‘My name is Vivienne Small,’ said Vivienne quietly. ‘This dog and I, we have our own quest. We have come to the city to find a door that leads to a gardener who is able to stop the worlds colliding.’ She indicated the world above, still pouring its icy waters into the Mabanquo River, although the flow had slowed to a large trickle.
‘I do not know this gardener, Vivienne Small,’ said the Mayor. ‘But your name is well-known to me, and I am sure if anyone can find such a person to aid our world in this time of peril, it will be you. Meanwhile I offer my home to you and your dog, for as long as you remain in the City of Clocks.’
Vivienne blushed a little and thanked the Mayor. She said farewell to Harlequin and Tarquin, promising to meet with them later to discuss their plans. Then, with Baxterr at her side, she set off for the largest of the streets leading away from the city square, her gaze already assessing every door they passed.
‘Nice job on the cat, doggo,’ she said.
‘Ruff,’ said Baxterr.
Chapter Seventeen
On Thursday morning in the hospital cafeteria, Serendipity caught sight of a news bulletin that caused her to splutter into her coffee. Filling the television screen were pictures of her own home in Brown Street – but who was that standing in the front doorway? It was a woman Serendipity didn’t recognise – a woman with short pink hair, a rather hideous pale blue velour jumpsuit and a vacuum cleaner.
‘How long have you worked for the McGillycuddys?’ yelled one journalist. ‘What do you know about Tuesday and her dad?’ called another.
‘Where do you think Tuesday is?’ said one, running up to her and flashing a camera in her face. ‘Have the police got any leads?’
‘Why don’t you lot get on your bikes and get out of here?’ said the woman.
And although she spoke in a very un-Miss Digby-like accent, Serendipity realised with awe that it was, none the less, Miss Digby in that extraordinary garb.
‘Go on. Off you go, the lot of you.’
On the hospital telephone, Serendipity rang the house at Brown Street.
‘McGillycuddy residence, and you’d better not be a journalist,’ said Miss Digby, in that extremely un-Miss Digby-like accent.
‘I seem to have acquired a new staff member. With pink hair. And an interesting taste in velour jumpsuits,’ Serendipity said.
Miss Digby chuckled down the line.
‘It was rather fun,’ she said. ‘But you need to come home. There is someone here that I think you should see.’
‘Not a journalist?’ said Serendipity with a grimace.
‘No, of course not,’ said Miss Digby.
‘The police again?’
‘Actually, no.’
Serendipity sighed. She wanted Tuesday to come home, she wanted Denis to wake up, she wanted a long hot bath, and she wanted to sleep. She did not want to talk to anyone. Then, she wondered. Surely not …
‘It isn’t Tuesday, is it?’ she asked cautiously, hopefully.
‘No, I’m sorry,’ said Miss Digby. ‘It isn’t.’
‘Then how important can it be?’
‘I believe it may be vital,’ Miss Digby said.
And so, after speaking to her favourite nurse and making him promise to call her if Denis so much as wiggled the tip of his little finger, Serendipity stepped out of City Hospital and hailed a cab in the pouring rain. A few times on the drive home, her eyes closed and her head fell heavily to her chest. Each time, she woke with a start and jerked her head back up again, only to look out the windows at the wet, dismal city streets. She tried to hold on to the distant hope that, by some wonderful chance, Miss Digby was trying to surprise her, and that it was Tuesday waiting at Brown Street to see her.
The rain appeared to have frightened most of the journalists away and only two of them remained in a huddle beneath the trees on the street. They called to her, asking if she had news. Serendipity shook her head and continued up the steps to the front door. Once inside, she called out.
‘Hello?’
Miss Digby emerged from the lounge room, and Serendipity saw that the pink wig and the blue jumpsuit were even more dreadful in real life than they were on television.
‘He’s in here,’ she said.
In Serendipity’s lounge room, getting up off the couch, was a tall young man. No, thought Serendipity, he was still mostly a boy. And he was very familiar.
‘Hello, Mrs McGillycuddy,’ he said, flicking a long fringe out of his face. ‘My name is Blake Luckhurst. I’m a writer and I know where Tuesday is.’
