Triple Ripple

by Brigid Lowry

  ‘So you are Glory? They told me you’d arrived, but I wanted to see you for myself. It’s true, you are here at last. My name is Persia Oleander.’

  ‘Hello,’ said Glory, for she could think of no other reply. The woman had a unsettling intensity about her.

  ‘Do you know who I am?’

  ‘Elda told me that . . . you’re the court herbalist. You keep your own kitchen and make the royal medicines, so she said.’

  ‘Is that all you know of me?’

  Glory nodded, unwilling to voice the other things Elda had said, especially the magic part.

  ‘Your mother did not mention me?’

  ‘No,’ Glory replied, puzzled.

  ‘Is she well, my old friend Rosamund?’

  ‘Fairly well, though she gets weary from caring for my brothers and the house, and from the work she takes in.’

  ‘If you make a visit home, I shall brew her a tonic. We were very close, Rosamund and I, when she lived in the palace.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Glory, not knowing what else to say, but it did not matter for the woman had turned and disappeared.

  After dinner that evening, in the candlelight of the queen’s chambers, Mirabella recounted her version of the incident with Glory.

  ‘. . . the rudest of replies, and then she stormed out. It was unpardonable, Mama. You must send her home immediately!’

  ‘I shall not. Glory is to remain in royal employ. After a period of other duties, she will be given another chance as your maid.’

  ‘But why, Mama?’

  ‘There are reasons for this that I am unable to share with you, Mirabella. However, let me remind you that graciousness and good manners are always appropriate for a princess.’

  ‘I may have been a smidgin high-handed, but the girl lacks the necessary humility for a servant’s position, in my view.’

  ‘Mirabella!’

  ‘Oh all right, Mama. I suppose we can see how it goes when she returns to my service. She’s a pretty thing, I admit. Her hair is such an unusual shade of red, somewhere between a summer plum and the loudest sunset.’

  The queen closed her eyes and sighed. Mirabella sighed, too. She had ridden that morning, which was all to the good, now that Oak was returned to fine fettle. The princess loved riding. Galloping across the meadows, alone with her beloved horse, was the nearest she ever got to freedom. However, the rest of Mirabella’s day had been sheer tedium. She’d spent the afternoon staring out the window, watching Elda picking rosehips in the walled rose garden. Since Cherry died, Mirabella had been feeling even more not-knowing-what-to-do-ish than before.

  ‘Perhaps I could attack a peacock with my diamond hairpin,’ she whispered, but she need not have bothered whispering because the queen had fallen into a right royal slumber.

  THE WRITER

  The most interesting thing that’s happened to the writer lately is losing her purse and then finding it again. Things are a little more complex in her book, though. She was going to have Glory’s mother explain about Miss Oleander, and the magic that went wrong, and what happened to Prince Oscar. But she remembered that Dickens said, ‘Make them laugh and make them weep but above all make them wait.’ So she has changed her mind.

  The Reader

  › Toby and I went to the park after school. For no actual reason, I didn’t like him anymore. His jeans were so baggy and hung so low they looked ridiculous. When he tried to kiss me, I said I had a sore throat, then I pretended to remember that I had to pick up some knitting stuff for Mum. ‘Whatever,’ he said, which seemed ridiculous, too. I’m turning into a nerdy girl who’d rather read a book than kiss a boy in a park.

  A BIT THAT IS

  TOO SMALL TO

  BE A CHAPTER

  GLORY COULDN’T SETTLE after Miss Oleander’s strange visit. somehow, the books no longer held the same interest for her, which meant she worked faster, clearing the shelves of books, dusting each one, wiping down the shelf and returning the volumes in tidy rows. glory was much puzzled. why had her mother not told her about the apothecary, if they had been such good friends? it was very odd. when the clock struck noon, the hungry girl hastened down the back staircase to the kitchen, which smelled of meaty deliciousness.

  ‘still with us, Missy? well, ’tis a lucky day for you and a lucky day for me as well, for i need all the help i can get here, and how i’m expected to manage without alice i just don’t know. Her father said he needed her to look after a sick pig. I never heard of such a feeble excuse!’ Mrs Blossom resembled a snowstorm, her dark hair dusted with flour. ‘Servants’ lunches is barley broth and soda bread. Take it outside to eat. I’m busy as a basket here and I don’t want no ones and nuffinks underfoot.’

