Was Clio unnerved by the scene that greeted her when she opened Gretel’s bedroom door? Two girls fast asleep and as naked as the day they were born, sharing pages of a map book as a pillow while a blaring TV screen tracked the progress of a woman beating her way through an identity parade armed with nothing but a pair of scarlet stilettoes . . .
She probably stayed calm. She certainly managed to do so when Gretel and Harriet confronted her about the counterfeit money. Clio looked at the stacks of paper, looked at Harriet, put her hands up in the air, and said: Whoops!
Margot Lee has made Harriet recount that moment tens of times, and each time she’s assured Harriet that if Clio had done that in Margot’s presence no power in the heavens or upon the earth would have been able to save Clio Kercheval from getting strangled to death.
But of course I was going to pay you, silly. It’s just that as a mother I know how careless children are with money, so I issued these slips as tokens you can exchange for your actual wages. There’s a note about it in the contract your parents signed . . . oh, you didn’t see it? Well, it’ll all be there in writing when you go home and check with them.
Harriet hadn’t the faintest doubt that even if this clause hadn’t originally featured in the contract Margot and Simon had signed, they’d find it there when they looked. There was nothing Clio Kercheval couldn’t switch around if she had a mind to. Clio would stop at nothing to make sure the girls weren’t upset. Or, at any rate, not upset with Clio.
I would certainly have paid you before you left. Darling, you must have been thinking such terrible things! I’m glad you came straight to me . . .
Well, the truth is, Harriet ought to report you, Mum, Gretel said, in much the same tone of voice as someone at a bus stop might say, “I see the bus is late again today.”
But she won’t. Will you, Harriet? It’s all cleared up now. Besides, each of these representative vouchers I gave you—
Representative vouchers. So many switches were suddenly being pulled that it was hard to know what money actually was in and of itself. It seemed you got hold of some and then people told you what it was on that particular day. It was also hard to know whether money was like this because of Clio or whether Clio was like this because of money.
Each of these representative vouchers I gave you corresponds to ten English pounds, Clio continued. The strongest currency in the world, you know. Much stronger than ours. The exchange rate’s so good you’ve got much more than you thought you had! Isn’t that wonderful? No need to thank me . . . you know I’d never cheat you.
That’s the thing, Harriet said. I don’t know that. So I’m not going to work for you anymore, Mrs. Kercheval. I don’t want to find out what else you’ve got in store for me.
Clio gaped, and her daughter said: Oh. Not even slightly curious?
No. I’ll take the money—the real money, whatever that may be—and run, thank you.
Gretel handed Harriet a dressing gown and told her mother to bring the full amount in small notes.
Don’t count on being allowed back into the Gingerbread House to lead some sort of rebellion, Gretel said, when Clio had gone.
But she won’t pay the others.
Yes, she will. I’ll make sure of it. It’ll be . . . nice to see your friend Turandot. Maybe I could help her out—if I hit her again, it might reset her sense of smell.
I’ll thank you in advance for not hitting Dottie again under any circumstances, Harriet said, through nervous laughter. And I’ll write to you from the farmstead.
They went for a walk along the misty riverbank. Every now and again there was a parting in the clouds and sunlight struck the bridge’s iron fin and spliced the surface of the water. The girls liked that, but more wondrous still—nine divers surfaced. Nine snorkeled divers, each bearing a board with a number painted on it.
Thursday, Harriet said. It’s Thursday, Gretel.
She searched her coat pockets for her half of their lottery ticket, and Gretel turned out her own pockets too. The drivers began to disperse, but they stopped when they heard Gretel’s shrill command: Please wait a minute, just a minute . . .
Then one by the one the divers approached to shake hands and join the girls’ celebrations. Above them pedestrians gathered on Dolphin Bridge to deliver a round of applause. The pedestrians weren’t sure what was happening, but there’s no harm in showing you’re glad for people when they’re jumping up and down and screaming, WE WON! OH MY GOD, WE WON!
* * *
—
BY THE TIME GRETEL AND HARRIET had collected their winnings, there were ten missed calls on Harriet’s phone, all from the phone Harriet had sent to Margot. So Harriet phoned back.
How do you feel about England? Harriet’s mother said, without preamble.
Hi, Mum. One sec. Harriet held the phone against her chest and consulted Gretel.
(How do I feel about England?
Well, one of our three pins is stuck in England, so . . . good?)
Harriet told Margot she felt good about England. “Good” felt too committed, so she backtracked. Good-ish. Why?
Listen, Harriet . . . I’ve been so fed up with all the intercepted letters that were supposedly from you, but a few weeks ago a real one came. Through the Pigeon Post.
Eh?
Maggie Parker’s homing pigeons came to roost . . .
What—the geriatric ones everyone decided had been abducted by aliens?
Not everyone . . . just the Cook family. But yes, those pigeons! All three of them. Well cared for . . . positively GLOSSY, actually, each one carrying a carbon copy of the same letter. Couldn’t tell you who was more excited—me or Maggie Parker. She was doing high kicks and all kinds of risky moves . . . seriously thought she was going to dislocate a joint. And you should’ve heard her. They said the Parker talent was dying out, but the Parkers have still got it! Better not talk about the Parkers unless you know! Parker’s Pigeon Post, YEAH! Nonstop for eighty-three years! From here to England and back, that’s right! She’s tapped Jiaolong for next Pigeon Postmaster, and she’s teaching him how to raise the next three squabs . . .
Oh Maggie! She used to live so much in the past, didn’t she, thinking she was the least impressive of the Parkers . . .
Nobody can ever say that now.
The letter—was it addressed to you?
Sort of. It was in English, and it began: If your daughter’s name is Harriet Lee—
Oh Mother, Harriet said, in English. So you can English? I can too!
Margot responded in English, too fast for Harriet to understand, but Harriet still had to show some ability, so she kept up the English: Lovely!
Margot switched back to Druhástranian: Sweetheart, I’m so pleased we can both English. (Hearing this in Druhástranian, Harriet understood her grammatical error.) What a pair we are—the daughter’s got brains and perseverance, and the mother’s got parents who paid for her to go to International School. So when that note came, I wrote back at once. I’ve had to keep Maggie from spoiling those pigeons, mind. She’s so proud of them there’s a chance they’ll get overfed, and there can’t be a Pigeon Post if the messengers can’t even carry their own body weight. Anyway, I wrote back, and he replied, and . . .
He? Who is this pen pal, Mum?
A Kercheval. He must be a distant cousin on my mother’s side.
Oh no. Not another one.
Sorry about Clio.
Apology not accepted. Just . . . just be related to better people!
Well, Clio did marry in . . . Let’s give the one in England a try.
Family reunion time?
I think not. As far as this Aristide Kercheval is concerned, I’m just the mother of a Gingerbread Girl who tugged his heartstrings through a television screen. He said you spoke in English . . .
Oh no . . . that’s right, I did . . . I, er, Englished . . . but how did he see it . . . ?
He’s rich, Harriet. His satellite subscription includes every existing TV channel everywhere.
Well, what else did he say?
That you were pitiful.
Oh.
Don’t be embarrassed; it paid off. One thing I like about Parker’s Pigeon Post is that when using it, you have to come straight to the point. Aristide Kercheval wants to become your sponsor. Sounds fishy, I know, so I’m coming too.