Midnight, Page 4

  The story was relatively simple, about a little fairy who flew in a blue-grey smoky cloud above fires or candles or cigarettes. When the flame was blown out the Smoky Fairy faded until I could barely see her glimmering on the page and I got scared she would disappear for ever, but then she made friends with a baby dragon who puffed smoke with every breath. The Smoky Fairy perched on his green scaly back and they flew away together, off the end of the page, out of the story. And I flew with them. I tried to fly literally, flapping my arms and galloping round the bedroom in my furry slippers. I must have looked such an idiot, but in my head I was the Smoky Fairy, in my own grey silky fairy dress with gossamer wings.

  I have a horrible feeling I might have told Casper Dream that I was a fairy. I can feel my cheeks flushing even now just thinking about it. But Casper Dream was so kind. He wrote back to me, a proper letter in the same italic black handwriting as on the title page of The Smoky Fairy.

  I unwrapped my precious copy of the book, cellophane crackling, and very carefully opened up the letter.

  Dear violet,

  What a lovely name! I’m particularly fond of violets too. I Shall have to invent a very special tiny violet fairy in a deep purple velvet dress. I’m so glad you like my smoky fariy she Fairy. She pleased too.

  Then he’d drawn me my very own Smoky Fairy picture. The Smoky Fairy was flying, wings outstretched, her toes delicately pointed. She was waving her tiny hand at me.

  I wished it too. I was most impressed with my message from the Smoky Fairy and treasured Casper Dream’s letter. Dad said it was nice of the chap to write back to me but he didn’t make too much of it. No one had heard of Casper Dream in those days. The Smoky Fairy didn’t attract any attention until a teacher complained that it was encouraging young children to smoke. The publishers quickly withdrew the book from the shelves. But Casper Dream’s second book, a big omnibus of flower fairies, was an unexpected enormous success. It won all sorts of awards and made the best-seller lists. Lots of people started collecting Casper Dream books. Everyone wanted to find a copy of The Smoky Fairy, but they were few and far between. One sold for £1,000 on E-Bay. I think a signed copy sells for £5,000 now.

  My copy isn’t signed, but I’ve got my special letter. Casper Dream doesn’t write letters now. I tried writing back to the address at the top of his letter but my envelope came back with ‘not known at this address’. He’d obviously moved to some grand mansion with all the money he’d made. You can write to him via his publishers but you just get a fairy postcard with a printed message on the back: ‘I’m very pleased you like my fairy books. With best wishes from Casper Dream.’ It’s in italic handwriting but it’s not hand-written. I understand. Hundreds and hundreds of people must write to Casper Dream every week.

  I write to him every day. But I don’t send my letters. I hide them in a big silver box at the back of my wardrobe. I squash the letters down flat but the box is nearly full now.

  Dear C.D.,

  I can’t stop writing to you. I feel as if you’re my dearest friend.

  It isn’t as if I’ve made you up. You really did write me that letter. You maybe don’t remember but it doesn’t really matter. I know you even if you don’t know me. I’ve pored over every shimmering page of your books so many times it’s as if I know everything about you.

  I wish we could meet one day.

  I wish you were a real friend.

  With love from

  Violet

  XXX

  From More Fairy Folk by Casper Dream

  Hobgoblins

  Quarrelsome domestic fairies, a little dull and prosaic.

  Four

  I WISHED I could stay in my room all day like Will. Mum called me to help her peel the vegetables for lunch. She looked pale and miserable, her hair sticking up at the back because she’d obviously tossed and turned half the night.

  Dad didn’t get up until midday. He looked awful too, his eyes bloodshot. He smelled horribly of stale drink.

  ‘How’s my little girl?’ he said thickly, putting his arms round me.

  ‘Dad!’ I said, wriggling away.

  ‘Leave her be, Jim,’ Mum said.

  Dad started in on her then, a great rant about what a killjoy she was, and why did she always want to spoil everything, and what was the point of going out to a fancy dinner and dance when she’d sit there looking down her nose at everyone, refusing to join in the fun?

  Mum carried on peeling the potatoes, her mouth pursed up. She seemed to be taking no notice but the potato in her hand grew smaller and smaller until she whittled it right down to a nut.

