The Steampunk Ball
by Clementine Darcy

Before the ball, I went over to Gemma’s house. Dad drove me, because she lives in Somerset, and when he stopped the car, instead of saying ‘Have fun!’ like he usually would, he reached over and gave me a huge hug.

‘I love you, possum.’ His eyes were shining with tears.

‘I love you too, Dad,’ I said softly, my own eyes prickling.

Once I’d left the car, my heart began to race. I was both excited and terrified. Before this, the only ‘ball’ I’d attended was my Grade 6 leavers’ dinner, with Harry Potter theme!

Gemma’s mum led me through the house and let me out the back, where Lucy, Ang and Gemma were already sitting on the far side of the large, neat garden at a white lacework table. They had on their steampunk outfits and were drinking some kind of greenish-yellow drink from tall glasses.

‘Hey!’ Gemma called, waving with her free hand (the other was busy texting). ‘Come and join us. We’re having elder-flower cordial!’

As I approached, I saw them squinting and peering at me. When I got close, they all leapt up (as best as one can leap in a corseted gown). ‘No!’ they shouted. ‘Stop! Hold on!’

I raised my hands in the air. ‘What?’ I cried. ‘You said to join you!’

‘Yes, and then as you came closer, we realised what you’re wearing!’ Ang cried gustily, her blonde curls bouncing madly as she jumped up and down on the spot.

‘What?’ I asked, looking down at my long floral skirt and denim jacket. ‘What’s wrong with it? I know I’ll have to get changed, but we can do that later, can’t—’

‘Not later. Now.’ Gemma’s hands were on her waist (as opposed to her hips, which were completely obscured beneath the beginnings of an enormously flouncy skirt). ‘You have to get changed now. You can’t attend a pre-ball garden party dressed like a peasant.’

‘Come on guys, let Clem sit down and catch her breath first,’ Lucy interjected quietly. She was the only one not wearing a corset. Instead, she had on black knickerbockers, like the ones Fred sometimes wears, and a tight red velvet blazer with bows on the sleeves. She wore a top hat on her head and shiny black Mary Janes on her feet. Her lips were the colour of her blazer. She looked spectacular.

I hovered awkwardly for a moment, until Ang pulled out a chair and patted it enthusiastically. ‘Do join us, milady,’ she said, winking, and poured me a cordial.

Gemma snorted in amusement. ‘Sorry about that, Clem. I get excited about the outfits. How are you? How’s your weekend been so far?’

Her question crushed my excitement like a delicate Victorian-jelly beneath a crashing airship. Suddenly all I could think about was the night before – how awful it had been.

I hesitated. If it had been Cleo or Chelsea-Grace, I probably would have lied – said I’d spent the weekend reading and watching Important and Serious Documentaries on the history of English grammar (and watched their eyes glaze over). But I didn’t feel like lying to my new steampunk friends. And I knew they wouldn’t judge me. So I told the truth.

When I’d finished my story, Gemma simply sat there for a few moments, her eyes wide and unblinking, her mouth hanging open. Then, her eyes narrowed. ‘I’ll freaking kill him,’ she growled.

‘Me, too,’ said Lucy. She said it with characteristic quietness, but genuine menace.

‘And I’ll help,’ exclaimed Ang, easing herself out of her chair and shuffling forward. I think she was aiming for a determined stride, but it’s hard to stride through several layers of tulle and crinoline. When she finally covered the metre or so between our chairs, she gave me a big hug. ‘Seriously, who does he think he is? What an absolute creep! Who acts like that? We are so totally going to do something really, really nasty to him, possibly involving hooking up some sort of steam-powered stabby device to his testic—’

‘But first,’ Gemma interrupted, ‘we’re going to make you look so damn smokin’ that Fred Paul will fall even more madly in love with you.’

