis with a bearded man who Tuesday knew had been Denis’s father. There were Denis and Serendipity amid a gaggle of people who might have been friends or cousins and a sign in the background saying Sweet Cactus. Serendipity at work on an old-fashioned typewriter. Serendipity asleep with a book still open on her pyjamas.

  Then came a wedding with Serendipity in a bright orange dress with bright orange shoes and Denis in a pink suit cutting a cake covered in flowers. And then Denis and Serendipity on a yacht, then on camels, then on elephants. Denis and Serendipity wearing scuba diving equipment, together with Colette. All of them on skis with a huge snow-capped mountain behind them. And then at last there was Brown Street with a SOLD sticker on the estate agent’s sign on the fence.

  There was an image of Serendipity pregnant and then a little bit more pregnant and then heavily pregnant. Serendipity holding a brand-new baby in her arms. Serendipity with the baby asleep on her lap as she typed at an old-fashioned typewriter.

  Serendipity grasped Tuesday’s hand and they held one another tightly as the images kept coming. Here was Denis sleeping with a tiny baby on his chest. The baby being washed in the kitchen sink. Soon the baby had fairy floss hair and was sitting up and chewing a board book. The baby was in a high-chair eating what looked like tuna mornay. And then watermelon. And a mango. And cake with a single candle. There was Denis taking her hands to help her walk across the floor. Then he was holding her on a tiny tricycle and running her down the hallway to Serendipity. And holding her hands as she lifted a tiny foot in the sea. And helping her blow out two candles on a cake in the shape of a blue balloon.

  There was Serendipity holding a bottle of champagne in one hand and a book called I Know about Vivienne Small in the other. And Tuesday was being thrown up in the air by Denis. Tuesday, Denis and Serendipity were running in the park together. Tuesday and Denis at the stove together in the kitchen. And Denis and Serendipity holding the small Tuesday between them as they stood on the doorstep of Brown Street waving goodbye.

  The images faded and words appeared. They read: Sometimes we get very lucky with the people we love. The music continued and then faded away. Tuesday wiped away tears and Serendipity did the same, and then they hugged each other tighter and cried some more. Suddenly, over Serendipity’s shoulder, Tuesday saw Denis sitting in the chair by the window. He turned and smiled at her.

  Tuesday smiled back, and then watched the image of her father fade into the shadows.

  ‘What?’ asked Serendipity.

  ‘Oh, I just saw him,’ said Tuesday. ‘Dad.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Serendipity, ‘I’ve seen him too. It’s somehow reassuring, knowing he’s still here with us sometimes, even if it’s not at all the same.’

  From the kitchen the most amazing smell drifted into the room. Tuesday breathed deeply.

  ‘Well,’ said Colette, looking in. ‘Breakfast.’

  And so we leave them at Brown Street – Tuesday, Colette, Serendipity, Blake and Baxterr. It isn’t perfect. Life never is. There will be weather we hadn’t expected, disappointments and catastrophes. There will be fun and beauty and wonder, too, and mysteries we could never have imagined. And if we’re very lucky, there will be many days with people we love, friends at the table and blueberry pancakes forever.

  THE END

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  WE WOULD LIKE TO THANK ALL six of our children for their enthusiasm for words, stories and books, including ours. We thank them for tolerating us on those occasions when we are vague or preoccupied, and for understanding that we sometimes have one foot in another world.

  We would also like to acknowledge the young readers who have enjoyed and embraced Tuesday’s first two adventures. We have met some of you in classrooms, libraries and bookshops. Others of you have sought us out. Your drawings, letters, questions, observations and Book Week costumes have touched us deeply, and they have also enriched the worlds of Tuesday McGillycuddy and Vivienne Small. Especially, we thank Lawrence Jeffs, Grace Middleton, Heidi Bedloe, Charmian Wallman and Matilda Verdon-Black for reading this book in manuscript form and sharing their marvellously insightful responses.

  Thanks go to our publishers – Allen & Unwin in Australia, Magellan in Germany, and Henry Holt in the USA – for championing our books from beginning to end. And, as ever, we are grateful to our parents and extended families for supporting us, making the writing life so much easier.

  Our wonderful husbands, John and Rowan, have done wonders, from writing songs about Tuesday that have been sung at our launches to making life-sized papier-mâché vercaka. We thank them for being part of Tuesday’s story.

  And lastly, we would like to thank each other. To collaborate in the personal, mysterious business of writing fiction is both a challenge and a risk. We would like to thank each other for meeting that challenge with courage, for filling the gaps in each other’s areas of expertise, and – perhaps most importantly – for the friendship, the laughter and the chocolate custard.

  A NOTE FROM ANGELICA BANKS

  IN WRITING THE TUESDAY MCGILLYcuddy Adventure series, we have drawn deeply on our love of children’s literature. In the pages of our books are the hints and echoes of the books listed here. But you might also find traces of other books, for it is the way of stories to talk to each other across the years.

  Swallows and Amazons by Arthur Ransome

  The Secret Garden by Frances Hodgson Burnett

  The Chronicles of Narnia by C.S. Lewis

  Peter Pan by J.M. Barrie

  Guess Who My Favourite Person Is by Byrd Baylor

  The Blue Balloon by Mick Inkpen

  The Faraway Tree series by Enid Blyton

  The Old Man and the Sea by Ernest Hemingway

  Charlotte’s Web
by E.B. White

  A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens

  Carbonel by Barbara Sleigh

  The Hobbit by J.R.R. Tolkien

  Everything ever written by Roald Dahl

  The poetry of Hilaire Belloc

  Angelica Banks is not one writer but two. Heather Rose and Danielle Wood have been friends for years and each of them has written award-winning books for adults. When they decided to write together for younger readers, they chose a pen name to make things easy. They live in Tasmania, an island blessed with wonderful stories and beautiful clouds.

  Blueberry Pancakes Forever is the third book in the Tuesday McGillycuddy series. While writing this book, Danielle and Heather took long walks on beaches and drank endless cups of tea. Sometimes they laughed and sometimes they cried, because writing is like that.

  www.tuesdaymcgillycuddy.com