‘He seemed very genuine when he came to the door,’ Miss Digby said. ‘And very insistent. So I let him in. If I have made an error, I can easily call the police. What do you think, Sarah?’
Serendipity regarded Blake. Then she eyed Miss Digby. Blake had met the famous Serendipity Smith on two occasions. The first time was on a television show about books, and the second was at a writers’ festival where Serendipity had given Blake an award. But right now, Serendipity was not looking the least bit Serendipity-ish. She was in a particularly dishevelled version of her Sarah McGillycuddy clothes: black pants, a black shirt and flat black shoes. Her brown hair was its usual short cut and rather unkempt. Miss Digby, who had also met the very famous Blake Luckhurst on the same two occasions, was in disguise as well. Serendipity, despite her tiredness, could not help but smile at this turn of events.
‘No, no. Thank you, Miss Digby,’ said Serendipity. ‘Could you please bring some tea?’ And then she realised her mistake. She had referred to Miss Digby as Miss Digby. She hadn’t thought to ask the pink-wigged Miss Digby her new name. On television she had simply been described as the housekeeper. In her state of utter fatigue, in front of a person who might be able to put two and two together, Serendipity had slipped up. She saw Miss Digby give a tiny frown before disappearing down the hallway towards the kitchen, closing the door behind her and leaving Serendipity with her unexpected guest.
‘Your housekeeper is really familiar,’ said Blake. ‘I mean, that wig is a bit distracting but …’
‘Oh?’ said Serendipity innocently.
Blake leaned forward on the couch and put his hands together. He took a deep breath. ‘Mrs McGillycuddy, I understand you may not know who I am, but I’m an author. I’ve sold millions of books and I’m probably, apart from a few exceptions, the most famous writer in the world.’
Serendipity’s eyes widened.
Blake shrugged. ‘A film of one of my books is about to come out? Jack Bonner?’
Serendipity gave him a small nod.
‘What I have to tell you, I know, is going to sound very strange.’
‘About Tuesday?’
‘Yes, about Tuesday. I only come here to tell you this because I know you must be out of your mind with worry.’
Serendipity bit her lip.
‘You’re going to think I’m mad, but the main thing is that Tuesday is fine. Really.’
Serendipity waited.
‘What you may not know is that Tuesday and I have been corresponding for months. She’s a …’ Blake dropped his head and stared at his hands. There was a long pause. At last he continued. ‘She’s a fan of mine … and she called me on Sunday afternoon to tell me that she was … coming to visit.’
‘Really,’ said Serendipity mildly, raising an eyebrow.
‘I didn’t come to you sooner,’ Blake continued, beginning to squirm, ‘because, well, she’s come to my place to … write her first novel! I know it was reckless of her. I told her not to. But she was determined. So, in fact, she’s at home with my parents, in a room of her own, typing away at a desk we set up for her … and she’s perfectly safe and happy. She said she needs … maybe another week, and then she’ll be home.’
‘So, if I wanted to, I could ring her at your home?’ Serendipity asked.
‘Well, no, she’s not taking calls. But she does want you to know that she and Baxterr are fine.’
‘She and Baxterr.’
‘Yes
,’ said Blake.
‘And you know Baxterr?’
‘I do,’ said Blake.
Serendipity nodded.
‘And she wants you to know she really is all right. Both of them are all right. And to say sorry for all the worry and fuss she’s caused,’ Blake continued.
‘And that’s what you wanted to tell me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Our daughter has run away to write a book?’
‘Yes!’ said Blake. ‘That’s exactly it! And Tuesday doesn’t want you to be worried.’
‘She said that?’
‘Exactly those words.’
Serendipity nodded again. Miss Digby came in with the tea. She settled the tray on the table and poured two cups and offered Blake a ginger-nut biscuit. Blake refused the biscuit and slurped the tea.
‘I know where we’ve met!’ he said suddenly, staring at Miss Digby as she was exiting the room. ‘It was at the TV station, wasn’t it?’
Miss Digby smiled her enigmatic smile. ‘I have a common face. I’m always being mistaken for someone.’
