A Week without Tuesday

by Angelica Banks

  Tuesday felt the Librarian’s deep violet eyes boring through her. She summoned her courage and reached into her pocket.

  ‘What I do want to know,’ Tuesday said, ‘is whether or not this is meant for you.’

  At the sight of the scroll of paper on Tuesday’s palm, the Librarian gasped. She hovered one small wrinkled hand over the message. At last, she made up her mind to take it, unroll it and read it.

  Tuesday watched the Librarian’s face closely as she read the note. Once she had finished reading, she held it to her chest.

  ‘Where did you get this?’ the Librarian asked.

  ‘Vivienne Small found it,’ said Tuesday, drawing out the circlet of fine rope. ‘In the collar of a Winged Dog.’

  ‘Where is the dog now?’ the Librarian asked, taking the collar and inspecting the medallion with its engraving of a dog in flight.

  ‘I’m sorry, Madame Librarian … the dog died.’

  ‘Oh!’ Tears sprang into the Librarian’s eyes. Still holding the collar, she extracted a lilac handkerchief from inside her sleeve and held it to her eyes.

  Tuesday spoke gently. ‘So, the message. It was for you?’

  ‘Yes, dear,’ the Librarian said. ‘Yes, it was.’

  ‘And do you? Do you have the answer yet?’

  The Librarian tucked her handkerchief back into her sleeve. Without warning, she took a firm hold of Tuesday’s chin, and turned her face this way, then that. She gazed deeply into Tuesday’s eyes. Then she glanced down at Baxterr, standing to attention at Tuesday’s feet. A shrewd expression came over her wrinkled face. She carefully returned the silver collar to Tuesday.

  ‘Why, yes,’ she said. ‘I believe that, at last, I do.’

  Chapter Nine

  Perhaps you didn’t know this, but parents are made partly of elastic. When a person first becomes a parent, the elastic is quite firm and doesn’t stretch very far at all – hardly even from one side of a room to the other. Then, after they’ve been a parent for a while, and their children have learned to walk, and talk, clean their teeth and do up their shoes, that elastic becomes more pliable, capable of stretching quite incredible distances: the length of several city blocks, the width of whole suburbs, and across entire countries in some cases. Even so, there is always a point at which the elastic goes ping! and the parent starts to feel that their child has gone too far, or been gone for too long.

  And this is precisely what happened to Serendipity Smith at five o’clock that Sunday afternoon, a couple of hours after Tuesday had gone for a walk to City Park with Baxterr. Serendipity was sitting at the kitchen table, and although she was mostly listening to Miss Digby – who was finalising the very long list of things to do that they had spent the afternoon preparing – she was also listening for the sound of Tuesday coming in the front door. She’s been gone too long, said one part of Serendipity’s brain. Another part answered back: Nonsense! It’s a beautiful sunny afternoon and she’s at the park with her dog. Relax.

  Denis was experiencing much the same thing, so at half past five, he filled Miss Digby’s teacup yet again and excused himself from the conversation. He went out the front and looked up the street, fully expecting to see Tuesday and Baxterr ambling towards him. Old Mr Garfunkle from next door was walking along with his ancient cocker spaniel, Dougal, who dragged his toenails on the footpath with every step. Denis greeted them both, then called to Serendipity that he was going to meet Tuesday, and started out in the direction of City Park.

  The sun was getting lower in the sky, and the trees and houses and cars and people that Denis passed were throwing out long streaky shadows. There was the reassuring hum of a great city at work and Denis couldn’t help thinking how, in all the restaurants across the city, white tablecloths were being smoothed over tabletops, cutlery was being polished and glassware was being shined. In the kitchens of all those restaurants, he knew, potatoes were being peeled, peas shelled, cucumbers sliced, carrots shredded and fennel slivered. But that did not help him feel better about not yet seeing Tuesday and Baxterr on their way home.

  Denis crossed the street into City Park. Mothers and fathers, their clothes crumpled from lazing on the lawn and their hats a little awry, were pushing prams out through the park gates. At their side were older children who dawdled along, some yawning, others looking decidedly dejected, as if they wished they could magically be back at home again without having to walk.