  Glory sat on the bench and ate her lunch by herself. She hoped that Rolf would come, but he didn’t. Back in the library, she resumed work. With a reluctant sigh, she began dusting the history books which occupied the highest shelf. She climbed the small ladder, then lifted each heavy volume with one hand and dusted underneath it with the other. It was sneezy work, and it took quite a bit of skill to balance, lift, dust and replace without toppling onto the floor. As Glory lifted the last book on the last shelf, she paused. The book was much too light. She climbed down and opened it, only to find that the pages had been cut out to form a box.

  The Reader

  › I’m not going to get a chance to read tonight. Too much homework. Dylan was a bitch again today. She hid my backpack. It took me ages to find it. When I finally managed to locate it, under the steps, she was standing nearby, sniggering, so I know it was her. Tara reckons it’s because D has a major crush on Toby, and she heard that I dumped him. You would think that would have pleased her but, no, apparently not. School is not my favourite place right now, I’ll tell you that for free. One fun thing happened, though. My art teacher showed me a glossy magazine with a painting that has the best-ever title: ‘I’m not doing a poo today because I’m wearing blue eye shadow and a crown.’ Very, very cool. I wish the world was more fruity. I wish we all wore crowns, and tiaras, and strange hats. I’d like a green velvet hat with stars and diamonds on it. Regarding hats, my mother is knitting me a beanie. She’s using nice wool: purple, blue, green, yellow, orange and red, to make funky rainbow stripes. But I’m worried it’s going to come out all scrunchy, and blobby, and weird in a bad way. Mum’s really missing Dad. She’s eating too much chocolate and keeps getting up off the sofa to tidy things. Funny old world. Funny old Mum.

  THE WRITER

  The writer is going away for a while. Her life has become a scramble of emails, errands, and obligations. There are many Urgent Things That Must Be Done Before Leaving. She would like to stay home, in her quiet house of teapots. Travel is unsettling, and the logistics are tricky. Travelling light is a foreign concept for the writer, who wishes to take two pairs of slippers, a cosy rug, a stash of good tea, a bar of dark chocolate, an umbrella, a raincoat, a warm coat, a meditation stool, soap that smells fabulous, a journal, three books, two pens, some coloured pencils, a warm hat, a scarf, at least three pairs of shoes but possibly seventeen, jeans, boots, skirts, tops, dresses, an orange petticoat, jewellery, a nail file, a tiny Buddha statue, and a collection of gifts for friends. Now she has no time to write, and she is worried. What if she loses the plot completely and can’t find her way back into her story when she gets to the new place? Before she leaves town, she has to get Glory out of that frigging library; the poor girl’s been stuck there for days. And what on earth is going to be in that box? A feather, a stone, a letter, a bloodstained handkerchief, a ballet slipper, a partridge in a pear tree . . .

  The Reader

  › I’ve been sad today, for no particular reason. If wet weather, a neurotic mother, an absent father, knobbly knees, too much homework, and poxy skin don’t count as reasons, that is.

  I’m too tired to keep reading. I keep dropping the book, and tomorrow looms, with double maths, sport and all sorts of bizzy whizzyness. I do hope Glory . . .

  A CH
APTER

  WITH A BAD

  MISTAKE IN IT

  THE BOOK THAT was really a box contained three yellowed photographs. The first was of a tree. The next was of two young women wearing pale dresses, standing in a garden. ‘That’s Miss Oleander and my mother,’ glory whispered in amazement. The last photograph was of a young man. glory looked at him long and hard because, although it made no sense, the handsome youth seemed familiar. she leapt to her feet, shoved the book with the secret compartment back on the shelf where it belonged, tucked the photos into her apron pocket, and dashed down the corridor. Taking a wrong turn, she ended up in a vast room of ghostly chairs draped in dust covers. glory sprinted back the way she’d come. she hurried to the end of the next corridor, then dashed to the right, down the long hallway that led towards the kitchen, stopping beneath the portrait of the handsome young prince. She held up the photograph. Yes, it was definitely him: Prince Oscar. Glory walked slowly back to the kitchen, but there was no time to think for she was promptly set to work.

  ‘Finished dusting them books? I can do with you here, Missy, make no mistake about it. I’ve run out of onions, and the queen has asked for cream of onion soup. Go down into the cellar for me and fetch some, there’s a good girl.’

