A Week without Tuesday

by Angelica Banks

  ‘I think your name is … Ermengarde,’ said Vivienne Small.

  The rat sneezed a tiny sneeze.

  Vivienne giggled as its long whiskers tickled her neck.

  ‘Ermengarde, would you like to come on an adventure or two?’ Vivienne asked.

  Chapter Twenty–four

  Tuesday set Baxterr down on the walkway and spun around happily.

  ‘Race you,’ she said to him, and he didn’t need to be asked twice.

  Tuesday sprinted up the walkway with Baxterr right beside her, his short legs a blur of golden-brown fur. They reached the glass door at precisely the same moment.

  ‘You wait until you see all this, doggo,’ Tuesday told him. ‘You won’t believe where we’re going to live.’

  Baxterr tilted his head, perplexed.

  ‘Ruff?’

  ‘Yes, here,’ Tuesday said. ‘You see, I have to be the Gardener. Someone has to take care of the worlds, doggo.’

  The glass door opened, and Baxterr, taking in the extraordinary sky above him, gave a little growl.

  ‘Ruff, ruff, ruff,’ he said quickly, as a bright yellow and green world swooped low over their heads.

  ‘North?’ It was Garnet’s voice coming from the primrose-coloured couch.

  He sat upright and it seemed to Tuesday that he had grown even older while he slept. His grey hair had transformed to a snowy white, and his eyes had clouded over.

  He struggled to his feet.

  ‘Where is she?’ he cried. ‘I heard her! I heard her barking. She’s come back! North Wind! Where are you, my girl?’

  The Gardener, looking wildly about him, caught sight of Tuesday and Baxterr and took a few staggering steps towards them. Tuesday, seeing that he was about to fall, rushed to catch him. The moment she reached him, he collapsed – almost weightless – against her. She steadied him with an arm about his waist.

  ‘North? Is that you?’

  ‘It isn’t her,’ Tuesday said, as gently as she could. ‘It’s my dog. He’s come.’

  ‘It isn’t? It’s not? I’m sure I heard …’ he said.

  Tuesday felt his knees buckle again.

  ‘I think you should lie down,’ Tuesday said, and with Baxterr following closely at her feet, she helped the Gardener back to his couch. She straightened the pillows all about him and pulled the eiderdown up to his chest.

  ‘It really wasn’t her?’ he asked sadly.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Tuesday said.

  Baxterr put his paws up, ever so gently, on the couch beside the old man, who peered back at him critically.

  ‘This is your dog, Ms Gardener?’ he asked. ‘I must say, you keep him very small. He’s almost a bonsai, isn’t he? I always kept North Wind bigger than that. About the size of a decent wolfhound. That was more my style. But you know, whatever suits.’

  ‘Garnet. This is …’ She paused for a moment. She almost said Doggo, but then decided to risk it. ‘This is Baxterr.’

  Garnet reached out a gnarled hand to pat Baxterr on the head.

  ‘Baxterr, eh?’

  ‘With a double r,’ Tuesday added. ‘It’s for his growl, you know.’

  ‘Growl,’ the old man sighed. ‘Yes, a growl can be a useful thing.’

  Garnet closed his eyes and Tuesday worried that he would never open them again. But after a moment, he did.

  ‘I’m glad you’re here,’ he said, addressing Baxterr. ‘And now that you are, I think I’ll be off. Remember that it is a fine and noble thing to be the Gardener’s dog. Like the Gardener’s life, the life of the Gardener’s dog can be difficult at times, and lonely. But friends are never so very far away. Not if one uses one’s nose … hmm?’

  He slowly tapped the side of his nose with a wizened finger then took a breath that Tuesday heard as a rattle in his chest.

  ‘It has been an extraordinary life,’ he said in barely a whisper. ‘We were far apart, my love and me, and yet we were together in purpose every day.’

  Garnet stared up at the sky swimming with worlds.

  ‘Look at that, will you, Ms Gardener. Just look up at that! Do you see? Over there, a new one.’

  High in the sky, something flashed, platinum white against the indigo. It was small, but growing.

  ‘What is it?’ Tuesday asked.

  ‘It’s a world being born,’ Garnet said. ‘You know what that means, don’t you?’

