In contemporary America, an un-named college student sets out on an obsessive journey of discovery to collect and record the life-stories of total strangers. The interviews that follow have echoes of another, far more famous literary journey, undertaken long ago and in another world.
Drawing on the original, unexpurgated tales collected by Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm, six of their most famous works are re-imagined in the rich and endlessly varied landscapes of contemporary America.
From the glass towers of Manhattan to the remoteness of the Blue Ridge mountains; from the swamps of Louisiana to the jaded glamour of Hollywood, New World Fairy Tales reclaims the fairy tale for the modern adult audience. A haunting blend of romance and realism, these stripped-back narratives of human experience are the perfect read for anyone who has read their child a bedtime fairy story, and wondered who ever said these were stories meant for children.
Praise for New World Fairy Tales
“New World Fairy Tales is immensely enjoyable and utterly compelling; I was drawn into each world and into the concerns of each of the characters. I would highly recommend it.” — REBECCA ROUILLARD, Writers’ Hub
“New World Fairy Tales is immensely enjoyable and utterly compelling; I was drawn into each world and into the concerns of each of the characters. I would highly recommend it.” — REBECCA ROUILLARD, Writers’ Hub
“Drawing on the original, unexpurgated tales collected by Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm, six of their most famous works are re-imagined in the rich and endlessly varied landscapes of contemporary America. From the glass towers of Manhattan to the remoteness of the Blue Ridge mountains; from the swamps of Louisiana to the jaded glamour of Hollywood, New World Fairy Tales reclaims the fairy tale for the modern adult audience. A haunting blend of romance and realism, these stripped-back narratives of human experience are the perfect read for anyone who has read their child a bedtime fairy story, and wondered who ever said these were stories meant for children.” — JEN CAMPBELL, This Is Not The Six Word Novel
“The best newcomer I’ve comes across this year is fellow Scott Prize winner Cassandra Parkin with her New World Fairy Tales.” — JONATHAN PINNOCK, Write Stuff
“A joyous celebration of humanity in all shapes and sizes, infectious in its enthusiasm and stunning in its ambition. It’s magical, funny, tragic, fierce, soft, cutting, and eminently readable.” — A J KIRBY
New World Fairy Tales
CASSANDRA PARKIN has a Master’s degree in English Literature from York University and has been writing fiction all her life — mostly as Christmas and birthday presents for friends and family. She is married with two children, has so far resisted her clear destiny to become a mad old cat lady, and lives in a small but perfectly-formed village in East Yorkshire. New World Fairy Tales is her first published book and winner of the Scott Prize.
New World Fairy Tales
by
CASSANDRA PARKIN
CROMER
Published by Salt Publishing Ltd
12 Norwich Road, Cromer, Norfolk NR27 0AX
All rights reserved
Copyright © Cassandra Parkin, 2012
The right of Cassandra Parkin to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
This book is in copyright. Subject to statutory exception and to provisions of relevant collective licensing agreements, no reproduction of any part may take place without the written permission of Salt Publishing.
Salt Publishing 2012
Created by Salt Publishing Ltd
This book is sold subject to the conditions that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
ISBN 978 1 84471 939 6 electronic
For Kim, Kate, Melissa, Heidi and AJ,
Who gave me inspiration
But most of all for Tony
Who gave me time, love and faith
Interview #4
— Ella Orlando
New Orleans, Louisiana
So, my story? Well, it’s your project, of course, but I don’t think there’s much to tell. Married twice, widowed once, two daughters by marriage. I’ve never liked the word ‘stepchild’; it’s a hard, ugly word. And no, I’ve never called myself a stepmother either.
Yes, that’s the photo — rather worn and crumpled. He carried it all round town, you see, trying to find me, while I ran home to hide. The wildness of youth, although at the time I thought I was so old . . .
My dear, I do apologise. When we’re young, we run; when we’re old, we ramble. Well, let’s start at the beginning — with the first time I got married.
Abbeville, 1964. Harry and I, drinking coffee in a diner, watching the rain. A long-haired couple, barefoot, even though it was pouring, stood at the bus stop kissing. When I looked at Harry, he was watching me watching them.
‘I’ve never kissed you like that,’ he said.
‘You have,’ I reminded him.
‘But not in public.’
‘So?’
He sighed.
‘Oh, Ella, do I seem too old to you?’
‘No,’ I said and took his hand. The rain kissed the window. He was thirty-six years older than me.
‘I’m plenty old enough to be your father.’
‘That doesn’t matter.’
‘I’ve been married twice before.’
‘I knew that when we met.’
‘And I’ve got the girls . . .’
His daughters, Cindy and Beth. He hadn’t married their mother.
‘Why would that matter?’
‘It’s not much to offer, is it?’ he tried to laugh. ‘But for what it’s worth, Ella — for what I’m worth — I’m all yours.’
‘I know,’ I said. Hot nights and stolen afternoons; motels and friend’s houses and the back seat of his car. It meant something different back then. I was risking a lot — afraid he’d never call again, afraid I’d get caught — but I wanted to make him happy.
