Nothing would persuade Pen to return them. As Not-Triss put on a pair of the stolen shoes, she tried to console herself with the thought that Pen was probably right. In order to avoid looking like a half-wild thing, she did need shoes.
They approached the door of Violet’s boarding house, and as they did so Not-Triss became aware that they had left it too late to sneak back in. The brass knobs of the door were being polished by a middle-aged woman in a floral-print dress and long strings of beads. Her body was pear-shaped, as if she was made of wax and had melted a little in the sun. There was nothing soft or warm about her expression of concentration or brisk gestures though.
Not-Triss and Pen came to a halt on the street and stared, uncertain what to do next.
The woman gave them a brief, hard glance.
‘We don’t have trouble with flies, thank you,’ she declared curtly.
When the girls showed no sign of leaving and every sign of confusion, she gave them another pointed look. ‘Well, I assume you’re here to catch flies, standing there with your mouths open. Now close them up and take yourselves off. I don’t run a peepshow.’
‘We’re here to see Violet Parish,’ said Not-Triss, hoping that the name might gain them entrance. Presumably this was Violet’s landlady, the one that she had described as ‘an old crab’.
‘We’re her cousins,’ Pen added promptly.
The landlady narrowed her eyes and looked down her slab-like cheeks at Pen.
‘I thought her family . . .’
‘Yes, they threw her out!’ Pen resumed enthusiastically. ‘But . . . our father sent us because he wants to bury the hatchet. Which comes from Indians, you know.’
The landlady examined them both, and Not-Triss saw suspicion replaced by a beaky look of curiosity.
‘Well, if I know Miss Parish, she won’t be out of bed yet . . . but why don’t you come in and wait for her? My ladies are just having their breakfast at the moment. How about a little bread and butter?’
What can we do? We can’t stay out in the streets.
‘That would be very kind,’ Not-Triss answered meekly, and they were shown into the boarding house again, but this time not as intruders.
Walking into the parlour was a bit like entering a large plum-coloured, cloth-lined trifle. There was an elderly upright piano, perfectly polished but with no stool. Along the top of it clustered photographs of royalty in tortoiseshell frames.
The ‘ladies’ turned out to be Mrs Waites, who had lost her husband in the War, and Mrs Perth, who had lost her husband ‘in Africa’. Mrs Waites’s forward-sticking teeth made her tea slurp and her smile look hungry. Mrs Perth was a watery-eyed old woman who sat up perfectly straight, ate her breakfast with care and dignity and said almost nothing.
The two girls were given stools, so low that the table edge came almost up to their shoulders.
As the landlady placed a plate of bread and butter in front of her, Not-Triss felt an all-too-familiar surge of ravenousness. Her right hand started to lunge for the bread of its own free will, but Pen pounced, seizing her wrist with both hands and holding it fast.
‘Triss!’ Pen hissed urgently. ‘Don’t!’
‘Are you called Triss, dear?’ asked Mrs Waites. ‘What a curious name!’
These words shocked Not-Triss out of her haze of hunger with a snap. They had only been in the house a minute and already they had dropped one of their real names.
‘I didn’t say “Triss”.’ Once again Pen was riding to the rescue, like a mounted knight through a minefield. ‘I . . . said . . . Tris . . . ter. She’s called Trista.’
‘How beautiful!’ Mrs Waites beamed toothily. ‘Is that from the French?’
‘Yes!’ Pen declared impulsively, then paused, eyes burning with curiosity. ‘What does it mean in French?’
Not-Triss winced slightly, but Mrs Waites was eager to show off her knowledge and did not seem to notice the oddness of Pen’s question.
‘“Triste” is French for “sad”. Sorrowful.’
‘My name is Ruby,’ Pen announced, through a mouthful of bread. ‘Ruby Victoria – like the old queen.’
‘They’re cousins of Miss Parish,’ the landlady explained, tenderly but with emphasis, ‘come to try and smooth over family differences.’
‘You dear lambs!’ Mrs Waites responded promptly, and proceeded to pour tea for both ‘Trista’ and ‘Ruby’.
