Iris and the Tiger
Page 11
Aunt Ursula was silent for so long Iris felt embarrassed.
‘But that’s just in books, it doesn’t mean real life,’ she added.
Aunt Ursula patted Iris’s hand. ‘You make a good point. Balance is important.’
‘Can I help you with anything around the house?’ Iris offered. Not because her mum had instructed her to do so, but because her great-aunt still seemed so distracted and unwell. The trip to Barcelona had really drained her.
‘There is something, actually. Reynaldo has an errand to run tomorrow morning—would you be able to go with him? He has to take a delivery to the Dangercrofts’ house, but if he goes alone that Shirley woman will eat him alive. Or talk him to death.’
Iris didn’t let on that she knew anything about what needed to be delivered. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘You can count on me.’
The Dangercroft mansion was a cartoon palace. A Frankenstein’s monster of several different historical periods, with extra cherubs, flagpoles and turrets.
Or, as Dad would probably say, thought Iris, too much money and not enough taste. She couldn’t help wishing she hadn’t asked Aunt Ursula if she needed help with anything.
Señor Garcia was even more flustered than usual, so Iris tried to take charge as best she could.
The Dangercrofts’ doorknocker was in the shape of a rose. Señor Garcia struggled to lift the package from the boot.
‘Oh, hi,’ said Iris, when the door was unexpectedly opened by a teenage girl with pale-blue hair. ‘Is Mrs Dangercroft here? We’ve got an, um, delivery.’
The girl leant forwards. A silver ring through the middle part of her nose glinted. ‘If you value your life,’ she whispered, ‘do not eat anything cooked by my mother.’
‘Hellooooo!’ Shirley Dangercroft pushed the girl aside. ‘Oh, it’s the Australian! You’ve brought my painting!’
‘She didn’t sleep at all last night.’ The girl smirked. ‘She’s always wanted to own a painting by a dude she knows nothing about—except that his paintings are worth squillions.’
Iris’s mouth twitched. The girl smiled lazily.
‘Iris, this is my daughter, Willow.’
Shirley peered behind Iris. Her hair was redder and bouncier than ever.
‘MISTER GARCIA,’ she hollered. ‘Please, both of you, welcome to my humble abode.’
The Dangercrofts’ abode was not humble: the entrance hall was the size of a football field. Their sweeping staircase made a joke out of the staircase at Bosque de Nubes.
Iris helped Señor Garcia carry the sheet-wrapped painting. The driver’s face was pinched and nervous. Iris could still feel the faintest crackle of electricity from yesterday’s chase in her arms and legs.
Shirley ushered them into a light-filled room with floor-to-ceiling windows, floor-to-ceiling curtains and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. She swept aside the textbooks that were scattered across a large table.
‘Excuse the mess. Our Willow is home schooled. She’s very gifted so there’s no point her going to a normal school.’
Willow closed her laptop. It was pink with a skull and crossbones sticker on the lid.
‘Can you see my enormous brain?’ she asked Iris. ‘I’ve heard it’s visible from outer space.’
‘It’s definitely at least fifty per cent bigger than a regular Australian brain,’ Iris replied and Willow smiled.
‘Where will we do this?’ Shirley shrieked. ‘I Am All A-Tizz! What about over here?’
She indicated the overstuffed leather couches in the centre.
‘MISTER GARCIA, BRING THE MASTERPIECE OVER HERE FOR THE UNVEILING.’
Iris gave Señor Garcia a sympathetic look. Shirley was under the impression that because he didn’t talk, he couldn’t hear very well either.
Iris helped him position the painting on the couch. She was curious to see which painting Aunt Ursula had been willing to let go.
‘Shouldn’t Dad be here for this?’ Willow asked. ‘Seeing how it’s his money that bought it and all.’
‘Oh, please, Willow. I’m independently wealthy.’ Shirley puffed her hair. ‘I’m no trophy wife. I stand on my own two feet,’ she told Iris.
Señor Garcia slowly removed the wrapping from the painting. When he was done, Shirley clapped.
