A Week without Tuesday

by Angelica Banks

  Serendipity’s eyes had grown very large, but she did not interrupt, only squeezed Denis’s hand and nodded to Tuesday to go on.

  Tuesday described what it was like to be the Gardener. She neglected to mention the part about accepting the role of the Gardener forever. She had heard her mother refer to it as ‘poetic licence’ – when the truth required a little massaging.

  Tuesday went on to relay all that Vivienne had told her about the Battle of the City of Clocks and finally being reunited with Baxterr and Vivienne. And how at last Blake, the Librarian and Silver Nightly arrived. Tuesday talked about how she had heard Denis was ill and how urgently she had wanted to come home, and how Silver had become the Gardener. And finally how they had visited the World of the Winged Dogs and Silver had found his own dog, and Tuesday and Blake had flown home on Baxterr and arrived this very morning.

  When she was done, Tuesday watched Denis’s face expectantly, but there was no change. She lay her head down against his hand on the bedspread. Everything was very quiet. And then the hand twitched. It moved. It patted her head. She sat up, startled. She stared at Denis, and Denis stared back.

  ‘Dad?’ said Tuesday, wondering if this was simply a strange phenomenon.

  ‘Denis?’ said Serendipity, also gaping at him as if he were an apparition that might disappear at any moment.

  Denis smiled at both of them and blinked.

  ‘My,’ he said, ‘that was a good story.’

  Chapter Twenty–eight

  After that, several weeks passed. They were nice, regular weeks, all with seven days, and all of them in the right order. Denis was at last allowed to come home, with strict instructions to relax and take things easy for a while. In her writing room on the top storey of the house in Brown Street, Serendipity Smith began her next book, and from his vantage point in a great circular room, the new Gardener had the pleasure of seeing a world being born. The Librarian spent the week putting books back on shelves, and by Sunday she had got as far as trying to remember whether MacMiniman came before McMaryborough, or after. ‘Mc’ names, she thought, ought to be banned.

  Baxterr spent most days either sleeping in his basket in Tuesday’s room, or watching over Denis to make sure that he didn’t overexert himself. In this, Baxterr had an ally in the pink-haired Miss Digby, who had taken to coming to Brown Street every day, and who would elbow Denis out of his own kitchen, and tut at him if he so much as hovered near the ironing basket. Baxterr didn’t mind, for Miss Digby had excellent taste in cheese.

  And as for Tuesday? Well, she wrote. That is, she went to school and ate breakfast and walked her dog and read books and had at the very least her regulation eighty-seven minutes of fresh air each day. And whenever she wasn’t doing those things, she wrote. And then, one Sunday, she had a late breakfast, took a bath and dressed carefully. She brushed Baxterr until his golden-brown fur gleamed. Right on two o’clock the front doorbell rang. Tuesday flung it open to see Blake Luckhurst standing there wearing pressed black pants, a shirt with orange stripes on it, and very shiny shoes.

  ‘Ready?’ he asked. A taxi waited behind him in the street.

  ‘You bet,’ Tuesday said.

  ‘We’re off. See you later!’ Tuesday yelled down the hall towards the kitchen, and she heard her parents call back their goodbyes. She grabbed her very best coat off its peg, snuck a quick glimpse at herself in the hallway mirror, and dashed out the door behind Baxterr.

  Blake got out of the taxi first and, in a very gentlemanly fashion, held the door open for Tuesday and Baxterr. The footpath of Gallery Street – one of the fanciest thoroughfares in the city – was invitingly wide and Tuesday, in her very best sneakers, couldn’t help turning a pirouette to make the skirt of her butterfly-patterned dress fly out in a circle. Baxterr, wearing his finest collar, shook himself joyfully, feeling the breeze in his well-brushed coat.

  On either side of the street were buildings both old and lovely, each one with something to recommend it. In front of them were the imposing steps of the Hotel Mirage, the sometime home of prime ministers and film stars, musicians and artists, ballet dancers and cricketers. And, as it was widely known, the permanent home of Serendipity Smith, the most famous writer in the world.

  ‘Tuesday McGillycuddy, take my arm,’ said Blake.

  ‘All set, doggo?’ said Tuesday, looping her arm through Blake’s.