‘Well, I do feel sorry for poor Miss Parish. Her fiancé was lost in the War, is that right?’ There was a gleam of sympathy tinged with satisfaction as the girls nodded. ‘One of our Surplus Girls.’
‘What’s surplus?’ asked Pen.
‘It means “left over”, dear. On the shelf.’ The landlady spoke confidingly, as if discussing a medical complaint. ‘So many young men died during the War, you see, that now there are a million young women who cannot find a husband.’
‘They should all go to the colonies,’ declared Mrs Perth in a high, husky, genteel voice. ‘There are plenty of eligible young men out there in need of healthy wives.’
‘I do not think Miss Parish has quite the standing or means,’ demurred Mrs Waites. ‘No, she should eat humble pie and go back to her family. It hardly seems right for a girl from a respectable home to be working the way she does –’
‘– so many men out of work right now –’ contributed the landlady.
‘– breadwinners and heads of families, some of them ex-soldiers,’ continued Mrs Waites smoothly. ‘It was all very well women pitching in during the War, keeping the country running . . . but sad to say, some of them got a taste for it.’
‘A taste for the money is more like it!’ exclaimed the landlady. ‘Vaunting around in their sealskin coats!’
‘Where does Violet work?’ Not-Triss cut in.
‘Where has she not worked!’ The landlady raised her hands and gave heaven a quick and knowing glance. ‘She has been a waitress at Lyons cafe, a shop girl at half a dozen places, a personal assistant . . . but it is always the same. She turns up late, leaves early and is never there when they need her. She cannot keep a place for more than a month.’
‘And now –’ Mrs Waites looked the two girls over, apparently judging whether they were equal to her next revelation – ‘now . . . she calls herself a courier. Skimming around on that motorcycle of hers, working for any Tom, Dick or Harry who offers her a job. And she is extremely mysterious about her deliveries.’
‘Rude, in fact,’ sniffed the landlady.
‘Tell me, in past years, did Miss Parish ever show any signs that she might turn out a bit . . . wild?’
Before the girls could answer, however, a sleep-fuddled figure appeared at the parlour door. Violet’s hair was tousled, her makeup hastily applied and her frown deep enough to suggest that she had overheard the last few words.
‘Yes,’ she declared, in answer to the hanging question. ‘I spent my entire childhood completely naked.’ As she glanced around the room, the sight of the two girls seated at the table seemed to jar her into alertness. She gave them an interrogative glare.
‘Cousin Violet!’ called out Pen with slightly manic enthusiasm. ‘Father sent us to talk to you, so you can eat humble pie and come back to the family!’
Violet gave a faint groan and pinched the bridge of her nose.
‘Oh, he did, did he?’ she muttered. ‘How tip-top of him. Why don’t I take the pair of you out to buy an ice cream so that we can talk about it?’
The three women at the breakfast table looked disappointed as their morning’s entertainment disappeared stage left to play the next act in the wings.
Violet said nothing to the two girls as they left the boarding house but looked tight-jawed and angry. She led them across the road into a dull, dust-windowed tea shop. It was almost empty, so it was easy to find a solitary table. When the elderly proprietor had brought them some weak tea and sad-looking biscuits, then shuffled back into the kitchen, Violet finally let out a long breath of exasperation.
‘Of all the silly pranks!’ She pushed back her hair in frustration. ‘Pen, I told you that I was taking a risk letting you stay with me without telling your parents. I could get into a lot of trouble. A lot of trouble, do you understand? And I told you that I expected to hear an explanation of all of this –’ her eye fled to Not-Triss – ‘when I woke up. Instead, both of you disappear from my room. And then I come down and find you eating breakfast with my landlady!’
‘But we didn’t tell her that we were in your room last night!’ protested Pen.
‘We were already outside when she saw us,’ added Not-Triss. ‘She invited us in.’
‘So you told her that you were my cousins?’ demanded Violet.
‘But it doesn’t matter!’ Pen protested. ‘They believed us!’
‘Of course it matters!’ Violet shook her head. The bell of the tea-shop door jingled and she flinched, glanced towards it, then continued in a lower tone. ‘If those nosy old crows ask questions, they’ll find out I only have male cousins. And now you’ve been seen here, visiting me. Do you understand? If your parents think to come to my lodgings asking questions, somebody will tell them that you were here. I could get into trouble with the police, Pen. Now, tell me what the . . . the deuce is going on, and give me one good reason why I should not take you back to your parents right now.’