  Mrs Blossom smiled, and Glory went to get the onions. She was keen to look at the photos again, but she didn’t want to get into trouble.

  ‘Tonight,’ the girl promised herself. ‘When Elda goes to sleep, I’ll have a proper think. It’ll be quiet then and I’ll be able to make sense of things.’

  THE WRITER

  The writer has finally written the bit that gets Glory out of the library. It feels most satisfying. She goes walking in the wild wind, alive to inside-out umbrellas, wet roses, a cat in a window, an almost invisible rainbow. It is a joyous day indeed, but then . . . The writer hurries home and turns on her computer, then googles. When was photography invented? 1932. Bugger. She starts again.

  A CHAPTER

  WITHOUT A

  MISTAKE IN

  IT (HOPEFULLY)

  THE BOOK THAT was really a box contained a letter, but there wasn’t time to read it because right then arlo stuck his head around the corner.

  ‘Get down to the kitchen at once. Mrs B is having a fit.’

  Glory hurried downstairs, where she was promptly pounced on by a frazzled Mrs Blossom.

  ‘Duke and Duchess Ditchling are coming to dinner, and the queen wants my cream of onion soup, and roast meat, and goodness-knows-what tonight, and all at the last minute. Hurry down to the cellar and get me the big bundle of onions hanging on the back of the door. Look smart about it.’

  ‘The cellar?’

  ‘No, the bleedin’ elephant’s trunk! Has your brain turned into a pumpkin? Down t’stairs on t’other side of courtyard. Get going, Girl, don’t stand there like a chimpamzee.’ Mrs Blossom’s bosoms shook like two vast jellies.

  The cellar was a treasure trove of edible delights and wondrous smells. There were smoked hams and sausages dangling from the ceiling, baskets of dried mushrooms, stone tubs of chutneys and pickles, fat rounds of cheese, bunches of dried bay leaves, sage and thyme, and kegs of ginger beer.

  Glory would have liked to linger in this spicy place, but remembering Mrs Blossom’s heaving bosom she tried to recall her task. There were too many new things in her fuddled brain, especially the matter of the book that was really a box, and the letter. Onions! That was it! She grabbed a large bunch and sped back to the kitchen. Mrs Blossom barely looked up from the huge haunch of venison she was studding with sprigs of rosemary.

  ‘Good girl. Now peel ’em and slice ’em thinly, then put ’em into that big, black pot with the leeks and garlic what Rolf has already prepared. Where is that dratted boy? I sent him to find Elda, who went to pick fresh herbs, and now they’ve both vanished. How shall I get this dinner done with only you to help me?’

  Glory set to work. The knife was sharp, and she worked steadily. Mrs Blossom seemed pleased.

  ‘I don’t know where them others is, so I’m putting you in charge of the soup. Fry the onions slowly in butter to gentle the flavours. Don’t let them burn, mind you. When they’re golden, add that jug of chicken stock and simmer until the onions melt into the broth. Take it off the heat, sieve it, and add this bowl of fresh cream. Taste it and season with salt and plenty of nutmeg, there’s a lamb.’ Mrs Blossom returned to her work, cracking eggs into the buttery batter in her pudding bowl. For three and a half minutes there was peace in the kitchen.

  ‘Holy Trout! What’s on earth’s happened to you?’ bellowed Mrs Blossom.

  Elda stood in the doorway, her face badly swollen.

  ‘I’ve been stung by a bee that flew out of the raspberries.’ Elda’s voice was faint and raspy.

  ‘Her throat is swelling. She’s having trouble breathing.’ Rolf stood by, terrified.

  ‘Take her to Miss Oleander. She’ll know what to do. Oh dear, she do look unwell. I’ll come with you. Steady now, Elda, you’re going to be all right. Glory, stay here and make that soup, just like I told you.’

  The Reader

  › My mother is particularly cranky, even for her. Nova, clean your room. Nova, finish your homework.Nova, do your piano practice. Nova, turn your music down, I have a headache. She always has a headache. I want to live all by myself on my own planet with a white cat called Whizzbang and a goldfish called Gizmo.