  Baxterr gave a confident wag of his tail, as if strolling into the city’s most exclusive hotel was something he did every day.

  ‘And remember, doggo, that we have to pretend that we don’t know her. Or at least, that we don’t know her any better than anyone else does,’ Tuesday said, and Baxterr gave her a look that showed he understood perfectly, and was a little put-out that she had felt the need to remind him.

  Tuesday held Baxterr’s lead lightly as they stepped onto the soft, pale grey carpet that had been rolled down the centre of the marble steps. At the top, they met two doormen, identical in immaculate black and gold livery, who swung open the silver and glass doors and ushered Tuesday, Blake and Baxterr inside.

  The lobby was immense with a splendid staircase that went up and up and up. Through the middle of this broad flight of stairs poured a waterfall intercepted by a series of fountains until the water arrived in a great shimmering pool on the ground floor. The ceiling high above, Tuesday noticed, was encrusted with crystals that glowed and sparkled. And there was the most delicious smell, as if someone had captured the scent of happiness and sunshine.

  Tuesday took a deep breath. ‘Wow!’

  ‘I think we go up there,’ said Blake.

  And so, ignoring the bank of lifts, they began to climb the stairs with the central waterfall bubbling and sparkling until they reached the fountain on the cafe level. Guests were having coffee and tea from patterned china and everywhere there were tables with tall-tiered cake stands bearing sandwiches and cakes. The tables were laid with white linen and the chairs elegantly upholstered in striped red silk.

  A waiter in a silver bowtie materialised and Tuesday, feeling suddenly nervous, swallowed and said, ‘There is a table reserved under the name McGillycuddy.’

  ‘Certainly, mademoiselle,’ the waiter replied, in a voice that sounded as silky as the chairs.

  A cushion of red velvet had already been set out for Baxterr, and Baxterr – once Tuesday had unclipped his lead – leapt up onto it neatly and curled his tail tidily around his feet. The waiter shook the folds out of three linen napkins, lay one across Tuesday’s lap and one in Blake’s, then tied the other loosely about Baxterr’s neck.

  ‘Are you here for The Event?’ the waiter asked.

  ‘Oh, what event?’ Tuesday asked innocently.

  ‘Serendipity Smith is arriving at any moment,’ he said, nodding towards double doors with large brass handles beyond their table. ‘She’s finally back! She’ll come through here then take the elevators over there up to her own floor. Whenever she lets the press know she’ll be arriving, we call it an Event.’

  ‘Really?’ said Tuesday. ‘How exciting. Do you think we’ll get a glimpse?’

  ‘Oh, most certainly. You have the perfect table. I see that your party is not yet complete,’ the waiter said, noting the empty chairs. ‘May I fetch you a refreshment to start?’

  Blake and Tuesday felt the need to be unusually formal and polite.

  ‘An iced chocolate for me, please,’ said Tuesday.

  ‘And a ginger beer spider for me, please,’ said Blake. ‘If you have them.’

  ‘Indubitably,’ said the waiter, with a slight bow. ‘And for the furry fellow?’

  ‘Milk, please, a little warm,’ Tuesday said.

  ‘My pleasure, mademoiselle,’ the waiter said, and glided away.

  Tuesday was pleased to see that Baxterr was far from the lone representative of his species in the hotel. There was a tall, white-haired man sharing a plate of fruitcake with a bassett hound. And at another table a young woman kept company with three greyhounds, all eating bi
scuits with foie gras. Beyond them sat a man with a pair of chihuahuas on his lap, tiny bright flowers behind their ears, turning up their petite noses at their ham and cheese croissants.

  When the drinks arrived, Tuesday’s was piled with ice-cream, cream and grated chocolate and Blake’s threatened to froth clean out of its towering glass. Baxterr’s milk was served in a sensible but beautiful bowl and – to Tuesday’s immense pride – he lapped at it with absolute decorum.

  Then an audible wave of excitement swept through the room. There was a sense of some kind of activity taking place below, perhaps at the hotel’s front doors, and all the people in the cafe turned towards the gilded waterfall. A whisper rippled almost visibly through the entire hotel. Suddenly guests were arriving from their rooms, people in the cafe were standing, wait staff were appearing in their whites, and even kitchen staff in white caps and striped aprons were emerging through swinging doors. There was a buzz coming towards the cafe. Everyone was craning to get a first glimpse of The Event.