The painting portrayed the now familiar insect with googly eyes and a dignified air. A long, curly black wig sat on its bald head; a froth of white lace circled its pencil-thin throat. A great length of maroon satin had been thrown over the insect’s shoulder, falling to the floor in thick folds. It pointed a stockinged leg forwards and delicately held a wooden sceptre, as if it were a sewing needle.
‘Whoa, Louis XIV,’ said Willow. ‘The Sun King.’
‘Adorable!’ declared Shirley. ‘It is going to look a treat on our bedroom wall.’
‘She doesn’t get my historical references,’ said Willow. ‘My own family doesn’t understand me.’
‘Or maybe in the dining room,’ continued Shirley, ‘so when we have parties everyone can look at it. There are only thirteen Freers in private collections, worldwide.’
All Iris could think about was the box of costume items she’d seen Señor Garcia carry into the studio. It was too much of a coincidence—the wig, the silky red material—but in the full light from the windows, the oil paint was clearly faded and cracked. Perhaps if she got closer—
‘No fingers on my painting!’ trilled Shirley.
Señor Garcia was in a far corner, inspecting a table lamp with a rather handsome glass shade. When he saw Iris looking he straightened with a guilty expression.
‘Marisol!’ yelled Shirley Dangercroft. A French maid came running.
‘Would you fancy a treat before you go, Iris?’ Shirley ushered the maid forwards. ‘I was so excited this morning—only baking could calm me down. It’s a traditional Spanish recipe.’
The plate held a dozen bloated biscuits. They were studded with green and blue and yellow candy bits, and were far from traditional.
Willow appeared over her mother’s shoulder, jabbing two fingers in her mouth. Iris had to think quickly.
‘Thank you, Mrs Dangercroft, but I’m allergic to gluten.’
Willow gave Iris the silent thumbs-up.
‘You’re missing out.’ Shirley bit into a biscuit. ‘Tell me, Iris, where does your family come from? You’re so exotic-looking.’
‘Melbourne.’
‘Oh no, that’s not what I meant.’ Shirley caught a piece of biscuit as it fell from her mouth. ‘I mean, where is your family from?’
‘Mother! Iris doesn’t want to stand here all day, talking to us.’
‘Actually, if you ever want to’—Iris was going say play but then realised how babyish it would sound—‘hang out at Bosque de Nubes with me and Jordi, that’s my friend, well…’ She trailed off. Willow was too cool to spend time with them.
‘Willow is very busy with her studies,’ Shirley said, showing Iris and Señor Garcia to the front door. ‘We’re fast-tracking her so she can finish high school early.’
Shirley handed Iris an envelope. ‘The rest of the asking price, sweetie. Give it to your great-aunt. Thanks so much. Toodle-ooo!’
‘Come over anytime!’ yelled Willow from the other room. ‘Save me!’
Iris found Aunt Ursula sitting with Jordi on the patio, eating custard straight out of the oven pan. A striped umbrella shaded their table. Both were laughing fit to burst.
Turrón and Miró hung their heads over the stable doors, seemingly unharmed. Marcel was hand-feeding them carrots. Maybe Iris imagined it, but when Marcel saw her she was pretty sure he scowled. He was dressed oddly, in a silky green shirt and dark pants, with a red sash around his waist.
Iris hurried up the steps.
‘When did they get back?’ she asked. ‘The horses?’
‘During the night.’ Jordi was dressed similarly to his father. ‘We get up this morning and they are nosing in the garden, hungry for hay. Not even a scratch is on them.’
Iris handed over the envelope and perched on a spindly chair. An air of mirth still surrounded the table.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘Young Jordi was just telling me about your prank with those nasty developers’ car.’
Aunt Ursula’s eyes were sparkly and her cheeks flushed. She’d finally bounced back from their Barcelona excursion. Even her skin was less wrinkled.
‘A very inspired idea, Iris, I must say. There’s nothing quite like a bit of grass roots activism. You should do whatever you can to get rid of them!’
‘Right.’ Iris wondered what else Jordi had told Aunt Ursula. Would he be careless enough to mention the tiger?