  Further into the park, the ice-cream vans and hot-dog stands were closing up for the day. Several wedding parties were posing for photographs near the fountain in the slanting late afternoon light, and Denis noted the pinks and lemons, the creams and greys and blues of their outfits. One bride had a fluffy white dog tucked under her arm, and that only made Denis even more acutely aware that though there were several dogs accompanying their owners as they departed the park, none of them was Baxterr. A newspaper boy slung his satchel over his shoulder and picked up the wire cage that held the day bill, which read ‘SEVEN WRITERS ABDUCTED’ in very large letters. Denis began to get a bad feeling.

  He called out: ‘Tuesday! Baxterr!’

  Several people stared at him. ‘I’m looking for my daughter and her dog,’ he said. ‘Have you seen a girl in a red jacket with a smallish, brown dog?’

  Nobody had. He searched for another hour, scouring every inch of the park, checking at every statue he knew Tuesday liked, at every swing and slide and every green, daisy-spotted slope. He climbed the park’s small knolls and stood atop its rocky outcrops. He peered into every boat pulled up on the shore of the lake, thinking that perhaps Tuesday and Baxterr had curled up inside one of them to take a siesta and were still asleep. But every boat was empty.

  He called. He asked. He searched. But there was no Tuesday and no Baxterr. The day was fading. The people walking across the park were dressed for dinner; their clothes had the polish and colour of evening. They were on their way to the tablecloths and glassware and vegetables that Denis had imagined earlier.

  Perhaps Tuesday and Baxterr had gone home another way, Denis thought, somewhat desperately. Perhaps they’d been hungry and stopped by a cafe and he hadn’t seen them. He stood again by the fountain. He noticed the three public telephones with their sculptured custodians: the mermaid, the lion and the horse. The phone from the horse was hanging off its hook, swinging a little, as if in a breeze. He walked across to it and replaced the phone on its hook. Much tidier. Then a sudden feeling swept through him that Tuesday had stood right here, right where he was standing. Then what? What had happened after that?

  A story got her, he thought. He knew this with every fibre of his being. He knew it as well as he knew how to make blueberry pancakes. A story had taken hold of his imaginative daughter and whisked her away.

  ‘Oh dear,’ he gasped. ‘That means she’s gone there. She’s gone there, and there isn’t safe at all. Not even a little bit.’

  Denis knew he had to get back to Brown Street. He had to talk to Serendipity, and quickly. But he did not run. Instead, he strode, because once, a long time ago, Denis had been the maître d’ of the finest restaurant in the city. This meant that he had the stride of a man who could carry twenty old-fashioned champagne glasses stacked one upon the other. He could juggle twelve plates and still manage to save a napkin from falling to the floor. He could assuage the bad humours of rich guests and remember the names of poorer ones. He had a natural instinct for what people would like or not like. He was never wrong about who might choose the lemon tart over the crème brûlée, or the white chocolate mousse over the dark chocolate layer cake. He had once served quail in a raspberry sauce to one hundred guests in five minutes flat. At his restaurant they’d catered for eighty elegant weddings each year, and one hundred civilised birthday parties. Denis had a highly attuned sense of what was so. And he understood how to be calm when everything about him was madness. But as he made his way across the final intersection to Brown Street, he broke into a trot, and then a jog. By the time he reached his own fron
t gate, he was sprinting.

  Serendipity was on the steps watching out for him.

  ‘No sign?’ she began.

  ‘I think she’s gone …’ he said. He tried to catch his breath, but he couldn’t. A cramp was starting above his ear.

  ‘Gone?’ Serendipity said. ‘Gone where?’

  ‘There …’ said Denis. His voice sounded wheezy.

  ‘Oh my goodness,’ Serendipity said, and then, ‘Denis, sweetheart, are you all right? You look terrible.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I’m fine, really.’

  But Denis wasn’t fine. He thought he might faint, so he sat down on the top step. Serendipity sank down beside him and took his hand. They looked at each other and saw reflected in each other’s faces the utter despair that comes with losing control of the most precious thing in your life.

  ‘She can’t have gone there. Not after everything we said,’ said Serendipity.

  ‘What do you mean there?’ said Miss Digby from the open doorway behind them. ‘Where on earth has Tuesday gone?’