‘I mean,’ he said, ‘I’ll marry you, if you want to.’ He kissed my hand. ‘Would you like to? What do you think?’
I hadn’t expected that. Sex simply wasn’t something you did with a friend of your father, married twice before, whose last dalliance walked out on him to go and find herself in California. Not if you wanted a ring on your finger afterwards, anyway.
‘Yes,’ I said.
Oh, I know I’ve made him sound vile, but truly, he wasn’t. He was loving, vulnerable, funny and clever, wise and charming and strong. I really don’t think he knew, that day he proposed, that he was ill.
We had eight months before it got really bad — the pain breaking through the morphine, sheets soaked through with sweat. Even after the company folded — we’d had to leave the area after the wedding, it never ran right without him there — we were happy.
I nursed him myself, of course I did.
‘You’re sure you can do this?’ he’d ask, nights when we’d sat up waiting for the dawn, and the nurse and the next morphine shot.
I held his hand.
‘Yes,’ I said.
Then he was gone and I had a failed business, a pile of bills, and two girls.
Our girls.
My girls, now. Pale faces and solemn eyes.
I vowed in the churchyard I’d make it up to the
m. I’d do everything for them, make them the centre of my world.
‘If you need to come home . . .’ My mother, caught between love and satisfaction at being proved right. She drew hard on her cigarette. ‘But not his children. They can go to his sister’s.’
‘I’m staying with them,’ I said.
‘You’re mad,’ she told me. ‘You don’t have to.’
Their faces, so expectant and trusting. My heart turned over.
‘Yes, I do,’ I said. ‘Don’t make me choose, Mom, because I will choose them. I mean it.’
‘You’re serious?’ She blew out smoke, looked at me in disbelief. ‘You actually think you can raise those girls by yourself?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
1972: breakfast in a small house in Delacroix. Cindy was eleven, Beth was nine.
Cindy: ‘I want a new dress for Linda’s party.’
And Beth: ‘I want one too. Can we have new dresses, Mom?’
The heel that came off my shoe that morning; that course I’d seen advertised, Learn to type in six weeks; the electricity bill. Their faces: expectant, confident. I swallowed.
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Cool,’ said Cindy. ‘Hey, you gave me the wrong cup!’
Cindy liked pink: pink bowl, pink cup, pink plate. Beth liked yellow. Cindy had wanted milk in bed last night, so the pink cup was dirty.
I went to the sink, found the pink cup, washed it. Cindy decanted her juice. It spilled everywhere. Cindy looked at it blankly.
I found a cloth, wiped the table, got onto the floor and wiped the floor.
From somewhere above me, Cindy said, ‘I need more juice.’
I climbed out, got the juice, poured it, sat down again.
Beth said, ‘I don’t like cornflakes. I want Cap’n Crunch instead.’
I got up, poured Beth’s cornflakes away, washed the bowl. Found the Cap’n Crunch. Filled the bowl, poured the milk.
Cindy said, ‘There’s the bus.’
Beth: ‘I’ll have a pop-tart instead.’
Cindy: ‘I want a pop-tart too.’
I found the pop-tarts, gave them one each.
Beth said, ‘We’ll get the dresses after school, right?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
How can I explain —? Yes, they were selfish, but I wanted them to be. Their selfishness — their trust really, knowing I’d provide — showed I’d done my job, d’you see? A mom is supposed to be invisible. Or that’s what I thought then, anyway.
Of course, there were times . . .
Delacroix, still; a different small house; 1978. Cindy was seventeen, Beth fifteen. I’d begun to wonder if life wasn’t over for me, after all. Cindy’s math teacher asked me to see Star Wars.
‘I hope you’re not shocked that teachers date,’ he said. A nice, self-deprecating smile. I was thirty-two, but I didn’t feel it.
‘Yes,’ I said. Surprising myself.
Cindy that afternoon: ‘Mom, I need a lift to the bowling alley tonight. I’m meeting Andy.’
Beth said, ‘If Cindy’s going out, I am too.’
Cindy: ‘You’re not coming out with us! Tell her, Mom!’
Beth: ‘I don’t want to, it’s gross watching you two make out. Mom, we’ll go for pizza, okay? You’ll like that.’
Cindy, anxious: ‘But she needs to drop me off . . . wait, how about this. Mom drops me first, then takes you for pizza. Deal?’
Alex’s serious brown eyes and tentative smile. It cost him a lot to ask. He’d never do it twice.
‘Okay,’ said Beth. ‘Good idea. Isn’t it, Mom?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
1983: Abbeville, again. My mom was dying. We hadn’t spoken much, I hadn’t been home at all, but some ties can’t be broken.
‘You’ll come, won’t you?’ my dad asked. ‘She wants to die at home . . .’
‘Yes,’ I said.
Two months it took. Cindy and Beth hated it. Who could blame them? A small town, a dying grandmother, a distracted mother. No-one befriended them; it seemed disrespectful to the woman who lay gasping and choking, chained to the oxygen bottle, in the back room.