‘Actually,’ said a soft and earnest voice behind the two girls, ‘that would be the best thing you could possibly do.’
Not-Triss spun around in her seat, but already know what she would see. There, not two paces away, was Mr Grace the tailor.
Chapter 27
THE TRUE COLOURS OF VIOLET
Mr Grace was right there in front of her, with his gentle smile and kind, earnest eyes.
At the sight of him, Not-Triss’s world turned white and terrible. The terror was pure and blinding, like staring into a camera flash. Her body seemed to act of its own accord, and she watched as it leaped from the chair, scrambled around the table to be away from Mr Grace and dived into the corner behind Violet. Not-Triss’s skin was tingling with the heat from remembered flames. She could barely recall how to breathe.
‘It’s him! It’s him!’ Pen was screaming. ‘He’s the one! He tried to burn Triss! He told Father to throw her in the fire!’ She too scampered to Violet’s side, so that now all three of them were facing Mr Grace over the table, with the wall at their backs.
‘Miss Parish!’ The tailor was trying to talk over Pen, in his calm and carrying tones. ‘Miss Parish, please listen—’
‘Will everybody shut up for a moment!’ Violet bellowed, jumping to her feet, and was rewarded by an unwilling hush.
During the pause the old woman who ran the tea shop opened the door from the kitchen and glanced around quizzically, apparently to investigate the source of the sound, then raised her eyebrows and withdrew.
‘That’s better,’ declared Violet, her voice somewhat uncertain, as if she had not quite expected to be obeyed. ‘Now – you seem to know my name, sir. And I am absolutely bloody sure that I do not know you from Adam. So who are you, and what the hell is going on?’
‘Perhaps you should read this.’ Mr Grace did not advance, remaining a pace away from the table, but pulled out a letter and carefully held it out towards Violet. With an air of reluctance and suspicion she took it, unfolded it and began to read.
Standing behind Violet, Not-Triss could see very little of her face, but just enough to observe that her frown was deepening. Parts of the letter were visible, however, and Not-Triss recognized the handwriting of Piers Crescent.
. . . are asked to assist the carrier of this letter, Mr Joseph Grace, in recovering my daughters Theresa and Penelope . . .
It was all happening again. Violet would listen to Mr Grace now. Everybody always listened to Mr Grace. All the adults did. Violet was louder than he was, but he was calmer, and his calmness would win out over her loudness in the end. It was all happening again.
Not-Triss had to run. Everything was an enemy. She was shaking like a flag in the wind. For the moment she pushed herself back into the corner, hard enough that the walls bruised her shoulders.
‘Miss Parish, you have done nothing wrong.’ The tailor continued to talk in a steady, measured voice, maintaining eye contact with Violet. He kept his hands slightly raised and spread, as if Violet’s temper was a gun. ‘I am sure the girls turned up on your doorstep in a state of distress. You have been looking after them and trying to calm them down, so that you can decide what to do next. Any reasonable and humane person would have done the same.
‘You have kept them both safe, and I am sure their parents will be very grateful. But as you can see from that letter, I have been sent as a representative of Mr and Mrs Crescent, who are desperate to recover their daughters. Miss, I am sorry to trouble you further, but I must ask for your help – we need to take Penny and Theresa home.’
‘Don’t listen to him, Violet!’ shouted Pen.
‘Pen, will you be quiet!’ snapped Violet, then turned her attention back to the tailor. ‘Mr . . . Grace, is it? This letter –’ she flicked at it with a forefinger – ‘says that you’ve been sent by Pen and Triss’s parents, right enough. But there are a lot of things it doesn’t tell me. I still don’t know who you are, or what happened to make both these girls run away.’
Mr Grace hesitated, pressing his lips together.
‘There are certain delicate family matters that I would be uncomfortable discussing without the permission of Mr and Mrs Crescent,’ he answered carefully.
