A Week without Tuesday

by Angelica Banks

  ‘In the teacup?’ Silver asked.

  Blake got up from the floor and came over to see what was going on.

  ‘Did you say “fly”?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s got wings,’ Tuesday said. ‘I’m going to let it go, Silver. You’ll need to hook it by a loop on the side.’

  ‘I’ll give it my all,’ said Silver.

  Baxterr barked.

  ‘Okay,’ said Tuesday. ‘One … two … three.’

  Tuesday lifted the saucer and the world darted up into the Conservatory. As soon as it was free, it began immediately to grow. Within a heartbeat, it was the size of a soccer ball, and a second later, the size of a hot-air balloon, its furry wings beating the air.

  Silver lunged at it with the boathook, but it zoomed away from him, rising up into the dark sky.

  ‘Dang!’ he said. ‘I’ve missed the darned thing.’

  The world had grown to the size of a small moon.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Tuesday said. ‘Keep reaching. The boathook knows what to do.’

  ‘Oh, my giddy aunt,’ the Librarian said, waking up to the sight of a colossal winged world directly above her.

  ‘Here I go again,’ Silver said, feeding the boathook up into the sky. The hook extended and extended.

  ‘Do you see the loop, Silver? There, there!’ Tuesday cried.

  ‘I see it!’

  ‘Ruff,’ said Baxterr, who was practically prancing with excitement.

  With a swipe that was not especially elegant, Silver snagged the winged world on the end of his boathook. He beamed.

  ‘Excellent. Bring it in to that jetty over there,’ Tuesday said, pointing to the narrow walkway. At first the world strained against the hook as if it wanted to fly away and be free, but after a moment, it appeared to change its mind and submitted to being towed down to the platform. With a magnetic click it was secure, and its furry wings came to a gentle standstill.

  ‘Well, hooley dooley,’ said Silver, resting on the boathook as if it were an oversized cane. He mopped his brow with his handkerchief.

  Though it was not a large world, it was a beautiful one, its surface marbled gold and pearl.

  ‘So what happens next?’ asked Blake in almost a whisper.

  ‘C’mon,’ said Tuesday. ‘This is the best bit.’

  The Librarian, perfectly awake again, said, ‘Well, this is something I have to see. Before I go home and chase that horse of yours out of my roses, Blake Luckhurst.’

  And so the Librarian, Blake Luckhurst, Silver Nightly, Tuesday and Baxterr walked the narrow walkway to the world at the end of the jetty. When they opened the pearly door that presented itself, they found a world so bright that for a moment they were blinded. A rush of salt air washed over them, a breeze stirred, waves broke and Baxterr barked.

  ‘Oh, doggo,’ said Tuesday, patting him. ‘It’s exactly like I always thought it would be!’

  It was a world of wide, white stretches of sand and stepped cliffs that rose, ledge after ledge, into a blue sky full of puffy white clouds. Creeks snaked down over the sand towards a blue, rippled sea. Waterfalls tumbled in the crevices of the cliffs. And everywhere there were dogs. Huge dogs. Winged Dogs flying the currents of air, gliding, wheeling, leaping and tumbling.

  ‘This is where they all went,’ Tuesday breathed. ‘I can’t wait to tell Mum I’ve seen them. Oh, Silver, you have no idea how much I want to go home.’

  Baxterr barked. ‘Yes, doggo!’ said Tuesday. ‘Of course you can run!’

  She watched Baxterr bounding away, and then he grew. He spread his wings and took flight.

  ‘My, that’s a wonderful sight,’ said Silver, blinking. ‘I guess he doesn’t get to do that at home too often.’

  ‘This would have been his home,’ said Tuesday quietly as they strolled together along the expanse of sand, leaving Blake and the Librarian behind.

  ‘I guess that’s true, except it isn’t,’ said Silver. ‘Anyone can tell that home, for that dog, is you.’

  ‘Perhaps we can come and visit some time,’ said Tuesday.

  ‘Sounds like a mighty fine idea,’ said Silver.

  Tuesday gazed up at all the dogs in flight, the dogs bounding along the beach, tossing their heads and frolicking together, rolling in the sand and splashing in waves.

  ‘How will you choose one?’ Tuesday asked.