‘Someone from the building company came to our school today.’ Jordi stopped shovelling custard into his mouth for a second. ‘They were saying the theme park is new and exciting and there will be lots of jobs, in building and in turismo.’
‘I’ve never heard anything more foolish than an art-themed amusement park. You can’t dish out art to people on a platter.’ Aunt Ursula struck the oven pan with her spoon. ‘And it’s very underhand, going direct to the children. Hoping that they all go home to their parents and beg them for a roller-coaster.’
‘Not me!’ Jordi thumped himself on the chest. Iris had no idea why he was being such a suck.
‘I know you wouldn’t dream of it, young man.’ Aunt Ursula dumped their spoons in the scraped-clean pan. ‘Your moral compass is extremely steady.’
She took the dish into the kitchen, leaving Jordi and Iris alone on the patio. Iris ached with questions about the painting that Aunt Ursula had sold to the Dangercrofts, and wondered about her great-aunt’s own moral compass.
‘I did not understand any of the words Señorita Freer just use,’ said Jordi.
‘What else did you tell her?’ Iris knew she sounded grumpy, but she couldn’t be bothered hiding it. ‘And why are you dressed like that?’
‘It’s for Castillo. It’s a local thing we do, making human towers. Come with me, I don’t want to talk here.’
Iris followed Jordi down the less frequented side of the house, where there was straggly grass, the whitewashed outside wall, and a freestanding arch that held up nothing and led nowhere.
‘It was our secret that we trashed that car,’ said Iris, but that wasn’t what Jordi wanted to discuss.
‘I have a really good plan. It’s even better than what we done yesterday. We are going to take matters into our own hands.’
Iris crossed her arms. Aunt Ursula must have taught Jordi that expression because she sure hadn’t.
‘I did not tell Señorita Freer all the informations. See? I can keep the best secrets. After the school talk I make conversation with an evil businessperson. And guess what? Go on, guess?’
‘Just tell me.’
‘I find out where they will be tomorrow! At the fake lake, the reservoir.’ He stumbled over the word. ‘Finding out about…something. I got bored listening. But what is important is that we will be there and we will scare them.’ ‘How?’
‘The Beast Car!’ Jordi waited for Iris’s reaction. ‘You remember? The car with feet? We make it go loco—so, so crazy—on the developers!’
‘How are you going to do that?’
‘Not really sure,’ Jordi admitted. ‘But first we make the car angry, you know, like the bullfighting in the stadium. We get it to the reservoir. Then maybe we put something in the fuel tank, like coffee or…or…sherry. Or we kick it in the bumper. We make it go fast—can you imagine? It scares them off.’
Iris barely knew how to reply.
‘That is the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard. One, you have no idea if it’s going to work because you haven’t thought it out properly. Two, it sounds really dangerous. Three, have you thought what would happen if word got out about the magic? Things would be a billion times worse if they realised that they could make a real magical theme park!’
Jordi flamed red in the face. He looked startlingly similar to Marcel.
‘I’ve seen it before, Iris! Even when people see the magics they don’t believe it. So all they are going to see is a really scary car. After they don’t remember why, but they think: this is a really bad place. And they stay away.’
‘You can’t be sure of that!’
‘Señorita Freer says we should do whatever it takes! Do you want her to be kick from her home? Do you want me and Papa to have nowhere to live? During the civil war here we fight the fascistas, even secretly, because when we see a wrong thing we do something about it. That is what we are like. But maybe Australian is different.’
‘It’s a really stupid idea.’
‘Oh, oh, estúpido? As stupid as a tiger?’ Jordi faltered ever so slightly on the last word but kept his chin held high.
‘What did you say?’
‘My plan is not as stupid as the dream of a tiger.’ Jordi spoke quietly now. ‘I help you, Iris, with looking for the tiger and I don’t even think it’s the best idea. But I do it because I think we are friends now. And now, you won’t help me.’
Jordi looked upset. His lower lip might have been trembling. But Iris couldn’t back down.
‘If you think my ideas are so dumb then I don’t want your help anymore. We can both do things on our own.’ And then she stomped off.