  Dad went on and on, getting louder. I hated him for it, but I could see how irritating it was, Mum utterly failing to respond. Her white martyred face almost invited insults. One of her eyelids was twitching. I wondered what she was thinking.

  ‘For God’s sake, Iris! Look, let me fill the kettle – I’m desperate for a cup of coffee,’ said Dad, elbowing her out the way.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ Mum said in a mouse-squeak.

  She made Dad his coffee and handed it to him silently. Why didn’t she pour it over his head? Why did she always do exactly as he said?

  I thought of Will. I thought of me.

  I hated thinking that I might be as meek as Mum. I started whipping up the eggs for the Yorkshire pudding, beating so hard the mixture bubbled like a Jacuzzi. I resolved I’d never let Will play games with me again.

  I’d made the same resolution hundreds and hundreds of times.

  I tried to take little notice of Will at lunch time. It was the one meal when he deigned to join us at the table. He ate steadily, saying nothing. Dad commandeered the conversation, eating for England in spite of his hangover – three slices of roast beef, a wedge of Yorkshire pudding, four potatoes, carrots, broccoli and peas, even mopping up his gravy with a thick slice of bread. Then two servings of rhubarb crumble and custard and a cup of tea and Bourbon biscuits.

  ‘There’s nothing like a good Sunday lunch,’ said Dad, belching and rubbing his stomach.

  Will caught my eye and mouthed, ‘Better out than in,’ as Dad said it out loud. I struggled not to laugh.

  Dad frowned at Will. ‘Are you taking the micky?’ he asked.

  ‘As if I’d do that,’ said Will. He stood up. ‘Excuse me, please,’ he said, and walked across the room.

  ‘Aren’t you going to offer to help your mother with the washing up?’ said Dad.

  Will paused. ‘Help my mother?’

  The word echoed through the air after Will had walked out.

  ‘I don’t need any help,’ said Mum.

  Dad stretched and belched again. ‘I’m stuffed,’ he said, as if someone had force-fed him the entire meal. ‘I think I’ll go and walk it off. Yes, let’s go for a stroll, Iris?’

  ‘I’ve got the dishes to do.’

  ‘They’ll keep, for God’s sake. Come on, get some roses in your cheeks,’ said Dad.

  ‘Well, I’ll just put the pots and pans in to soak,’ said Mum, gathering up dishes.

  ‘Oh, don’t bother then, if it’s so much effort,’ said Dad. He patted me on the shoulder. ‘Come on, Violet, you’re up for a walk, aren’t you, sweetheart?’

  I didn’t want to go for a walk at all. But I didn’t want to do the dishes with Mum. I didn’t want to loll in my room by myself any more. I wanted to be with Will. But he’d probably tell me to get lost if I trailed upstairs after him. And I’d only just made my firm resolution.

  I grabbed my jacket and went off with Dad.

  ‘That’s my girl,’ he said. ‘We’ll walk up to the gardens, eh?’

  He used to take me there when I was little. I loved all the flowers, especially the lilies on the ornamental pond. I’d lie on my tummy in the grass, pretending Water Lily Fairies were hopping from pad to pad. I was hopefully past that stage now, but Dad was still trying to treat me like a little girl. It was a wonder he hadn’t grabbed a bag of bread for me to feed the ducks. He even paused by the little p
layground at the entrance to the gardens.

  ‘Fancy a swing?’ he said, only half joking.

  ‘Oh yeah, sure,’ I said.

  Dad picked up my hand and swung it instead. ‘We’ve always had such fun together, you and me, Vi,’ he said. His bloodshot eyes were watering. ‘I wish you could stay my little girl for ever.’

  ‘Dad.’ I wriggled my hand free.

  ‘Whoops. Sorry, darling. Don’t mean to embarrass you. I forget you’re a teenager.’

  ‘Yes, well, I don’t look like one, do I?’ I said bitterly.

  ‘You look lovely, sweetheart. Don’t worry, you’ll soon start developing.’ Dad cleared his throat awkwardly. Then he smiled. ‘Next time there’s a big do, how about you coming along instead of your mum? She’s not one for socializing. I don’t suppose it’s her fault, we’re all different, but she does act like a bit of a killjoy. So maybe you’ll be my best girl for the evening? Tell you what, there’s a Masonic ladies’ night next month . . . ?’