  Tuesday did. It meant that someone, somewhere, had put pen to paper. Or fingertips to keyboard, or chalk to a blackboard, or sharpened stick to a sandy beach. And they had done it in a way that had made magic.

  ‘You know, I only ever made one world that I was truly happy with. A very special bit of gardening that. I hid it. So precious.’

  ‘Which one is it?’ Tuesday said. ‘Can’t you tell me?’

  Garnet gave a barely perceptible chuckle. ‘Goodbye, Ms Gardener. Thank you for coming in my hour of need. Take care of the worlds for me, won’t you? And Baxterr, remember the nose.’

  With that, the old man closed his eyes and sighed the longest of sighs. When at last it stopped, he did not take another breath. He began to shimmer and then to vanish. A moment later, the eiderdown collapsed onto the couch, suddenly empty of his form.

  ‘Goodbye, Garnet,’ Tuesday said.

  Shimmering in the air before her, Tuesday saw a pale golden dust. Mesmerised, she reached out. At her touch, it vanished altogether. As Tuesday drew her hand back, she saw something strange. Baxterr gave a little whine of concern. Tuesday got up and went over to the workbench to examine her hand in a better light. It wasn’t her imagination. Her fingernails had changed. Where there would normally be a curve of paler pink, they had changed to faint shade of green. Tuesday glanced back to the vacant couch, and then again at her fingers.

  ‘I really have become the Gardener,’ Tuesday whispered. ‘Is that all right?’

  Baxterr licked her hand as if to say that everything was all right, so long as the two of them were together.

  ‘I don’t even know if it’s good or bad, if it’s wrong or right, but this is the story I’ve written.’

  They sat together, then, on the blue rug, Tuesday with her knees drawn up to her chin, and Baxterr with his small body leaned up against her legs. Together, girl and dog peered up into the sky full of worlds. There were so many of them.

  Chapter Twenty–five

  In the hospital corridor, through a window on the third floor, Serendipity Smith gazed out over the glittering lights of the city. It had been a good day, medically speaking. In the morning Denis had been unhooked from his breathing machine and, much to everyone’s relief, he had – after a short heart-stopping moment – breathed on his own. But still he had not woken up.

  It was late Friday night, and the city pulsed ever so slightly to the beat that Serendipity could not hear. Out there, she knew, there were couples sitting down to dinner in restaurants, families filing out of cinemas with new stories still big in their minds, and people dancing to music so loud that they forgot all their cares. Across town, at Brown Street, she could imagine Miss Digby and Blake at the kitchen table, playing their hundredth game of Scrabble in order to pass the time.

  ‘It’s been too long,’ she whispered to Tuesday.

  ‘Too long,’ she whispered to Denis, as she returned to his room.

  She closed her eyes and wished, but when she opened them again, nothing had changed. Perhaps, she thought, it was time to do more than simply wish. There was a pen dangling from the clipboard at the foot of Denis’s bed. There wasn’t much paper about, but Serendipity supposed she could use the backs of the medical charts for her purposes. Once more she glanced out the window. Someone had to go. No matter how risky or dangerous it was. Someone had to go there and bring Tuesday home. She bit the end of the biro, and thought. Then, using the bed as a desk, she touched the nib down on the page. Without warning, without opening his eyes, Denis reached out and grabbed her hand.

  ‘She’s lost to us,’ he said in a hoarse voice. ‘She’
s never coming home.’

  Serendipity stared at him, her heart racing.

  ‘Denis?’ she said. ‘Denis, speak to me!’

  But Denis did not speak again.

  Serendipity ran out into the corridor and called to a passing nurse.

  ‘He spoke!’ she said. ‘He spoke!’

  The nurse hurried in and checked the monitors, and then shook her head.

  ‘They do that sometimes. It’s random brain activity. It doesn’t mean much. He is still in a coma.’

  ‘He could wake up any time, though.’

  ‘Yes, he could,’ the nurse said. ‘Sometimes they do.’

  When the nurse returned two hours later to check Denis’s blood pressure and temperature, she found Serendipity curled up on the bed beside him, her head on his shoulder, her arm across his body.

  ‘Mrs McGillycuddy, you’ll have to move,’ the nurse said.

  ‘I can’t,’ Serendipity said, stirring groggily. ‘I could never leave him.’