‘Yeah!’ Ang punched a fist into her palm. ‘He can show you what a real man is. This Sam Peterswalds isn’t a man. He’s not even a mouse. He’s like . . . a rotten piece of fish that’s been eaten by a dog and then regurgitated and stuffed into one of Noel’s smelly socks and left in the sun for a week, and then pooed on. By an elephant. I don’t want you to think about him even once at the ball, right? Today you’re Honeysuckle Nightingale, not Clementine Darcy, and Honeysuckle Nightingale is going to be fabulous and not waste a millisecond of her energy thinking about rotten-vomited-fish-in-a-sock-with-poo-on-it guy. Okay?’

‘Yes. But—’

‘No buts! Come. We will transform you.’ Gemma grabbed me by the arm.

And they did. At twelve, I was Clementine Darcy, average-looking twenty-first-century teenager. By one-fifteen, I was Honeysuckle Nightingale, enchanting lady of the nineteenth century. Complete with gloves. And a parasol. And little ringlets, and a corset I was quite sure qualified as a human rights abuse.

Oh, and did I mention the pink bustle that made me look as though I had a cupcake on my bottom? That was different.

It was odd looking at myself in the mirror. I wasn’t an awkward teenager anymore. But I was still Clementine. In fact, I think I was more Clementine than I had ever been before.

I think Fred Paul liked it, too, Ms H.

When we arrived at Natone Football Club, Fred came to ‘escort us from our carriage’ (which was actually Gemma’s dad’s Prius). He looked at me as if I was the only girl in the car park.

As if I was the only girl in the world.

He took my hand. ‘I know I shouldn’t say this – again – but you do look stunningly beautiful tonight, Lady Nightingale.’

‘Why shouldn’t you say it, er, Lord Nightingale?’ I asked.

‘Because you’re . . . It’s simply that . . . I’m me. And you’re you.’ Fred opened his watch and snapped it shut again.

‘What am I?’ I asked as we walked inside the club building. ‘What—’ I nearly dropped my parasol. ‘Holy freaking cannoli.’

For a moment I forgot all about Fred and what he’d said, as I gazed around at the utter craziness that was the hall. Granted, I had never been to Natone Football Club before, but I felt quite sure that when the Magpies came here for their post-match Boagsies, they didn’t sit on polished wooden chairs, at wrought-iron tables . . . or gaze around at framed antique maps and specimen jars full of dead insects and butterflies . . . or enjoy a centrepiece model of a Victorian-era dirigible (that’s a whopping big airship, for you laypeople out there).

‘It’s . . . astonishing,’ I said. ‘Who created it?’

‘Well, it was actually me this time,’ said Fred. ‘We take turns decorating.’

‘You did all this?’ I was breathless.

‘Yes. I don’t really have much of a life apart from school and steampunk.’ He shrugged. ‘I have the time.’

Fred showed me to my chair, beside his, and pulled it out for me.

‘My lady,’ he said.

‘Why thank you, kind sir,’ I replied.

The next hour, Ms Hiller, was one of the most wondrous and strange of my entire life.

After everyone was seated, a woman took the stage. She was dressed completely in black, in knickerbockers and a blazer like Lucy. She had a moustache drawn on her lip in what looked like black liquid eyeliner, and her eyebrows had been shaved and drawn back on as curlicues. Beneath her bowler hat, her hair – dyed an inky blue – was cut short and styled into little pin-curls around her face. When she spoke, she had a French accent. I’m quite sure it was fake, but it sounded fabulous.

‘Welcome, fellow steampunkers!’ she said, spreading her arms wide. ‘I am Madame le Chat, and it is my duty to welcome you to a night of magic, mystery and wonder. Welcome to the place you were always meant to be. Welcome to a universe of Babbage Engines and curly wolves, of scuttlebutt and fogles, of cogs and gears and pulleys and levers that work magic when they move! Of illusion and trickery and all manner of ocular surprise and intrigue!’

‘Is she speaking English?’ I whispered to Fred.

‘No,’ he whispered back, chuckling. ‘She’s speaking steampunk.’