  Someone called out, ‘There she is!’

  Someone else said, ‘She’s here! She’s coming up the stairs.’

  ‘It’s her!’

  ‘I think she’s here,’ said Blake to Tuesday.

  ‘I can’t believe it!’ said the white-haired man eating fruitcake.

  ‘Oh, my, goodness,’ said the man with the matching chihuahuas, clasping them to his chest. ‘It’s really SERENDIPITY SMITH!’

  And indeed it was. The double doors were thrown open by a pair of liveried doormen. And then the flaming-haired figure of Serendipity Smith strode into view, accompanied by a flock of media people, cameras on their shoulders or microphones in their hands.

  Serendipity wore a coat in plush, tangerine velvet, lined with paisley silk, and her high-heeled crimson leather boots came up above her knees. Today, she had worn her russet-coloured curls loose and they rambled wildly down her back and around her shoulders. Upon her face was a pair of Lucilla La More glasses with bright gold, yellow and white sunbursts at the temples.

  Reporters pushed in closer, while hotel visitors scrambled for paper, napkins, bills, hats, dog collars, or indeed anything at all that Serendipity Smith might be able to autograph. Serendipity moved gracefully yet determinedly through the crush, pausing here and there to shake hands and to scribble her name. For the tiniest moment, her sunburst-framed gaze alighted on Blake, Tuesday and Baxterr at their cafe table. And was it Tuesday’s imagination, or did one of Serendipity’s eyes flicker closed in the briefest of winks? Tuesday couldn’t be certain. She could only try to behave like everybody else in the room, as if she were seeing the most famous writer in the world.

  ‘What are you working on?’ someone called out.

  ‘Yes, what’s next?’ asked another.

  And then the elevator doors opened and Serendipity Smith stepped inside. The media wailed and cried out, begging for another photo, more answers, more time, but the doors closed. Two footmen stood impenetrably before the elevator’s doors. The crowd sighed. She had been with them for mere moments, and now she was gone. Tuesday realised she and Blake and Baxterr had all stood up, and they sat down again.

  ‘Hello, you two,’ said Serendipity, arriving with Denis and sliding into her seat at the table.

  Serendipity wore her usual short hair, a simple black shirt and pants and, because it was a special occasion, a striking pair of short red boots. Denis wore a black beanie to cover his shaved head and looked incredibly stylish, albeit thin and pale. The waiter materialised again.

  ‘You didn’t miss it, did you?’ he said. ‘She was right here. Serendipity Smith!’

  ‘How incredible,’ said Serendipity, smiling at him.

  She ordered afternoon tea for them all, and soon a tiered stand arrived, laden with food. There were miniature egg and bacon pies, thumb-sized sausage rolls and the thinnest cucumber sandwiches. On the next tier were lemon tarts, strawberries coated in chocolate, tiny eclairs, squares of jelly topped with fruit and caramel clusters. On the top were macarons in six different colours and flavours.

  Tuesday felt like she was in a dream. She was here, together with her dog and her father and her mother and Blake, having afternoon tea at the Hotel Mirage.

  ‘Did you see her?’ Tuesday asked Serendipity.

  ‘We did,’ said Serendipity. ‘We stood on the footpath and watched her arrive, then we followed along as she came into the lobby and up the stairs.’

  ‘And what did you think of yourself?’

  ‘I think Miss Digby is a marvellous me,’ said Serendipity. ‘What did you think?’

  ‘She was very … famous!’ Tuesday said.

  And they all laughed.

  Tuesday, popping a last crumb of macaron onto her tongue, thought for a moment, and said, ‘Will Miss Digby be you from now on, Mum?’

  ‘I hope so,’ said Serendipity. ‘But of course I may be required to be myself from time to time.’

  ‘Do you ever think of having a disguise, Blake?’ Denis asked.

  ‘Nah,’ replied Blake. ‘I am always happiest being my own magnificent self.’

  Tuesday shook her head, smiling and put her hand on Denis’s arm, saying, ‘Just like you, Dad.’

  Serendipity put her hand on his other arm and said, ‘You are magnificent, my love. I would be utterly lost without you. Promise me you’ll never, ever get sick like that again.’

