‘Lou,’ Chloe said. ‘That book …’
The voices … they were louder now. Whispers in languages I didn’t know.
‘Can you hear that?’
‘Hear what?’ Chloe said absently, not moving her eyes from the book.
The flames grew, enveloping the book, but the pages didn’t burn. The black heart of burning books was absent, no red ripples, no pages shrivelled into ash. Just pure yellow-white flames.
‘The book doesn’t burn.’
Chloe’s voice was tiny in the cacophony of whispers that filled my head. They seemed to be vying for attention, all speaking at once. I caught something in French. Espièglerie. Then the same word in English. Mischief.
The flames leapt from the book. With a great whooshing sound, they disappeared as if sucked up the chimney. The voices fled. The red embers from the remaining newspapers lit enough of the fireplace for us to see: the book was untouched. Unburnt.
The embers went out, one by one. We shivered in the dark until our eyes adjusted to the paltry sliver of light the moon offered. It was enough for us to see the whiteness of those blank pages in the black ashy fireplace, those pages that had whispered instead of burned.
The next day, I took the book out of the fireplace. Ash from the newspapers didn’t even stick to it. I tried to light it on fire again, using one of our precious matches and holding the tiny flame directly to its pages. The match burned down to my fingers. A few whispers came and went. Sounds beautiful and soft, abrasive and violent. I flipped through it to check if it was really blank. I dropped water on the pages, and it rolled right off. It felt like paper. It didn’t seem to be made of anything special. I tried to tear out a page. It wouldn’t rip.
I left our room with it before Chloe woke up. I was worried it might be dangerous. Alexandre was already up in his training basket when I arrived at Gare d’Orléans. He waved and then blew me a kiss. I waved back and got to work, the book resting beside me as I sewed a sturdy strip of red calico to one of blue.
No one seemed to notice it. Twice, the ladies beside me knocked it off the table, but never offered any apology or acknowledged what they’d done. When Monsieur Godard inspected our work, he rested one hand on it. He didn’t register when the book moved and his hand slipped. By home time, I was convinced the book didn’t want to be seen. Not by them, and not by me. So often it was knocked to the ground. I swear, it wished to escape.
‘Lou,’ Chloe said that night, as we cuddled in lieu of fire. ‘You said you heard voices.’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘From the book.’
‘What did they say?’
‘I don’t know. There were too many.’
I couldn’t confide in her that the single word I could discern was mischief.
That night, I dreamed I was in a round room with a magnificent dome. Bookshelves climbed towards the sky. I sat on a desk in the middle, surveying it all. Everything was on fire, yet nothing burned. A young man sat next to me, only a few years older than me.
‘I don’t know yet,’ he said to me in English.
‘What don’t you know, sir?’
‘This,’ he said. He touched the book, which rested between us. ‘I’m not the next one. Neither are you. But I’m the one you’ll find.’
I didn’t understand. He smiled at my confusion.
‘We’re thieves, dear. Always hiding in plain sight, disguised as something else. Just like the book.’
I shivered in the room on fire. Not even in our dreams were we safe from the cold of a besieged Paris in late November. All I said to him then was, ‘Isn’t it cold?’
Alexandre was being interviewed by three journalists when I arrived at the station the next day. He stood tall, chest puffed out, wearing a colourful waistcoat that rivalled our balloons for its gaudiness.
Later, when Madame Beaufort excused herself for the ladies’ room, Alexandre found the courage to approach the sewing station.
‘Chloe, will you come to the launch?’
‘Of course,’ I said.
‘It’ll be 11:30 this evening. Best to travel at night, they tell me. I’ll escort you from your home, of course, and have Papa walk you back. It’ll be perfectly safe.’
‘No need, I’ll make my own way there.’
Yet, at 10:30, he came to our room. He gave Chloe (who we called Louise) a loaf of bread and promised I’d return home safely. I couldn’t find where I’d put the book. I didn’t want to leave it with Chloe, frightened that it might whisper its wicked words to her. But there was an urgency in the air and my search was cut short. An escort of soldiers hurried Alexandre and I out into the night. We saw the balloon from a mile away, even in the dark, it’s colourful bulk already fully inflated. This balloon they called Le Jacquard.