‘I swear it was you,’ Blake said. ‘I mean without the wig. It was that interview I did with Serendipity Smith. You were doing a crossword puzzle in the green room!’
‘I don’t do puzzles,’ said Miss Digby with admirable restraint.
‘Then was it the awards thing? When I won Best Young Adult author? You helped me get my cufflinks on.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Miss Digby. She nodded to Serendipity and Blake, and departed swiftly.
‘Blake, I do appreciate you coming to see me,’ said Serendipity, trying to distract Blake from his thoughts about Miss Digby. ‘I know Tuesday’s father will be so relieved to hear that she has simply run away. To write a book! Of all things! I’m enormously relieved myself. It’s been such a stressful time. So thank you! We are very grateful.’
Blake nodded.
‘Blake,’ Serendipity continued gently. ‘Consider the police. I would have to tell them all you’ve told me, and they would want to interview you. Then they would want to come and see that Tuesday is, as you say, at home with your parents.’
‘You don’t think you could put them off?’ said Blake, frowning. ‘The police? Until she’s ready to come home?’
‘I could try. But they’re bound to be suspicious. I mean, I know you have a very high profile. And no doubt when this comes out, there will be young writers everywhere arriving on your doorstep hoping that you might offer them the same support and hospitality.’
‘Oh, that can’t happen,’ said Blake.
‘So are you really sure, I mean one hundred per cent sure, that you want the police to know all of this?’
Blake blinked. Tuesday’s mother didn’t look cross. She looked tired. But was there the faintest gleam in her eyes? Was she laughing at him?
‘Can I use your bathroom?’ asked Blake.
‘Of course,’ said Serendipity. ‘It’s down the hall after the kitchen.’
As Blake passed the kitchen door, he spied Miss Digby wiping the table. He would have to go past her if he wanted to escape via the back door. Maybe he should turn around and make a run for the front door. But what about the media? He’d worn his hooded jacket. He was sure no one had recognised him when he’d arrived and pleaded with Miss Digby to let him in. But if he came flying out the door and ran off down the street, there were sure to be photographers and journalists in pursuit within moments. There was nothing for him to do but go into the bathroom and lock the door.
He studied himself in the mirror.
‘You have to get out of here,’ he said to himself. ‘She thinks you’ve abducted her daughter, you idiot. Possibly murdered her. The police are probably on their way right now. That’s why she’s being so nice to you. It’s all to keep you here so the police can arrive and arrest you.’
The bathroom had one small, high window. There was no way he was getting out of there. He listened at the door. Were Mrs McGillycuddy and Miss Digby waiting outside, ready to throw themselves down upon him and hold him captive until the police arrived? He could hear nothing.
‘Why didn’t you tell her the truth, loser?’ he berated himself. ‘Because then she’d be calling a psychiatrist instead of the police. Either I’m a kidnapper, or a nutcase. Perfect.’
What had he been thinking? he wondered. He hadn’t been able to bear the publicity about Tuesday splattered all over the TV and newspapers day after day. He had felt so awful for her parents, and he alone knew where she was. He’d only wanted to help.
‘So,’ he said to his reflection. ‘What would Jack Bonner do?’
He thought for a moment, then nodded wisely to himself in the mirror. He slipped the lock of the bathroom door very quietly. The hallway was empty. He could hear taps running in the kitchen; Miss Digby was washing dishes. There was only one option.
Blake ducked across the hallway and started up the stairs. These old townhouses usually had a way to get out onto the roof. If he could find the way, he could escape across to the next house, and the next, until he found a way down. He would claim complete ignorance if anyone asked him anything.
Officer, I was never there. I never professed to have Tuesday McGillycuddy at my house. I do not know her!
I’m going to go to jail, Blake thought. I’m going to get caught and they’ll find out she did call me and, after that, she disappeared. I’m sunk. My fingerprints are on the teacup. They’ll be able to prove I was here.
But Jack wouldn’t get caught, his thoughts continued. Jack would run. He’d say he’d gone to the house as a sympathy visit. He could produce letters Tuesday had written him. She was a fan. A fan!