  I prickled all over. I tried to keep my face under control. ‘Oh, Dad. You wouldn’t want me. Like, in my jeans?’

  ‘You and your dreadful jeans! No, dozy, we’ll take you shopping and buy you a really gorgeous girly dress.’

  ‘I don’t think I’m the gorgeous girly type, Dad,’ I said.

  I wasn’t sure he was really serious. Maybe Dad wasn’t sure either.

  ‘Perhaps we’ll wait a year or two,’ he said, ruffling my hair. He smiled wryly. ‘There, that’s let you off the hook.’

  I gave him a sideways glance, hurriedly trying to find a way of changing the subject. I asked him how his work was going. This was the safest bet. Dad could bore on for hours about being a policeman. His battles with chief idiots at Area Headquarters and his Neighbourhood Watch meeting with loonies obsessed with dog muck kept him burbling on all the way round the gardens and halfway back home. I switched off and thought about Will and me.

  ‘So, what about you, Violet?’ Dad said suddenly. ‘How’s school?’

  ‘Oh, OK,’ I said.

  It wasn’t OK at all. I hated school. It was so lonely. I was always such an odd-one-out. Will was too, but he liked being different. Anyway, most of the girls were desperate to hang out with him.

  No one wanted to go round with me. Well, that wasn’t quite true. I had Marnie and Terry. I suppose they were my friends. The only thing we had in common was our size. They were both as small as me. We were always the girls put in the front of school photos, the girls teamed up together in gym, the girls chosen to act little children or cute animals in drama. We were all three Munchkins in the school musical, and the name stuck. The other girls in our form called each of us Munchkin, as if they couldn’t see any difference between the three of us.

  I didn’t think we looked at all alike. Marnie was really plump, with fluffy fair hair and very pink cheeks. Terry was tiny, the smallest girl in the whole school, with a brown pageboy bob. She looked about eight. She acted eight. They both did, forever getting the giggles and having silly arguments. They could carry on a ‘Yes you did’, ‘Oh no I didn’t’ routine for ten minutes at a time.

  I didn’t join in the arguments. I didn’t get the giggles. I didn’t even talk to them much. I didn’t know what to talk about because we liked such different things. Marnie and Terry got huge crushes on the latest boy pop idols, they made each other dinky little bead bracelets, they designed dream bedrooms in extreme detail, and they collected soft toys and teddies. Marnie still treasured 123 Beanie Babies and had every kind of small Manhattan toy animal. Terry collected old teddies, one-eyed limp fuzzy creatures found in corners of charity shops. Her bedroom was like a Battersea Dogs’ Home for bears.

  But who was I to scoff when my own bedroom was like a gothic fairy grotto? This had actually cemented my uneasy friendship with Marnie and Terry. When we were all new girls in Year Seven we’d been asked to describe our homes for an English lesson. I was stupid enough to be truthful. Mrs Mason, our English teacher, made me read my essay out loud. I had to tell the whole class about the Rose Fairy and the Crow Fairy and all the other fairy-folk. They all started snorting with laughter and flapping their arms in mock flight. I tried reading with Will-irony, one eyebrow raised, to show I knew it was ridiculous to have fairies flitting from your ceiling, but it was too late. I might be cool Will’s sister but I was clearly the saddest little baby in Year Seven.

  I didn’t have a hope of making friends with any of the hip, stylish girls in my class. I was stuck with Marnie and Terry – and they made it clear they thought me pretty peculiar too. They were interested in the sound of my fairy-infested bedroom though, and nagged me to invite them home. I’d been to tea at Terry’s house (terrified we might end up having a teddy bears’ picnic with the bears in the bedroom) and I’d been to a sleepover at Marnie’s house. Marnie wore a puff-sleeved pink nightie and pink fluffy bedroom slippers. Terry wore a Care Bears nightshirt. I wore my usual big black T-shirt and black knickers. I hadn’t realized we’d loll around in our night-things half the evening. I felt horribly bare. I ended up borrowing Marnie’s pink quilted dressing gown, looking a total clown.

  I dreaded inviting them back to my house but they were insistent. I didn’t want them to go off me altogether. I didn’t really like them but they were the only real friends I had. So I asked them round one Friday. Dad was away on a ‘How to Police a Major Disaster’ course. The evening with Marnie and Terry turned into a domestic Major Disaster. I still go hot all over thinking about it.