Alexandre was a gentleman, and only went so far as to kiss my hand and blush. He was helped into the balloon and mailbags were piled at his feet. He took a cage of pigeons and shouted his promise to send word back when he’d completed his mission. Carefully, they cut the ballast. Slowly, Alexandre and Le Jacquard rose.
‘Oh, Chloe! I hope you don’t mind, I took your book,’ Alexandre suddenly shouted down to me. ‘Sometimes the journey can be short, sometimes long. Best to take something to read, just in case.’
From the basket, he waved my book, the wicked, whispering, unburnt book. I mouthed no, but he’d already cut more ballast. The sandbags dropped around us, as the balloon and my fiancé stole away my book. Somehow, I knew this was what the book wanted. Disguised. That’s what the Englishman said in my dreams.
I promised the book, whatever it was, I’ll hunt you down.
Jessie
The history ends. It just … ends. No big act of mischief. Nothing.
‘Oh, cliffhanger!’ Kay says, trying to make it sound exciting.
‘No, that’s not how it works,’ I say. ‘It can’t end like that.’
‘Well, there it is,’ Kay says, showing me the first page of the next history. It’s in Ethiopia, nine years later.
I don’t understand. Was Lou even a mischief? Why did she hear the book talk but didn’t get its memories? I have so many questions but I don’t ask them. I sit for a moment.
Annoyed. I feel annoyed.
It’s late but Kay makes dinner. We have microwave pasta that takes six minutes and thirty seconds (stirring halfway through) to cook. I poke at my pasta, still grumpy. It tastes like butter and fake cheese.
‘Hey,’ Kay says. She nudges me.
I ignore her.
‘I liked this history, didn’t you?’
‘It’s not a real history,’ I say.
‘Well, it’s in the book. Maybe Lou and Chloe will be in the next history. Maybe they’re in Ethiopia.’
Chloe.
Wait.
‘Give me the History!’
Kay shakes her head. ‘Not till you do your mischief report.’
‘I just want to see the Transcription Note. It mentioned a Chloe, remember?’
‘Did it?’ Kay asks. She gets the History and flips to the note at the beginning. ‘Oh, so it did. Here: “Those that survived were recorded by myself and Chloe McKenna.” Hmmm … McKenna’s not a very French name. Maybe it’s a different Chloe.’
‘Maybe it’s not!’
Kay smiles, all mischievous-like. ‘Guess you’re going to have to wait to find out.’
She closes the History. I don’t need to ask to know that’s that.
I think about the History until it’s time for bed and the lights are out. It’s school tomorrow. Theodore will be there. I remember what he said. I miss Mum and Dad so much. I imagine I’m in a train station full of balloons. I climb aboard one of them, cut the ropes, and fly away. I hover over Paris, gaze down at the buildings and the river, until I fall asleep.
Over the next few days, I research and make cranes with Theodore (but we don’t talk about things). I’ve decided to just pretend he never said anything. I have more important things to figure out. There’s something about Lou
’s history, something bad. It breaks the rules. So I’m going to figure out what went wrong.
I request books about the Paris siege and find a book at Guildford that’s about the history of ballooning. It’s got a pretty cover, with many colourful balloons, but inside there’s lots of tiny words. I hate when the words are so small. It takes forever to read just one page.
‘Oh, a nice big hardcover!’ the librarian says as I go to borrow the book.
I nod.
‘You always borrow the most interesting things,’ she says, handing it to me. ‘You must be learning so much.’
I nod again. That night, I try my best to read it properly and not just look at the pictures. I read a chapter about the balloonists in France and find a menu from the Paris siege. They ate anything they could find, just like the History said. Goldfish, elephant soup, roast camel, baked cat!
‘Can we have baked cat for dinner?’ I ask Kay cheekily.
‘Sure,’ she says. ‘Go and ask Mrs Moran if we can have Cornelius. I’ll turn the oven on.’
I scowl at her. ‘Cornelius is too clever to bake.’
‘Then fish fingers it is.’