‘Well, you’ll damn well have to if you want to get past me!’ Violet’s temper seemed to be slipping its reins, all attempts to moderate her language in front of the girls forgotten. ‘Triss is terrified by the mere sight of you, and I want to know why!’
Through the numbness of her terror, Not-Triss felt the wheels of disaster catch on an unexpected stone. Mr Grace had played a trump card, and his victory was inevitable. However, somehow the inevitable did not seem to have happened quite yet.
‘Very well.’ Mr Grace sighed. ‘So be it. The family does not want this widely known, but . . . there is a problem with young Theresa. You know she has been ill for some time?’
Violet nodded.
‘Perhaps,’ continued the tailor, ‘you are also aware that sometimes a severe brain fever has . . . lasting effects. Theresa was very ill recently, and since then she has been, well, unpredictable. Extremely unpredictable.’ His tone was delicate but meaningful. ‘She urgently needs the proper treatment – for her own sake, and the sake of everybody around her. Unfortunately it looks as if the first course of the treatment scared and confused her, so she ran away –’
‘VioletVioletViolet!’ Pen was dragging at Violet’s sleeve, almost on the verge of tears. ‘Don’t believe him, Violet! You can’t believe him! You can’t!’
But Not-Triss knew that Violet could believe him and would. On the one side there was Mr Grace, a respectable adult carrying the authority of the great Piers Crescent, and on the other a mad girl, whose words could no longer be trusted. There was still Pen, of course, but nobody would ever, ever listen to Pen.
With the odd lucidity of panic, Not-Triss’s gaze flitted round the room. Hot tea in the pot. I can throw that at somebody if I have to. Door to the kitchens. But there might not be a back way out. Front door . . .
There was something hanging from the ‘open/closed’ sign that had not been there when she entered. A small set of scissors. The tailor had blocked her retreat.
‘I need you to take Penny home,’ the tailor was continuing. ‘I will look after Theresa. I know I am a stranger to you, but you must trust me.’
‘This treatment,’ Violet said slowly, ‘did it involve . . . fire?’
Mr Grace hesitated a moment too long. ‘Fire?’
‘Yes, fire.’ Violet’s voice had an edge of steel. ‘Triss is terrified of it. I noticed that last night. And she’s scared witless of you. Why would that be?’
Mr Grace no
dded slowly as if surveying a chess board and realizing the inevitability of checkmate. His look of sadness deepened.
‘Because of these,’ he answered, before pulling handfuls of small metal objects out of his pockets and casting them on to the table.
Some of the pairs of scissors fell open as they landed. Many were old and blackened, a few looking as if they had been hammered into shape by hand. All sent something singing in Not-Triss veins. They hated her. Their blades could sense her skin.
The wail that had been trapped inside her since the appearance of Mr Grace finally escaped. Wallpaper bulged, burst then peeled away. In a dresser by the door, crockery exploded like plates at a fairground rifle range.
Violet swore violently and spun to look at Not-Triss. The colour drained from her long face.
‘Look at her!’ called out Mr Grace. ‘Miss Parish – take a good look at her! I am sorry to have misled you before . . . but I wanted to avoid this scene, for your sake. Now, please, take Penny’s hand and lead her away from the creature in the corner. It is not Theresa. I think you can see that now. Quickly! You are both in danger!’
‘Triss!’ hissed Pen, urgently and vainly. ‘Don’t! Don’t! You need to stop it!’ The younger girl’s face was a picture of dread, but Not-Triss only made sense of her words when she looked down at her own hands and saw the long thorn-claws extending from her fingertips and the fine, deep grooves they had already etched in the wall. She knew that her mouth must be a horror of thorns, her countenance wild and unchildlike.
Violet’s eyes were fixed on Not-Triss’s face. They were a dark, wet-weather grey, and they had a question in them.
Not-Triss managed to find her own tongue again.
‘I’m sorry.’ Her voice was still hoarse from the scream, and fluted strangely, like a breeze in a chimney flue. ‘I’m not Triss. I thought I was – I wanted to be – I tried to be – but it wasn’t good enough. I can’t be her. I’m something else, and I can’t help it. And when they found out I wasn’t their little girl, they tried to burn me. They thought it would bring their daughter back, but it won’t. It will only kill me.’