  ‘Into the chair with you,’ said the nurse. ‘Here’s your blanket.’

  In the bathroom at Brown Street early on Saturday morning, Blake Luckhurst ran his fingers through his hair and eyed himself in the mirror. He squared his shoulders, angled his jaw and gave his reflection a steely glance.

  ‘Serendipity,’ he said to his reflection. ‘Somebody has to go, and that someone needs to be me.’

  ‘But Blake,’ he replied in a parody of Serendipity’s voice, ‘you can’t. You mustn’t. It’s too dangerous.’

  Blake rehearsed the conversation again as he sat down and rather awkwardly tied the laces of his boots.

  ‘Serendipity, you must remember I am not simply Blake Luckhurst, author. I am, in this instance, Blake Luckhurst, action hero.’

  He wondered briefly what sort of action he would face, then he strode from the bathroom down the stairs and said goodbye to Miss Digby, who was sorting paperwork in the kitchen.

  ‘Blake I think I should mention that your T-shirt is not only the wrong way around, but inside out,’ said Miss Digby, following him along the hallway.

  ‘Thank you, Miss Digby, but none of that matters,’ Blake replied, waving his hands in a theatrical gesture and closing the front door behind him.

  The grey-faced and dishevelled woman in the chair was the antithesis of the very tall, glamorous and colourful Serendipity Smith the public knew. Blake was still a little discomfited to remember she really was the Serendipity Smith, world’s most famous author. Tired as she was, Serendipity managed a smile when Blake arrived. She introduced him to Denis, who was, Blake observed, showing no sign of waking from his coma.

  Serendipity related what had happened in the night.

  ‘I was thinking that I have to go, I have to go and bring Tuesday home, but I can’t leave him, Blake. I can’t.’

  ‘Serendipity, I have come to an important decision,’ Blake began. ‘And these recent developments assure me that it is time for action. So I propose, and please, do not try to stop me, that I begin a story and transport myself there to do whatever it takes to ensure Tuesday does actually return home safely.’

  ‘Blake.’ Serendipity blinked. ‘That’s all very noble, but what if something happens to you?’

  ‘Please do not try to stop me, Serendipity. My mind is made up. What matters most is that you are here for Mr McGillycuddy – and that Tuesday comes home.’

  Serendipity put her arms around Blake and hugged him.

  ‘Thank you, Blake,’ she said. ‘I am sure if anyone can bring Tuesday home safely, it will be you.’

  And with that Blake turned on his heels. Tossing his backpack over one shoulder, he hurried out of the hospital and to City Park. It was a blustery day. Blake sat on a bench, took out a notebook and a chewed pen. He realised Serendipity had not tried to stop him. In fact, she apparently had complete faith in his ability to bring Tuesday home. Well, he wouldn’t disappoint her. Within a few moments of writing, he had lift-off and was arcing across the city sky, invisible to all below him, following a silver thread.

  The tree was delighted to see Blake hurtling towards it. All week it had felt rumblings from deep in the earth below, and this was very disturbing, for trees do not like change. Also, writers had been few and far between, and the tree had been lonely.

  So Blake’s arrival, accomplished by his familiar mid-air forward roll to a standing finish, delighted the tree. It rustled its leaves in a hearty welcome.

  ‘Adventure, of course,’ Blake said, and bowed deeply to the tree. ‘Hero by the name of, well … Blake Luckhurst, actually.’

  The tree rustled its leaves again.

  ‘I’m guessing a helicopter is out of the question?’ Blake asked.

  The tree did not respond.

  ‘Horse?’ suggested Blake.

  The tree shimmered its leaves and a small white goat appeared from behind its ancient trunk. The goat stared at Blake through its amber eyes and gave a high-pitched maaaaaaa.

  ‘Ha-ha. Very funny,’ Blake said.

  The goat gambolled away and began munching on the lush green grass of the hillside. Then, from behind him, Blake heard a low whickering noise. He turned to see a magnificent white horse, saddled and waiting.

  ‘Nice,’ he said to the tree. ‘I am, always, forever, at your service.’

  Then, in true hero style, Blake mounted the horse in a single, coordinated movement and galloped off through the mist towards the Library.