By now he was on the third floor. He glimpsed a bedroom and kept climbing. Next, he came across another bedroom; it was clearly Tuesday’s. He paused to see if she’d hung up the signed Jack Bonner movie poster he’d sent her. She had. He nodded. She was a fan!
He reached the top floor and searched about for a skylight or a way of getting out onto the roof. He opened the door into a large office with a huge window. He crossed to it and checked for access to the roof above. The window clearly opened, but there was no visible access to anywhere other than five floors down. Two photo-journalists across the road had tripods set up with their cameras trained on the front of the house.
Blake surveyed the room again. It had a very beautiful old desk and chair. There was a lounge chair, too, that was the ideal thing to read a book in. And there were bookshelves crammed with thousands of books all higgledy-piggledy. For a moment Blake forgot the urgency of his mission and walked towards the shelves. His fingers traced along the spines of the books. There were volumes of poetry, old and new. There were books on history and geography. There were biographies and autobiographies. There were novels for children and adults all in alphabetical order, and every bit of available bookshelf space was crammed full. Blake inspected the L section. Sure enough, there was every one of the Jack Bonner books. He nodded, impressed. Was this Mr McGillycuddy’s room? Was this why Tuesday wanted to be a writer, because her house had all these books? Her parents were obviously readers.
Blake walked all the way to the far end of the shelves, taking in the titles and authors. He gazed down at the collection of books by Serendipity Smith. There was the complete Vivienne Small series in hardback and paperback, plus all the other novels Serendipity Smith had written before.
Blake ran his fingers across the spines of the Vivienne Small books. Tuesday had run into Vivienne Small, he remembered, on her first trip to the world of stories, when he’d first met her. She’d even come across Carsten Mothwood, the villain of the whole series. He noticed that there were Vivienne Small books in other languages. Vivienne Small und die Berge des Margalov, Vivienne Small et la lutte finale, Yo sé de Vivienne Small. There must have been twenty different editions of each book. Or maybe thirty. Blake slid one of the books from the shelf and opened it at the author picture on the inside back cover. There was Serendipity Smith with her
red hair and glasses. All of a sudden, a fact came to him. It crystallised, perfectly clearly, in his mind.
A voice from the doorway said, ‘So, you’ve worked it out?’
It was Tuesday’s mother. Blake went pale. Was it possible? Could this petite person really be that towering red-headed woman with the long velvet coats and the fabulous boots?
He looked back at the photograph. ‘It can’t be. Can it?’
‘It is.’ She smiled. ‘My grand disguise to keep a little privacy in our lives.’
‘You are actually Serendipity Smith.’ He grinned. ‘Wow!’ Then he frowned. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t come here to pry.’
‘It’s all right, Blake. I’m not at all cross. In fact, I’m deeply touched that you would come all this way to try to reassure us that Tuesday was safe.’
‘It wasn’t a very good story,’ he said. ‘I intended to tell you the truth, and then at the last minute I lost my nerve. I thought you would think me a complete nutcase if I told you there was a place writers go to. I’m sorry. I thought you must think I’d abducted her, so I was going to …’
‘Escape across the roof?’ she said with a smile. ‘Very Jack Bonner.’
Blake looked sheepish. Serendipity took the book from him and glanced at the photograph. ‘It’s worked quite well until now.’
‘Until now?’ Blake repeated.
‘Well, I think if Tuesday doesn’t come home soon, I’m going to have to tell the police the truth. Tell them who I am, and that there is a place that writers go to, and worlds beyond this one, and at the moment there’s something very wrong and the return journey is anything but safe.’
‘You can’t,’ said Blake. ‘Nobody will believe you.’
‘Well, they might if Blake Luckhurst were standing beside me,’ she said. ‘The most famous writer in the world, give or take a few exceptions?’
He grimaced and said, ‘I would never have said that if I’d known it was you I was talking to, Serendipity. I was …’
‘Establishing credibility. I know. It’s very useful, fame, for that.’
‘You can’t go telling people the truth,’ said Blake. ‘What if that somehow ruined it for every writer? Somebody might muscle in and make us all get travel permits, or licences? We’ve all kept it secret for so long. For thousands of years …’
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