  Serendipity had thought Miss Digby was leaving, but now it seemed that she was not. She clearly felt it was her responsibility to stay with Serendipity and assist her, in whatever way was necessary, until Tuesday was found. For many years Miss Digby had regarded Serendipity Smith’s problems as her own. So, Miss Digby remained with Denis and Serendipity and it was she who made the tea and filled everyone’s cups, while Denis and Serendipity made very boring small talk. Denis understood that Miss Digby could never know about there, and Serendipity understood that Denis knew this. They both hoped they might eventually bore Miss Digby into leaving the house, but the more relaxed they appeared, the more Miss Digby worked herself into a froth.

  ‘You must call the police,’ Miss Digby said to them for the umpteenth time.

  Denis and Serendipity shook their heads.

  ‘Why am I the only one of us who thinks this is a very good idea?’

  ‘Because we think she’ll be back,’ said Denis. ‘You have to trust us. I know it seems strange to you. Really, you just have to trust us.’

  ‘Does she have a habit of flitting off in the middle of the afternoon and not coming home until—’ Miss Digby spun about and checked the clock on the mantelpiece, ‘… until eight thirty! I mean, look how dark it is! It’s not safe out there.’

  ‘No, it’s really not,’ said Serendipity vaguely, and then she shook her head. ‘Yes, it is safe. It’s perfectly safe. Why, Denis and I often take an evening stroll. And we encourage Tuesday to, as well. There are people about. It’s a very safe city.’

  Denis smiled in agreement.

  ‘No it’s not,’ said Miss Digby.

  ‘The crime rate has dropped remarkably in the last few years,’ said Denis.

  ‘It’s the new mayor,’ said Serendipity. ‘She’s done wonders.’

  Miss Digby stared at them as if they’d both gone mad. ‘What you seem to both be missing entirely is that your daughter has disappeared. She must be somewhere. Possibly with someone. Someone dangerous!’

  ‘She might have fallen asleep,’ said Denis.

  ‘In a tree,’ said Serendipity.

  ‘Yes, in a very large, comfortable tree,’ added Denis.

  ‘Or a boat. She might have taken a boat out onto the lake in the park and—’

  ‘That’s why we need the police,’ said Miss Digby slowly. ‘So they can help to find her. If indeed she has fallen asleep, then any minute now she’s going to wake up, cold, tired, hungry and all alone on a very dark night.’

  ‘Oh, there’s a full moon,’ said Denis.

  ‘And it’s not cold,’ said Serendipity. ‘It’s a lovely night to sleep in a tree.’

  ‘Or a boat. What an adventure that would be!’ said Denis. ‘Why, we might go and do that ourselves, this very night. What do you think, my love?’

  ‘I’ll get a blanket,’ said Serendipity.

  ‘I’ll fill a thermos,’ added Denis.

  ‘Will you join us, Miss Digby?’ asked Serendipity.

  ‘I think you’re both in shock,’ said Miss Digby. ‘You’re neither of you making any sense. Tuesday has gone missing. She’s been missing for several hours. We have to call the police!’

  ‘Oh, it can wait until morning,’ said Denis. ‘You just wait and see. Tuesday will be jumping down the stairs all ready for school. It’s her first day back tomorrow. End of the summer holidays.’

  ‘That’s what’s done it!’ said Serendipity. ‘She’s having a last night outdoors before she has to go back to school.’

  ‘Of course!’ said Denis. ‘Why didn’t we think of it before? Why, I recall now that we discussed it this morning.’

  ‘Discussed what?’ asked Miss Digby impatiently.

  ‘Well, that she might camp out tonight. She and Baxterr.’

  ‘Camp out?’ asked Miss Digby.

  ‘Yes, you know, take a sleeping bag. Find a nice spot somewhere on a hill.’

  ‘Somewhere you can see the stars,’ Serendipity added.

  ‘And this sort of activity seems appropriate to you?’

  ‘Well, we like her to be independent,’ said Serendipity.

  ‘Oh, we really do!’ said Denis. ‘It’s awful these days how children are so sheltered, hardly ever given the opportunity for adventure.’

  ‘We encourage her to sleep out whenever she can,’ said Serendipity. ‘We didn’t see her for days during the school holidays!’