Cornelius is at school the next day. When the bell goes, I come out to find him waiting in the school courtyard with Mrs Moran. Lots of kids rush at him, saying how cute he is in his pink harness. But when they try to pat him, he bats their hand with his paw, just once, like he’s warning them to back off.
‘Better not, kiddly-winks,’ Mrs Moran says. ‘Cornelius is a gentleman but the next bop might be with claws.’
Mrs Moran spots me. She waves me over.
Suddenly, something grips my heart.
Where’s Kay?
Why isn’t Kay here?
My eyes burn instantly with tears.
‘Come here, dear.’
I don’t move.
‘Your sister’s car just broke down,’ Mrs Moran says gently. She smiles, walks over and puts her arm around me. ‘Everything’s alright.’
Broke down. ‘What happened?’
‘Thing’s just old, isn’t it? Not sure if she’s getting it towed or if she can get someone to fix it on the spot. But she might be a while.’
I feel happy then. Good. Her car is stupid. I hope it can never be repaired.
‘Come now, we’ll have fun,’ she says.
Cornelius bumps my leg.
‘Say hello, dear,’ Mrs Moran says.
‘Hello Cornelius,’ I say.
He looks away, like he knows what I said yesterday.
‘I’m sorry, Cornelius. I would never let the Parisians bake you.’
‘What a moving sentiment,’ Mrs Moran says, and we start to walk home.
When we get to Mrs Moran’s house, her daughter Helen is there. She’s dressed smart in a suit but she looks a bit crazy, with messy hair and smudged mascara. She looks like maybe she was crying.
‘Where have you been, Mother?’ she demands. Then she spots me. ‘What is this?’
‘Bessie here is just staying with us for a bit. Sister got waylaid,’ Mrs Moran replies.
‘Jessie, Mrs Moran,’ I say.
‘Oh yes, of course. Jessie. Silly me.’
Helen glares at Mrs Moran. ‘I need to go, Mother. I’m meeting Paul in an hour.’
‘Off you pop then!’
Helen glances at me. ‘This isn’t a good idea, Mother.’
‘It’s a brilliant idea. Let’s have breakfast, Jessie! When unexpected friends visit we have unexpected food, isn’t that right, Cornelius?’
Cornelius meows. Mrs Moran takes my backpack and puts it down by a table with a bowl of keys. Then she takes my hand.
Helen lets out an angry sigh. Mrs Moran takes me to the kitchen.
‘Do you like scrambled eggs, dear? I make wonderful scrambled eggs, don’t I, Cornelius?’
Helen follows us. ‘No, Mother. No stove.’
Mrs Moran rolls her eyes like a teenager.
‘If you insist on this breakfast nonsense, just have some cereal!’
Helen gets Weet-Bix, but Mrs Moran goes into the cupboard and brings out Coco Pops. She shakes the box at me and grins.
‘Coco Pops and eggs?’
Helen sighs and speeds away, shouting, ‘No stove!’ When she comes back again she’s got her keys and a bag full of files. She tells Mrs Moran off like she’s a child. She then hands me a card.
‘My number, just in case. Please don’t let my mother use the stove or oven,’ she says, right in front of Mrs Moran. I just nod. She leaves in a rush, slamming the front door.
Mrs Moran turns the stove on as soon as Helen’s car is gone.
I like Mrs Moran.
‘You can still have Coco Pops if you want, dear, but I’m having eggs.’
‘Can I have both like you said before?’ I ask.
‘Together or separately?’
‘Separately, please.’
Mrs Moran nods. ‘Unoriginal, perhaps, but sensible.’
We sit at a table made from shiny wood and eat our Coco Pops and scrambled eggs. Cornelius sits on a chair at the head of the table with his own plate of eggs and tuna. His head just pokes up above the table. Mrs Moran pushes the plate close so he can still eat. He turns to look at us whenever we speak.
‘Just keeping it warm,’ Mrs Moran says.
I don’t understand.
‘Cornelius. He’s keeping my husband’s chair warm for him,’ Mrs Moran explains.
‘Oh,’ I say. I’ve never seen an old man at Number 61 before. ‘Where is he?’
‘Away, dear. You know men, away for work. Taking care of his family, my George. He’ll be back soon. You’ll love him, he’s a character, isn’t he, Cornelius?’