That last afternoon; my mother pressing an envelope into my hands.
‘This is — for you,’ she wheezed. ‘Don’t — open it — now. Wait until — you’re alone — and I’m gone.’ She stroked my hair. ‘I love you — always did — it was them — I couldn’t stand — they take advantage — of you — you’re so sweet — my lovely — lovely Ella — love you so much . . .’
‘I love you too,’ I said.
‘Do you — forgive me — for not — letting you — and his children — come home?’
‘They’re mine,’ I said. ‘I raised them. I love them. Please be nice, Mom, they’re my girls.’
‘You’re too — too good — for this world,’ she whispered.
I wiped away my tears and hers, and kissed her.
‘Promise me.’ She crumpled the envelope. ‘Only — open it — when you’re — when you’re alone.’
‘Yes,’ I said.
Easy to say, but you try being alone with two curious young girls in the house.
No, I suppose they weren’t really girls by then. Why, I was married at their age, married and widowed and responsible for them. And I’m damned glad their lives were different. I wanted more for them than I’d had. All parents do.
The envelope? Cindy opened it; she found it in my jewellery box. It was a cheque for a thousand dollars.
‘Grandma would have wanted us to enjoy this,’ said Cindy, sitting at the table. ‘I mean, it’s a nice amount, but not life-changing, you know? Let’s spend it on something fun.’
‘Sounds good,’ said Beth. She rested her beautiful face in her hands. ‘Hey, how about New Orleans for Mardi Gras!’
‘Oh, yes!’ cried Cindy. ‘A boarding house — we don’t want a big hotel — meals out, and costumes . . .’
Open it on your own. I’m sorry, Mom. But you know how much you loved me? That’s how much I love them. They can have anything, anything. The shirt off my back; the food from my mouth; the blood from my veins; the heart out of my body. A thousand dollars? That’s nothing. Besides — New Orleans at Mardi Gras . . .
‘Yes,’ I said.
Two bedrooms and a bathroom in the French Quarter; faded furnishings, damp walls, high ceilings. Cindy said it smelled funny. Beth complained about the bathroom. I loved it.
‘We’ll buy costumes today,’ said Cindy, in charge as usual. ‘Fat Monday, Fat Tuesday, and the Krewe Balls.’
‘If we’re invited to them,’ said Beth.
Cindy glanced at the old, spotted mirror. Long legs, blonde hair, an all-American smile. She smiled at Beth, small and sleek, with her father’s glossy black hair and black eyes.
‘We’ll be invited,’ she said. ‘Won’t we, Mom?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
A costumier’s in the French Quarter. Beth and Cindy romped through the shop as if they were six years old. Beth became a pirate, leather leggings and a striped jersey that turned her into a nineteen-sixties French model. Cindy chose a powder-blue dress with flirty wings and a flowered head-dress. Then a witch’s dress for Beth, a columbine for Cindy. Finally, the costumier pulled back a curtain . . .
Ball gowns. Crimson and gold, scarlet, silver, violet, cerulean, apple; silk and satin and sequins. These were more like theatre than dressing-up; they were exquisite works of art; your heart beat faster just looking at them.
‘A little more expensive,’ purred the costumier. ‘For hire only — with a deposit.’
Beth and Cindy were already choosing. I added up figures in my head, made a hard decision.
‘Yes,’ I said.
The girls chattered and laughed, making themselves beautiful. I told myself that was enough, they’d h
ave fun without me, and what did I want with Mardi Gras, anyway? They didn’t notice until they were leaving.
‘I’m not coming,’ I said. ‘The ball gowns . . .’ They looked guilty. ‘It’s all right. I don’t mind. You have fun. Really.’
‘I expect you’d rather not go out and party so soon after Grandma died,’ said Cindy.
‘We’ll see you later,’ said Beth, kissing me.
At the door, they saw my expression, and hesitated.
‘Oh . . .’ said Cindy.
‘Is it really all right?’ asked Beth.
‘Yes,’ I said.
And then they were gone.
I folded up discarded clothes. I put lids back on tubes and tubs of cosmetics. I cleaned the bath. I made the beds. I threw out the trash. I wiped away tears.
After a while, someone thumped on the floor above me. A steady, regular whacking, made with a stick.
Hastily, I stopped crying. But the whacking went on. I sat mouse-still; someone who had a stick all ready might be hyper-sensitive to noise. The whacking went on. On and on and on.
Finally, I crept upstairs.
‘Hello,’ I said to the closed door.
‘At last,’ said a voice inside.
I opened the door and found an old lady lying on the floor and clutching a walking stick. She glared at me.
‘You took your god-damn time,’ she accused. ‘What the hell kept you?’
I could see she was embarrassed, so I let her be cross. I helped her up, and into the bathroom; afterwards I helped her up again, and back to bed. She should really have had a nurse. Her hands were knotted tree roots, hot and swollen. She looked at me with bird-bright eyes.
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