  Cantering up the stairs, Blake observed the extensive damage that had been done to the Library’s stonework and balconies. He glanced up at the gigantic word – IMAGINE – carved above the entrance, and was relieved to see it was still intact. He was no stranger to chaos; all his novels relied on it.

  He left the horse to take a drink at the fountain and walked towards the entrance, pushed open the huge doors and strode inside. He could hear that the dining room was packed with writers, all of them conversing noisily. But louder still was the argument that was going on in the Librarian’s study. Blake approached the slightly open door.

  He heard the Librarian in her unmistakeable voice saying, ‘She said she would do anything. Anything! So I took her at her word.’

  ‘She’s a child,’ said a deep, gnarly voice with a distinctive twang.

  ‘Well, we were all children once,’ said the Librarian.

  ‘She has the right to grow up, doesn’t she? Before such things are asked of her? What about the things she’ll never do if you leave her there? Never finish school. Never have her first dance. Never fall in love.’

  ‘Well, we might be sparing her there,’ said the Librarian drily. ‘And you act as if this is something I can fix, Silver Nightly. Well, I cannot. She went of her own free will. I cannot undo what has been done.’

  Blake pushed open the door. ‘Hello, Madame Librarian. Mr Nightly. I am Blake Luckhurst.’

  He reached out and shook hands firmly with the older writer.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, son,’ Silver said.

  ‘You two wouldn’t happen to be talking about Tuesday McGillycuddy, would you?’ Blake asked.

  The Librarian was distinctly uneasy, and Blake noticed her stained purple tracksuit and untidy hair. On her desk was a messy circle of crumpled tissues. He noticed her eyes were red-rimmed and her cheeks puffy as if she had been crying. Then he noticed stains on the couch that might have been blood. Through the study’s French doors, Blake saw that most of the balcony railing was missing. Beyond it, a huge globe loomed in the mist.

  ‘What the hell is that?’

  ‘Mr Luckhurst! Language, please. We are a writer and we have vocabulary. But to answer your question, that is a world that recently collided with my library.’

  ‘A what?’ asked Blake.

  ‘A world. And it’s happening all over,’ said Silver Nightly. ‘Worlds crashing into one another and throwing us writers to goodness-knows-where in the process. It’s chaos, and I’d say you’re a fool to be coming here, except that you have the look
of a boy on a mission.’

  ‘I am here to rescue Tuesday McGillycuddy,’ Blake said.

  ‘Oh, not you too,’ grumbled the Librarian.

  ‘Her mother is very worried,’ Blake said. ‘Her father is in a coma. I have to get her home.’

  ‘Dang …’ said Silver Nightly, shaking his head.

  ‘You cannot take her home, Blake Luckhurst,’ said the Librarian, raising herself up to her full, diminutive height. ‘Neither of you can. Nor would she agree to go. She’s staying here. She has made a choice to stay here forever.’

  ‘But that’s impossible!’ exclaimed Blake.

  ‘Unfortunately, it’s not,’ said Silver Nightly. ‘Though what Madame Librarian is failing to disclose is that she created this here problem. She sent Tuesday on a mission to write a story to stop the worlds colliding.’

  ‘And why are they colliding?’ Blake asked, glancing again at the surreal image of the world hanging outside the Library.

  ‘Because of someone called the Gardener. He has, only a short while ago, passed away,’ said Silver Nightly, causing the Librarian to reach for more tissues and again wipe her eyes. ‘Young Tuesday was tidily set up to become his successor.’

  ‘His successor!’ exclaimed Blake.

  ‘Someone has to do it,’ cried the Librarian, impassioned. ‘There must be a Gardener. The last Gardener could never have died if Tuesday had not fully accepted her fate.’

  ‘Fate?’ Blake asked. ‘You mean she was meant to be this? Chosen at birth or something?’

  ‘No, Blake, it was a little more practical than that, actually,’ the Librarian said. ‘Tuesday came to me with a story already begun and a Winged Dog by her side. A Gardener must have a creature that can travel between worlds. There was no one else. In that sense, perhaps it was fate. Certainly that is how most of us find our most important adventures, wouldn’t you say?

  ‘Without a Gardener all this would end. The only reason you and every other writer can come here is because the Gardener tends to these worlds. Tuesday is doing you all the greatest service. You only have to look around, or hear the stories in the dining room, to understand the chaos, the utter chaos, of a world without her.’