  ‘You mean how will it choose me?’ Silver smiled. ‘I guess we’ll have to wait and see.’ And so they walked the entire length of that beach while Baxterr flew, and landed, and ran, and flew again. Until at last he came bounding along the beach with a friend. She was white, with a brown patch over one eye. She was bigger than Baxterr, with shaggier fur.

  ‘Ruff,’ said Baxterr.

  ‘Is that so?’ said Silver Nightly, eyeing the white dog. He held out his hand and the white dog sniffed it, and then she licked it and barked.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Silver asked.

  ‘Ruff,’ the dog replied.

  Tuesday nodded. ‘So that’s how it’s done,’ she said.

  ‘I think I’ll take a stroll with my new friend, if you don’t mind, Tuesday,’ said Silver Nightly. ‘I’m guessing you need to be getting home, and I’m sure this won’t be the last time I see you.’

  ‘I’m sure it won’t, Silver Nightly,’ said Tuesday. ‘Or should I say, Mr Gardener?’ She held out her hand and he took it, and as he did so a curious rush of energy ran between them. Tuesday and Silver both stared at their hands. The green had gone from Tuesday’s nails, while Silver Nightly was chuckling.

  ‘I’ll be! I grew a green thumb!’

  ‘I think you’re going to be wonderful at gardening. But I haven’t shown you anything.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure Madame Librarian will get me sorted,’ he said. ‘You get yourself home safely, and remember, you did a great thing for all of us, taking over in a crisis.’

  Tuesday walked back to the Librarian and Blake.

  ‘So, it’s all turned out quite well, Tuesday McGillycuddy,’ said the Librarian. ‘A second visit is always difficult. There are so many options. I mean, you might have refused the thread when it came to get you. You might have said no to Vivienne and no to me. You might have said no to the Gardener. Yet you did not. You have said yes, and yes, and yes. True imagination takes great courage. And you have worked a small miracle, in your own way. You have saved this marvellous place of worlds for writers and readers everywhere. And found your way, I think, almost to The End.’

  ‘And if I’m right, I’m never going to need my thread again,’ said Tuesday. ‘Because Baxterr can travel between worlds.’

  The Librarian sniffed. ‘Well, go on then. You’ll both be back, I’m certain of that. Whatever way you come.’

  With formality, she shook hands with Tuesday and Blake.

  ‘I do like young people,’ she said. ‘You have so little fear. Now off you go. Please don’t get sensible too soon.’

  ‘Ready, Blake?’ asked Tuesday.

  ‘You don’t mean …’ said Blake, grinning. ‘On Baxterr? Really?’

  It was Sunday morning in City Park and the earliest of the birds scouted the lawns for worms. Night creatures were making their way home to their hollows in the trees, preparing to sleep out the day. On the grassy slopes and lawns, daisies were unfurling their petals, but there were still hours to go until the shutters on the ice-cream kiosk would rattle open for business. The only people about were some joggers, two City Park officials in their green uniforms, and a newspaper boy.

  The newspaper boy always got to the park early, to claim his favourite spot. It was beneath a tree that shaded him from the sun on hot days, kept the worst of the rain off him on wet days, and made a good stand to lean his bike against. Best of all, though, the tree was at the junction of four pathways, which meant that plenty of people went right past him where he stood calling out the headlines of the day. Last Sunday it had been: ‘Seven writers abducted! JD Jones snatched in her sleep! Read all about it! Read it right here!’ Ba
rney had sold out of papers by lunchtime. He’d done well all week, actually, with that girl called Tuesday missing, last seen right here in City Park.

  On his head was a bright red cap, and around his waist was the leather pouch in which he kept his change. At his feet was a huge stack of fresh newspapers, still wrapped in plain newsprint and tied with string. He sliced through the string with his pocketknife.

  Taking up most of the front page was a picture of a man with a curling, black moustache. He was on crutches, with the lower part of his leg swathed in white bandages. The headline read: JEFFERSON LOSES FOOT.

  The newspaper boy read through the details of how Cordwell Jefferson – a writer, and by his own admission not always the most practical of men – had run over his own foot while mowing the lawn. ‘It’s always a risk to tangle with things you don’t fully understand,’ Jefferson was quoted as saying.

  As his head was bent over the paper, a gigantic Winged Dog came soaring in over the treetops heading for the open lawn beside a bank of public telephones.