  THE WRITER

  The writer flies across oceans and lands in her new location. At first it feels more like dislocation. Her body arrives, but her mind is muddled and undone. The soul travels at the pace of a camel, so the Arab proverb goes. She unpacks her red suitcase. She walks a lot, tasting the sights and sounds of the new place. She buys flowers to brighten her room, and gypsy earrings. She sets up her computer, hoping the muse will be able to find her. The writer fidgets a lot, eats a lot, and refuses to answer people who ask how the book is going because, to quote a proper famous writer, ‘Talking about your novel while you’re writing it is like opening the door when you’re cooking a soufflé.’ But it would be good to get some advice from the Goddess of Wonderful Writing, because the writer realises that Glory shouldn’t have found a letter in the box. It’s predictable and boring. She wanders aimlessly around the new city, idling the days away. At night, she dreams about her father, dead since she was a girl. She dreams about frozen pansies, a band called the Wobbly Jellies, a tree house with a library in it. One night, a girl comes riding a bicycle into her dreams. The writer recognises her. It is her reader. A kindred spirit for whom she must continue her story. ‘Damn,’ she says. ‘Now I’ll have to keep writing this book, despite all my fears and hesitations. A girl is waiting to read it. As for my dead father . . . well, if I can’t have a real father, at least I can enjoy creating some imaginary ones.’

  A CHAPTER

  WITHOUT A

  BORING BIT IN IT

  (HOPEFULLY)

  GLORY SAT DOWN on the floor. The book that was really a box was empty. How strange it was. why would anyone go to the trouble of making a hiding place and then not hide anything in it? it didn’t make sense. Just then arlo stuck his head round the corner.

  ‘Get downstairs at once. Mrs B is having a fit.’

  When glory arrived in the kitchen, she was promptly pounced on by a blathering Mrs Blossom.

  ‘The king’s coming home tonight. His aide rode in to give warning. The queen’s ordered cream of onion soup, roast venison and fig pudding. she’s got no idea, that woman. Thinks i’m a magician wot can produce hurricanes and miracles. Hurry down to the cellar and fetch me some onions.’

  ‘Where’s the cellar?’

  ‘Down t’stairs on t’other side of courtyard. Don’t stand there like a rhinocerump.’ Glory’s brain was a mess of wobbly clouds. There were too many new things in it. She was especially perplexed about the empty book. The palace definitely was a place of secrets. Glory could feel them hiding in the corners, ghostly but real. She sped back to the kitchen
with the onions. Mrs Blossom barely looked up from her work.

  ‘Peel ’em and slice ’em thinly. Where is that dratted boy? I sent him to find Elda, now they’ve both vanished.’

  Glory set to, working steadily. She liked the kitchen; she felt at home here.

  ‘Good girl. I don’t know where them others is, so you’re in charge of the soup.’ Mrs Blossom returned to her pudding.

  ‘Oh my Lawd!’ Mrs Blossom bellowed. Rolf and Elda stood in the doorway. Elda’s face was swollen as round as a cheese.

  ‘She’s been stung by a bee. I pulled out the sting, but her throat is swelling and she can’t breathe properly.What shall we do?’ Rolf asked, terrified.

  ‘Take her to Miss Oleander. She’ll know. Oh dear, she do look ill. Glory, stay here and make that soup, like I told you.’

  The Reader

  ›No time to read today. Dad’s coming home tonight. He wasn’t due ’til next week, but the job finished sooner than expected. We just got the news. I’m making him one of my Deluxe Collage Creations. I’ve glued a photo of his face above a skateboarder’s body and written Welcome Home in cloud letters. We’ll pick him up from the airport and go straight out for dinner. Mum’s booked our usual table at Bombay Heaven. My parents will order palak paneer, butter chicken, lamb rogan josh and garlic naan. They’ll drink bubbles and get a bit silly. I’ll drink a mango lassi and get sleepy from having such a full tummy. All good.

  THE WRITER

  The writer strolls around her neighbourhood, trying to think sensibly about plot. As she walks, she notices religious people going door-to-door. The writer thinks it’s unreasonable. What if she began knocking on people’s doors, saying, ‘Hello, would you like to believe what I believe?’ Perhaps she could put a wandering minstrel in her book, though. That would be good. She files it away in a compartment in her brain marked Possible Good Ideas For My Book. Her mind then turns to other important matters, such as whether it’s possible to remove her profile from Facebook, and how to stop bits of mango lodging between her teeth. Then she reminds herself that being a writer means you are actually supposed to write, so she goes back to her computer and cracks into it once more.