by Maggie Kay
“Don’t cry,” said Teasel. “Please don’t cry. Look, if you can find me a pebble with a hole all the way through it, you’ll get a prize.”
Baby pranced off, happy again.
The surrounding forest was almost as clear as day, lit with the fine, silver light of the full moon. Faeries flitted through the trees, laughing and casting playful magic without a care. Teasel felt as though he was the only creature in the whole Fey world not having fun. As he yanked petulantly at another tuft of pink fluff on his side, an idea began to form in his mind.
A few moments later, Baby bounced up to him, dropping a perfectly round pebble at his hooves. Through the centre was a perfectly round hole.
“Where’s my prize?” she said, looking up at him. Her little, tufted ears pricked forward and her long, thick mane fell to one side, curling in swirls of violet and blue.
“Let’s make a portal,” he said, “and visit the mortal world."
“Are we allowed?”
“No.”
Baby’s ears flicked back. “Then we shouldn’t. Not if it’s dangerous.”
“But dangerous can be fun,” said Teasel, tossing his mane with impatience. His forelock had grown so long, his eyes were almost hidden. “It’s so boring here. Faeries, Pixies, moonlight, blah blah.”
“If we go, can I bring a human back as a pet?”
“No. We’re just going have a look. That’s all."
“Shall I go and tell Mummy?"
“Mummy doesn’t need to know. I’ll keep you safe, I promise. Remember the rules. We mustn’t do any spells, we mustn’t leave a trace of anything magical in their world and we mustn’t be seen.”
Baby nodded.
Feeling elated that something exciting was going to happen at last, Teasel drew a circle in the air with his horn, creating a swirl of coloured lights. Without hesitation, both unicorns ran straight through.
They landed in the grounds of a grand country house. Behind them, the portal took the form of a circular rose arch, shining white in the light of the moon. Baby trampled around in the rose bed, gazing in wonder at the sloping lawns and flowers. She was surprised to see how pleasant it was. She’d expected monsters.
“Are we going to explore?” she said.
“Just a little,” said Teasel, “but I’d better stay near the portal. I’ll call if I see a human. You must run to me straight away and don’t go too far.”
Baby nodded her head, pricking her ears forward to show she was listening, but all she could think about was needing the toilet. It was probably all the candy floss she’d eaten earlier. She knew if she told Teasel, he’d make her go home, right now. Nothing from the immortal world was allowed in the human realm. Not even a single rainbow coloured hair. But she didn’t want to go back yet. They’d only just arrived.
She cantered to the centre of the lawn. Glancing back, she saw Teasel pacing around the rose arch, looking up at the lighted windows in the house. Was he scared? What was so terrible about humans anyway? They weren’t big or covered in scales like dragons and they weren’t clever and filled with magic like Elves.
She hid herself in the middle of a bed of tall flowers, making sure Teasel couldn’t see her, and lifted her multicoloured tail. When she’d finished, she gave a little shake of her rump, and jumped back onto the lawn. No-one would notice. Especially if it rained. The sparkles would fade by morning.
Pushing at the door of the big house with her shoulder, she ran inside to find a room with a carpeted floor and many chairs and tables. Another room had glass walls and lots of green plants. And there was one with books in it, some of them filled with fairy tales.
Back outside, she trotted across the lawn. On the other side of the garden was another building with many windows and a locked door. She pressed her nose against it, breathing gently on the numbers that held the magic code. The door opened with a click, allowing her to run along a corridor. She could feel the sleeping humans on either side, each one in their own room. Each one dreaming dreams of fears and problems. She ran up a flight of stairs and back along the upper corridor. It was the same. Many, many human beings and only a few seemed truly happy. She paused. Should she spread a little magic? Just a tiny bit? It was so easy to do; even a baby unicorn could turn sadness to joy and bad fortune to good. It was such a shame it was completely forbidden to do so.
Resisting the temptation to help them, she galloped back out into the garden to find Teasel pacing up and down. His coat shone white and pink in the moonlight. She ran to him.
“We’d better be getting back,” he said.
Baby thought he still looked nervous.
“They're all asleep,” she panted. “I think they’re harmless.”
Teasel fixed her with a stern gaze. "It’s time to go home.”
Back in their own world, Teasel felt relieved. No one had noticed their absence and no harm had been done.
“Can we have another adventure tomorrow night?" said Baby. She was dancing around with glee, splashing in the shallows of the moonlit lake.
"We probably shouldn’t do that again,” said Teasel. “We were lucky we weren’t seen."
“I want to go again.”
“We must never go again. It’s too risky.”
“But you were the one who wanted to go,” said Baby.
“I know, but...I got scared.”
“There was nothing to be scared of. They were all asleep.”