Iris scanned the ground floor for a missing painting, a blank spot where there should have been a frame. All the downstairs lights were blazing, keeping the night at bay, but the house felt deserted. Iris had shared a silent cup of tea in the kitchen with Señor Garcia, still shaky from the fight with Jordi, but now the driver was nowhere in sight.
There were no gaps on the walls. Iris had searched in all of the unlocked rooms.
It didn’t matter. She was almost certain she’d never noticed Shirley’s insect portrait anywhere in the house. The English ladies at the art gallery had said that lots had been found in an attic, so it was possible Aunt Ursula had pulled the painting out of a dusty room somewhere. But that didn’t explain the costume Iris had seen in the greenhouse studio.
Iris went to Aunt Ursula’s bedroom. There was a light on, but her great-aunt wasn’t there. The alarm clock on her bedside table said it was half past nine—where would Ursula be so late?
Her satin pyjamas had been left out on the bed, perfectly smooth. On the bedside table were several crumpled pieces of paper, an eraser and a graphite pencil. Iris eased the papers out. The first was a sketch of Señor Garcia, in his driver’s uniform and cap. It was strange, but the drawing somehow showed more detail to Señor Garcia’s face than Iris had ever seen in real life.
The second drawing was of Iris. It was very similar to the drawing that she’d seen in the greenhouse studio but less complete. She had a face and eyes and a nose, but no mouth yet.
It was Ursula who drew me, it dawned on Iris. Not Uncle James’s ghost.
She replaced the drawings and reversed out of the bedroom.
What am I missing? she thought. What am I not getting? There’s something big going on…
The ornate lobby ceiling held no answers. Iris imagined the chandelier unmooring itself and crashing in a crystal symphony around her. She felt like the only person left on the planet.
In the far distance there was a rumble of thunder. Iris went upstairs.
When Iris woke after only a few hours’ sleep it was not with a cramp. The lightshade looked like a UFO from this angle. A memory came to her.
It had been a few days before she’d left for Spain. Iris had gone to the study to talk to her dad. Her mum wanted him downstairs, and her dad sighed as if he didn’t want to be interrupted. He slid his computer chair back from his big drafting desk.
But before that, before the chair sliding and the sighing, her dad had quickly rearranged his papers. He’d covered something up.
Iris kicked her feet, trying to loosen the bedsheets. Elna made the beds as if she’d been army-trained. There was something not quite right at the bottom of her bed. She wiggled her toes and felt smooth leather and rough stitching.
Iris sat bolt upright, threw off the covers, and there they were, on her feet, laced up and ready to go—the feet-boots.
‘No way,’ said Iris and, as if they’d been waiting for her, the feet-boots dragged to the floor.
‘No no no no no!’
Iris only had time to grab her dressing-gown before the feet-boots sent her lurching for the door. She clung to the handle, but they kept marching until she had to let go, or have her arms ripped off.
All was dark on the first floor balcony. Iris squeezed her eyes shut. She only opened them again when she heard a chime; they’d collided with the post and rope barrier that shut off the east wing.
‘Oh, great,’ said Iris. ‘Go right ahead. This is an awesome idea.’
The feet-boots did not do sarcasm. They squeezed past the barrier into the dark corridor. When Iris’s vision adjusted, she saw faint suggestions of a high ceiling, patterned carpet and ghostly white doors.
‘Where are you taking me?’
Her voice echoed. Iris had the weird feeling she’d lost her body and become part of the night.
She lurched down the corridor, trying not to think about the possibility of crashing through the rotten floor. The wood squeaked under her feet.
After a while she became aware of rectangles—pictures on the wall. There were dozens of them, one after the other. She leant towards the wall, glued safely to the floor by the boots. An oval, a cream curve, a dark slash. The paintings were similar and endless.
Iris leant further, and then the unthinkable happened—the world tilted right over. She threw her arms out, and they were suddenly above her head. The corridor spun; the ceiling became the floor and the floor became the ceiling.
When Iris opened her eyes she found herself in a narrow staircase, the feet-boots taking two stairs at once. At the top was a square of moonlight and air.