  Baxterr ruffed and Tuesday said, ‘Dad, I’m still so sorry I wasn’t here while you were so ill.’

  ‘What matters is that you’re both home – that we’re all home,’ said Denis. ‘Maybe one day I might get to see some of those other worlds you’ve all visited … tell me again about it, both of you.’

  ‘All right,’ said Tuesday.

  ‘Well,’ said Blake, leaning forward.

  Baxterr ruffed and Serendipity poured more tea.

  In the middle of that night, when the house was quiet, Tuesday woke. She couldn’t say quite why she had woken. There hadn’t been a noise, and there wasn’t a thread floating about trying to catch her, although there was a streak of moonlight coming through her curtains.

  She got out of bed, went to her desk and turned on the lamp. Tuesday knew she had something important to do, and so, for a little while, she sat down and typed away on her pale blue typewriter. Every now and then her eyes strayed from the page to gaze abstractedly at the curtains or the wall. When she was done, she reread her words.

  ‘Vivienne is going love that,’ she whispered.

  Then she turned off her lamp and went back to bed, and if you could have seen her face in the darkness, you would have seen that her eyes were shining.

  It’s an old tree, tall and strong, with a thick pale trunk and branching arms that end in bursts of narrow, purple-green leaves. Although it grows on a cliff edge, its roots run deep. Some of its branches reach right out over the Restless Sea and the longest of them forks into an outstretched hand. In the palm of that hand is a tree house with walls made from planks of sea-washed driftwood and windows that drink in the view.

  The roof of the tree house is a dome, shingled with scallop shells on the outside and painted inside with scenes from a great battle. There are cats with their claws dug deep into vicious ugly birds, and fish that fly through the sky like arrows. The birds snap their beaks at a Winged Dog who soars over them all, and a small girl shoots arrows from her seat on his back. This roof has a secret, though, and it’s this: on the wall is a lever and if you pull it, the dome will slide open and let in the sun, or the star-shine, or the buttery fingers of a full moon.

  The inside of the tree house has all the things a girl might need, and not much more. The verandah that rings the house holds a table and two chairs, and a potted garden of herbs and medicinal flowers. There is also a hammock where a girl might rest. And rest she does, sleeping soundly as a pearl dawn starts to spill onto the surface of the Restless Sea. The girl would deny it, but she snores, just a little.

  But it’s not snoring that you
can hear right now, though: it’s a sneeze. A sneeze as dainty as the little pink nostrils it came from. And as the girl wakes, her ears prick up, most especially her right ear, the one with the pointed tip. She hears it again: sssnizoo! Vivienne looks all around her, but sees nothing. Then she feels the soft tickle of long whiskers against her neck.

  ‘Ermengarde,’ she whispers, hardly daring to believe it.

  Grinning, she reaches up and draws out a small, black rat.

  ‘How did you get here?’

  The rat merely yawns, showing sharp yellow teeth, and makes a tidy leap back onto Vivienne’s shoulder, where she can nestle once again into the warmth of the girl’s hair.

  ‘Hang on,’ says the girl, partly to Ermengarde and partly to herself. ‘How did I get here? And where exactly is here?’

  Vivienne tumbles out of her hammock, and the view over the Restless Sea momentarily knocks the air out of her lungs.

  ‘Oh!’ she gasps. She leans on the rail and smiles. She laughs, and runs the full circle of the verandah, marvelling at the timberwork, and peering inside. It is, she thinks, the strongest and most beautiful tree house ever built.

  Now she sees that in the middle of the table on the verandah, there is a package. It’s wrapped in shiny red paper and tied with brown string. A label reads IN CASE OF RAIN. The girl tears off the paper without ceremony and finds a glass bottle. Inside the bottle is a sailing boat with a red hull and a white sail, and – she grins – a cabin! Written on the stern in tiny letters is Vivacious II.

  There is one more thing, and she feels it as an itch in the tips of her blue wings. She wriggles them, but the itch grows stronger. She notices it first in the shadow she casts on the wall of her tree house. But it’s not until she sees it out of the corner of her eye that she believes it. Her wings are growing. They are still leathery, still blue, but they grow, and grow until they are large enough and strong enough to let her truly fly.