  The newspaper boy heard a noise and jerked his head up. Where a moment ago there had been nothing and nobody about, there was a smallish golden-brown dog and, sprawled on the grass beside him, a teenage boy and a girl, slightly younger. It was never too early to make the first sale of the day, so the boy cried out, ‘Cordwell Jefferson maimed by lawnmower! Read all about it! Read about it right here!’

  Tuesday picked herself up and brushed the leaves and dried grass from her clothes.

  ‘A lawnmower,’ she said to Blake, raising her eyebrows, as they walked away.

  ‘Seriously?’ Blake said.

  ‘A crocodile,’ said Tuesday.

  ‘Ouch,’ said Blake.

  As they exited City Park, Tuesday caught the first of the notices bearing her face and the words: HAVE YOU SEEN TUESDAY?

  ‘Oh dear,’ she said. On every lamppost and telegraph pole, in every window, there was her photograph staring out at her.

  ‘Blake, how long has it been?’ she asked.

  ‘A week,’ he said.

  ‘Thank goodness. It feels like months.’

  Tuesday began to hurry. As they were about to turn the corner into Brown Street, Blake slowed to a stop.

  ‘Tuesday, I think you should know there might be a media posse outside your house.’

  ‘Blake,’ Tuesday said, ‘promise me you won’t ever tell anyone that I really considered never coming home again. I think it was the world … I think …’

  ‘I get it,’ said Blake. ‘And I think it might be best if you go home alone. Your parents … they don’t want to see me.’

  ‘Are you sure you won’t come in?’

  ‘Nah. Can’t stand soppy scenes,’ said Blake.

  ‘Thank you, Blake,’ said Tuesday. They smiled at one another and then Blake suddenly hugged her.

  ‘Your home is right there,’ he said, pointing. ‘You think you can make it on your own?’

  Tuesday ran. She ran with Baxterr beside her. She was almost to the front gate when a reporter, a young woman with a lemon-coloured scarf knotted at her throat, turned around and cried, ‘There she is!’

  All at once the reporters were around her. There was the clicking and whirring of cameras and everyone was calling out to her.

  ‘Where have you been, Tuesday?’

  ‘Tuesday, can tell us what happened?’

  ‘Were you abducted?’

  ‘Were there aliens?’ asked a reporter with a badge that said Universal Chronicle. ‘Tuesday, can you describe them?’

  ‘Tuesday, did your parents have anything to do with your disappearance?’

  Tuesday, quite terrified, picked up Baxterr and held him tight in her arms. He growled at the reporters with the special, deep sound that he reserved for protecting the people he loved most.

  Suddenly the front door was thrown open, and there stood a woman with bright pink hair and a furious scowl on her face. For a moment, Tuesday had the horrible feeling that she had come to the wrong house. She read the street number that was screwed into the wall beside the front door. Yes, it was definitely her own home.

  ‘Clear off, you vultures,’ the pink-haired woman said. ‘Let the girl inside, will you?’

  The reporter with the lemon scarf caught Tuesday’s eye and held her microphone out to Tuesday. ‘Tuesday, you’ve been gone all week. The entire city has been waiting and worrying. Where have you been?’

  ‘I wasn’t anywhere,’ Tuesday stammered. ‘Baxterr and I … we went for a walk in the park.’

  Then the woman with the pink hair opened the gate and marched Tuesday up the steps and into the house, slamming the front door behind them. The light in the hallway was dim compared to the bright sunshine outside and Tuesday had to blink several times before she understood.

  ‘Miss Digby?’ she said. ‘Is that really you?’

  But before Miss Digby had a chance to answer, Serendipity Smith came flying down the hallway with tears of relief shining on her cheeks, and wrapped her daughter in her arms as if she would never, ever, ever let her go again.

  Chapter Twenty–seven

  They sat, Tuesday and Serendipity, on either side of Denis’s hospital bed. Tuesday had hold of one of his hands and Serendipity the other. The room had no windows and lots of machines that beeped and sighed.

  Denis’s skin was the palest grey and he had a misty quality about him, as if he might fade away at any moment.

  ‘Dad?’ said Tuesday. ‘Dad?’

  But Denis said nothing.