‘To all of you who have felt that this decade, or indeed this century, is not when you were meant to live . . .’ Madame le Chat went on. ‘To all of you who feel that life is moving too rapidly . . . I say it is not you who are wrong in your way of living. It is everyone else. And they are missing out! For this – all of this – is only for you special people. This—’

‘Oh, will you never close that flapping mouth of yours, woman?’

My head whipped around. A man was stalking towards Madame le Chat. He held a walking stick and wore a top hat. He had a waxed moustache, a pointy goatee, and thick mutton-chop sideburns. He spoke with a French accent, too, and he was striding towards Madame le Chat as if he intended to murder her.

‘What’s going on?’ I asked Fred. This was thrilling!

‘Oh, that’s John. I mean, Jean. Jean le Chat. He’s her husband. In real life and in BSS, although in real life their surname is Alston. In real life, they’re very . . . romantic. In the show they hate each other. It’s highly amusing to watch.’

‘Not you again!’ Madame le Chat snarled, rounding on ‘Jean’. ‘How many times must I tell you, this is my show. This is my ball. This is—’

Jean felt inside the pocket of his black velvet jacket and extracted a small, shiny silver pistol. ‘Not for very much longer, my pretty!’ he declared.

I expected Madame le Chat to scream and run, but instead she reached inside her coat and pulled out a rifle. (I have no idea how it fit in there either, Ms Hiller!) ‘That is what you think, le Chat!’ she growled.

Then, Jean le Chat did scream – with magnificent melodrama – and ran from the hall, with Madame le Chat in hot pursuit. As she exited the room (into the footy club change rooms), she bellowed, ‘Let the frivolities begin!’

What happened next was even more incredible. A string of dancing girls, like a cancan line at the Moulin Rouge, snaked their way into the room and performed a dance for us.

Then an older man with long silver hair and a goatee that almost reached his chest rose from his seat and challenged any gentleperson in the room to a duel. To my surprise, Fred Paul stood and accepted the dare. They faced off with long silver duelling swords and . . . Fred won!

As everyone clapped and cheered, he marched straight over to me. He took my hand and kissed it, and everyone whooped and whistled.

It was all very fun.

And quite sexy, too!

Then the food came out. And oh, the food, Ms Hiller! I am spoiled for all other food for the rest of my life. There was roast beef and stuffed quails and oysters and pies and herrings and glazed vegetables, and for dessert there were elaborate jelly creations and steamed pudding and amazing confections I have no idea what to call, but they were delicious.

After dinner, a cricket match was set up for the boys, and a game of croquet for the girls. Yes, I do know the gender-segregation is ridiculous, Ms Hiller. And yes, some of the girls – including Lucy – revolted and played cricket, but it kind of seemed okay, because it was old-fashioned and all a bit silly anyway. In the end I came second in the croquet, so maybe a touch of gender-segregation isn’t so evil after all. I do think I could have been awesome at the cricket too, though . . .

Next there was dancing, and it was during the dancing – during a waltz with Fred Paul – that he . . . and I . . . kissed.

It wasn’t a peck on the cheek. It wasn’t a light little touch of his lips on mine. It was a huge, strong, wonderful, passionate kiss.

And then he moved his mouth, so that he was whispering in my ear. ‘That was my first kiss,’ he said. ‘And it was magic.’

I thought about what Chelsea-Grace and Cleo had told me – that you should always make boys think it’s not your first time; that it’s being experienced that’s sexy. And I thought, no. What Fred had just done was sexy. Being his first was sexy.

And I leaned over and I whispered, ‘Me too.’

I don’t think I was lying, Ms H. Sam did kiss me, but it was without my invitation and I didn’t kiss him back. It didn’t count.

So, that kiss with Fred Paul was my first.

And seeing the smile on his face after I told him that confirmed it for me: it was so much better than pretending I’d done it all before, as Chelsea-Grace or Cleo would have had me do. It just made everything feel extra special.

Fred pulled me into a tight hug. ‘You really are beautiful, Miss Clementine Darcy,’ he said.

And then he kissed me again.