  I’d asked Mum if they could come round, half hoping she’d say no. But Mum seemed thrilled that I had some proper friends at last and said she’d love to have them both to tea. This started up warning signals in my head. I told her she needn’t bother with a proper tea. We could have a takeaway pizza. Mum reacted as if I’d suggested we each eat a takeaway cowpat.

  ‘I can’t give guests any old takeaway rubbish,’ she said.

  ‘They’re not guests, they’re just two girls in my class.’

  ‘Which two?’ said Will, groaning.

  I mumbled their names.

  ‘What? You mean Tweedledum and Tweedledee?’ Will said cruelly. Then he said a swear word at my stupidity and Mum sent him out of the room.

  ‘Gladly,’ said Will. ‘And I’m not coming back, not while those two are twittering away.’

  Will stayed resolutely in his room for Marnie and Terry’s visit. They kept looking up hopefully whenever they heard his floorboards creaking. They might still frequent Bears- and Beanie-Babyland but they were boy-mad too. And especially mad about my brother Will.

  It was total torture. Mum fixed one of her terrible old-fashioned high teas, the sort she had when she was a little girl, the sort Granny has – cold meat and crisps and salad with the radishes and tomatoes pointlessly cut I’d asked Mum if they could come round, half hoping into patterns, fruit salad and ice cream, then jam tarts and chocolate swiss roll and fairy cakes.

  ‘Fairy cakes,’ said Marnie, nudging Terry.

  I went as red as my raspberry jam tart. They were sending me up. It was agony being sneered at by the likes of Marnie and Terry.

  My fairies had been an embarrassing disappointment to them. They stared up at them, their brows wrinkled.

  ‘They’re not like proper fairy dolls,’ said Marnie.

  ‘I didn’t realize you meant they were just little ragdolly things,’ said Terry.

  ‘They’re not dolls. They’re models,’ I said stiffly.

  The Rose Fairy and the Crow Fairy and all their sisters dangled sadly from their strings, wings limp, heads lolling.

  ‘Did you make them yourself, Violet?’ said Marnie.

  ‘My brother helped,’ I said truthfully.

  Will always cut out and sewed a tiny green satin heart for each fairy and I inserted it in each small cloth chest. But this was our special secret. I knew he’d die if I told Marnie and Terry, so I kept quiet about his contribution.

  I couldn’t completely protect him thou
gh. Marnie announced she was going to the bathroom. The door was open so she couldn’t have mistaken it. But she walked straight past and barged her way into Will’s bedroom.

  ‘Ooh, sorry, Will – wrong room!’ she squealed, and then started giggling explosively.

  Terry scurried after her, going, ‘Oh Marnie, trust you!’

  Will slammed the door in their faces.

  ‘Oops!’ said Marnie, hand over her mouth, her shoulders still shaking.

  ‘Why did he slam the door like that? What was he doing?’ Terry asked.

  ‘He wasn’t doing anything, I don’t think,’ said Marnie.

  They talked about Will for the next half hour, giggling all the while. I knew Will could hear everything. I knew he’d be so angry with me afterwards.

  I decided to break friends with Marnie and Terry after that. I avoided them at school the next day and stalked round by myself. I knew I should try to join up with another little gang of girls but it was impossible. I couldn’t just go up to someone and ask if we could be friends. I knew I could probably find Will in the library but I didn’t dare seek him out. He’d made it very plain from my first day in Year Seven that we were to behave like strangers while we were at school.

  So I drifted back to Marnie and Terry, because there was no one else. And now I’d given up on ever finding a congenial friend. But when I went to school the Monday after the bat weekend I got a surprise. There was a new girl in our class even though it was the middle of the term.

  She was standing at the front, by Mrs Mason’s desk, wearing her own clothes instead of our brown school uniform. They were amazing clothes too, a tiny black lace top, a silver and white embroidered waistcoat, a purple-velvet tiered skirt edged with crimson lace, and black pointy Goth boots with high heels. She had brightly coloured Indian bangles jingling all the way up both arms and beads plaited into her hair. And what hair! Long blonde fairy princess waves all the way down to her waist.