  Tuesday blinked back tears. She realised that she had believed her arrival would make a difference. That Denis would somehow sense her presence, and magically awake.

  Perhaps Serendipity had thought the same for she had been loudly enthusiastic when they had first arrived, telling Denis how Tuesday was home at last, that she was safe and how she had been on such extraordinary adventures, and didn’t he want to hear all about them?

  Both Serendipity and Tuesday had kissed his cheeks and forehead, but Denis had not stirred. His quiet breathing hadn’t changed. Tuesday and Serendipity came to a sort of standstill then. Neither of them knew what to say. Tuesday observed the flowers in the vases all along the shelf above her father’s bed and on the table at the end of his bed. There were roses in every colour: lipstick pink, deep red, vivid orange, butter cream, vanilla cream, snow white. The ones Serendipity had brought this day, their petals not yet open, were a gentle shade of mauve.

  Serendipity explained to Tuesday that it had become a daily habit to bring fresh roses to Denis’s room. Along with balloons. The balloons, bought from a street-seller outside the hospital, floated about the ceiling with messages of ‘Get Well’, ‘We love you’, ‘Congratulations!’, ‘Happy Birthday’ and ‘It’s a Boy!’, which might have seemed strange to some people, but which Tuesday knew Denis would find hilarious, when at last he woke.

  Not all of the balloons had words on them. Others were just one colour, and very sparkly, or else they had stripes or spots, rainbows or stars. The room could easily have been depressing with all the tubes and drips and monitors about the bed and the beeping noises and ticking clock, and its grey chairs and pale lemon bedspread. But Serendipity had managed to fill it with colour. The bright balloons over her head reminded Tuesday of the worlds she had left behind, spinning above the Gardener’s Conservatory, and she wondered how Silver Nightly was doing, and how his new dog was settling in, and what he was going to name her.

  Denis slept on, if being in a coma was anything like sleeping. Tuesday had no way of knowing.

  ‘Is he dreaming?’ she asked Serendipity.

  ‘Maybe,’ said Serendipity. ‘I hope they’re lovely dreams if he is.’

  ‘Do you think he hears anything?’ Tuesday asked after another stretch of silence.

  ‘Well, if he can’t hear us, I hope he hears the sea. Or you laughing. Or all of us playing cards. Or the breeze in the trees at City Park. Or the birds …’

  Tuesday heard th
e crack in her mother’s voice as she said this.

  ‘He’s going to be okay, Mum,’ she said. ‘He’s going to wake up.’

  ‘I’m sorry. But now that you’re home, I feel even more desperate to get him home again too.’

  ‘Maybe he needs a story,’ said Tuesday.

  Serendipity wiped her eyes. ‘Perhaps you’re right. And that way I could get to hear it as well. I mean all of it this time – not the rushed version.’

  And so Tuesday began at the beginning. Holding her dad’s hand, and telling it to him as if he were awake and listening, she talked of her walk in City Park a whole week ago and how the thread had zoomed in from out of the blue and caught her up. Then she told him how she had met Vivienne at the tree and how they had visited the Library. She described the packed dining room and the pots of chilli beans and meeting Silver Nightly, not forgetting the bit about how Cordwell Jefferson had actually lost his foot. Then she described how Vivienne, who had not been able to visit the Library, had waited as if frozen until Tuesday and Baxterr returned. She described the hike to the Mabanquo River and the night they had spent swimming in the hot pool, the picnic they had made, and how good it had been to sleep under the towering ferns. Then she told of Vivacious doing its magical thing of growing from a tiny boat into a dinghy and the night they had spent on the Mabanquo River, and the torrential rain and discovering, at daybreak, that the world had been crushed against another world that was pouring its ocean down on top of them. Next she described the terror of being grabbed by the vercaka and being flown higher and higher so that she thought at any moment she would become vercaka bait. Or get dropped from a great height and end up like a splodge of strawberry jam on the ground.

  Serendipity shook her head and chewed her lip but said nothing.

  Tuesday continued, describing her fall instead between the worlds and waking up on the Gardener’s couch with all those worlds, floating like the balloons around the hospital ceiling, but thousands more, and all spinning, and all different shapes and sizes. And how the Gardener was very old and fragile and terribly forgetful. How he had all manner of strange sayings that made no sense and quite a lot of sense all at once when you stopped to think about them.