  ‘For days?’ asked Miss Digby.

  ‘Oh, it’s normal at this age,’ said Denis. ‘They’re longing to fly the coop, flee the nest, vacate the cave—’

  ‘Of course, it’s a surprise, every time she does it,’ said Serendipity, ‘but we’re getting used to it, aren’t we, Denis?’

  ‘Oh, we are,’ said Denis. ‘We really are. We worry at first. And then, as the hours slip by, well …’

  ‘We settle into it,’ said Serendipity.

  ‘Oh,’ said Miss Digby. ‘You mean it’s happened before?’

  ‘Oh, many a night. At first we thought she was sleepwalking. Then she’d be back for breakfast telling us all about what she and Baxterr had been up to.’

  ‘And what had they been up to?’

  ‘You know, the normal run-of-the-mill stuff. She’d found a tunnel into a secret garden where they served one hundred different sorts of ice-cream …’

  ‘Or a tree that was so tall it reached all the way up to another world …’

  ‘Or she’d met a girl who was looking for a flying carpet and they tracked it down to a house a very long way out of town …’

  ‘I’m sorry to have to say it, but I think you’ve both gone quite mad,’ said Miss Digby. She sat down on the couch, shaking in her distress.

  ‘Oh, we’re so sorry, Miss Digby,’ said Serendipity. ‘We forget you’re not a parent. If you were, you wouldn’t be nearly so worried. Being a parent takes extraordinary fortitude. We promise that if we truly thought there was anything to worry about, we’d be the first ones to call the police.’

  ‘Of course we would,’ said Denis. ‘Parents have an uncanny knack for knowing when there’s trouble. And we assure you, there’s none.’

  ‘We don’t want to worry the police with our young adventurer who thinks nothing of wandering off every now and then.’

  ‘Let’s get you home,’ said Serendipity. ‘You must be exhausted.’

  ‘Would you like me to call you a cab?’ asked Denis.

  ‘I’m perfectly capable of driving,’ said Miss Digby.

  Within a few moments, Denis and Serendipity had ushered Miss Digby out the back door and through the side gate into the laneway where her car was parked.

  ‘Sleep well, Miss Digby,’ said Denis.

  ‘Yes, do sleep well,’ said Serendipity. ‘I will call you in the morning at nine.’

  ‘We’re so sorry you’ve had a bit of a shock,’ added Denis. ‘Just you wait. Everything will be back to normal in the morning.’

  ‘If you say so
,’ said Miss Digby.

  ‘Oh, we do,’ said Serendipity, and waved as Miss Digby drove away.

  Back in the kitchen, Denis pulled out a chair and slumped into it, burying his face in his hands. He was feeling dizzy again. He wasn’t sure if it was the failure to eat anything other than pancakes since lunchtime, or that he was worried about Tuesday.

  ‘I have never told so many lies in my life,’ said Serendipity.

  Denis raised an eyebrow. ‘You were very good at it.’

  ‘And you,’ said Serendipity, grinning. And then she began to giggle. Soon they were both gasping with laughter.

  ‘She might have fallen asleep in a tree …’ Denis giggled. He was feeling quite light-headed.

  ‘Or in a boat,’ giggled Serendipity. ‘And it’s a full moon!’

  ‘Is it?’ Denis said.

  ‘I have no idea.’

  This sent them both off into more fits of giggling.

  ‘What if she’s not back in the morning, what will we do?’ Serendipity said, still giggling. Her stomach was beginning to hurt, but even so, she couldn’t stop.

  ‘We’ll have to keep lying,’ said Denis, and this set them off again.

  ‘It is deadly serious,’ said Denis, sobering up. A nasty pain was forming in the right side of his head. ‘I mean, she’s gone there and it’s clearly dangerous.’

  ‘I know,’ said Serendipity, shaking her head.

  ‘If she’s not back overnight, then we’ll have to convince Miss Digby that she’s off at school tomorrow as usual.’

  ‘You’re very good at this,’ said Serendipity.

  ‘Oh, anyone who’s lived with a writer as long as I have knows a thing or two about making things up. Now, what on earth are we going to do about getting Tuesday home?’