Cornelius meows his agreement.
After our afternoon-breakfast, Mrs Moran says, ‘Just need to do a spot of cleaning. Then we can have fun.’
She puts on an old movie, then cleans the house around me, getting out her vacuum cleaner again. I don’t know why. Everything’s perfect. She dusts and mops and polishes things until they squeak.
‘Mrs Moran, I think you polished that already,’ I say when I see her polishing a table for the third time.
‘Best to make sure, dear,’ she says. ‘That’s what Aunty June always said. Men don’t like to come home to a dirty house.’
‘Your house is super clean,’ I say. ‘I bet Mr Moran would love it.’
‘Oh, George doesn’t mind a messy house. It’s just … best to clean up. Aunty June always said.’
I wonder how old Mrs Moran is and if her aunty is still alive.
‘Can we go to the park?’ I ask.
‘Oh, yes, good idea! Let me finish up. Are you bored, dear? Just give me a few minutes. I don’t have any good movies, I know. I prefer to read.’
‘Me too.’
‘Oh, how marvellous! I thought kids only watched TV these days. There’s a study down the hall, next to the toilet. Lots of books in there. George bought me Sherlock Holmes for my birthday last month. Maybe you can read that.’
I don’t know who Sherlock Holmes is, or what kinds of books he writes, but I nod and go down the hall. To my surprise, the study is FULL of the origami I left on her veranda. Paper cranes and flowers lie on top of bookshelves, books, and a little desk. She’s even blu-tacked cranes to the wooden desk chair, with their wings poking up so you can see the ‘From A. Mischief’ on them. I wonder if she kept them all. I count them to check.
Three hundred and sixty three.
She still has every one.
I look through the shelves, trying to find books on people in the History. Then I spot a book with a green spine and gold letters that reads, ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE: COMPLETE ILLUSTRATED SHERLOCK HOLMES. It even has gold edges. I sit at the desk and flick through it. There are pictures of men with moustaches, pipes and top hats.
A card falls out of the book. It must have been Mrs Moran’s bookmark. I try to keep her place while picking up the card. It has writing on it.
Page 774. He says li
fe is full of whimsical happenings. My sweet lady is surely one of them, though perhaps he doesn’t mean it as fondly as I.
Yours whimsically,
A. Mischief
2009
A. Mischief.
2009.
I read it over and over again. I can’t believe it. The Transcription Note in the History was from 1966. That’s forty-three years before this note. What does it mean? What are whimsical happenings? Is the sweet lady Mrs Moran? Is Mr Moran A. Mischief?
I turn to page 774 in the Sherlock Holmes book. It has really small words in two columns. It’s difficult to read but I find the spot where he talks about whimsical happenings. I still don’t understand.
Didn’t Mrs Moran say that her husband gave this to her for her birthday last month?
Wait.
Maybe the real History is here. The one that makes you A. Mischief. The one Lou was hunting.
I flip through the book again to see if there are any other notes.
Nothing.
Mrs Moran’s vacuum cleaner is going again. Maybe she’ll be a while.
I search the bookshelf, looking for anything that might be the History. I pull out fat leather books that smell like the State Library. They all have words; no signatures or magic or anything interesting. If I find a book with blank pages, it might be the History hiding its magic.
I search the desk next. I open the drawers and find a notebook full of scribbles. I spot A. Mischief again! I flip back and try to find it. I don’t know what this notebook is. There are people’s names with entries.
Helen Louise Moran. Born 21 July 1978. Only living child. She was a bossy thing. Loved Enid Blyton, especially The Wishing Chair.
It goes on. Towards the end of the page, it says: She used to love mischief. She’s angry and tired of us now. Her divorce hurt her deeply. Don’t perform mischief on her. Don’t tease her. Be kind. When you’re kind, she becomes soft. She needs love. Remember that.
Mischief again. I wonder if there’s something about Mr Moran here. I find an entry towards the start.
George Frank Moran. Born 2 February 1949. Husband. Married 4 March 1972. Father to daughter Helen and son Anthony (stillborn). Softness and light, kindness and patience. Make him smile and you’ll remember everything.
The History of Mischief Page 15