“You don't know that,” said Teasel, glancing over to where their parents were still busy gathering moonbeams. “At least we didn't leave any trace.”
There was a pause. He looked down at his younger sister. She was pawing her tiny pink hoof along the grass as if searching for daisies. Teasel’s heart began to thump.
“We didn’t leave any trace, did we?” he repeated.
“Well...”
“What did you do?”
“I may have left a little magic behind. In a flowerbed. I couldn’t help it. I had to go. I got all excited and...”
Baby gazed up at Teasel, her eyes shining. Teasel’s heart melted. Maybe a tiny bit of magic, hidden away from mortal eyes, was safe enough.
“That’s alright,” he said. “No harm done. They’ll all wake up feeling happy, that’s all.”
All the resentment he’d felt at having been asked to look after her evaporated as he realised what a brave little unicorn she was. And maybe, just maybe, next month they could spread a little more magic in that garden. Maybe they could break the rules and create one special, magic place in the human world. And maybe, one day, unicorns and humans could even be friends.
[Katy and I met properly in 2016. She helped me cope when I found I was unable to go to Swanwick at the last minute due to a flare up of my chronic pain condition. She picked me up and held my virtual hand throughout the week. We both put flowers in our hair and sent each other photos of what we were wearing for the virtual fancy dress disco. We met on the virtual lawn for coffee and enjoyed uplifting conversations. She made that week memorable. It was as if I had been to that magical land instead of being alone, at home, in pain. Thank you Katy.]
BRAMWELL AND THE SPIDER
Julia Pattison
“That’s a lovely drawing Bramwell,” said Mummy proudly, as she pinned up his latest piece of work on the kitchen wall.
Bramwell loved to draw. He would spend hours drawing all sorts of creatures, such as birds and insects. He wasn’t too keen on spiders though; they made him feel a bit nervous, so he avoided drawing them.
“Spiders? Yuk!” he would say with a shudder, if Mummy asked him if he wanted to draw a spider in the garden. “I hate them—horrible creepy crawlies, with long, scary legs.”
“Right Bramwell, time to go to school,” said Mummy reaching for her winter coat hanging on the peg on the kitchen door.
“Make sure you wrap up warmly, it’s bitterly cold today,” she warned, as she handed him his coat.
After putting on his coat, Bramwell wrapped his colourful scarf
snugly round his neck, then pulled on his woollen hat and gloves. He was glad he’d listened to Mummy’s advice as they stepped out of the warmth of the kitchen into the cold, crisp winter air. Brrr!
Every morning on the way to school, Bramwell and Mummy passed a large hedge. In the summer it was green and lush, filled with chattering birds and scurrying insects all seeking shelter from the summer sun. Now the hedge stood stark and still, covered in a blanket of hard winter frost that glistened in the watery winter sunshine.
“Look at this beautiful pattern,” said Mummy, pointing to a cobweb sparkling brightly, looking magnificent.
The glinting, delicate web fascinated Bramwell, and he moved closer to the hedge to get a better look.
So absorbed was he by the exquisite patterns of the web, that he forgot to be frightened when the spider, who had been hiding in the hedge, suddenly twirled round and round on his thread, lowering himself at great speed.
“Wow!” said Bramwell, his eyes widening in amazement as the spider swung up and down, then round and round, putting the finishing touches to his web.
“What a clever spider!” he exclaimed. “I wish I could draw something like that.”
“Shall I take a photo of it?” suggested Mummy, “then you can draw the spider’s web tonight when you get back from school.” She took out her mobile phone.
“Yes please,” said Bramwell happily.
He drew his picture that night, and Mummy proudly added it to his collection of drawings on the kitchen wall.
Bramwell wasn’t frightened of spiders any more.
[I wrote this short story for children in memory of Katy Clarke who loved nature and also dedicated to my grandson Bramwell who loves nature and stories.]
A SIGN OF PEACE
Katy Clarke (Catherine McPherson Clarke)
The insignia of my great-grandfather’s regiment, the 51st Division of the Seaforth Highlanders, was a cat salient proper and above were the words, Sans Peur (Without Fear).
Without fear? I don’t think any man who fought in the First World War could, in total honesty, say it was without fear.
Perhaps the motto’s true meaning in the face of the Great War was that what had to be done should be done in the certain knowledge it was the only way.
Certainly, my great-grandfather, or Papa, as I called him, was the gentlest man I’ve ever known.
I knew him when the horrors of war were behind him by several decades. My childhood memories of him are as warm as his greenhouse where I forever pottered at this side. He spent hours potting plants and growing tomatoes so delicious I would pluck them straight from the plant and eat them like sweets.
Papa had been a skilled carpenter and cabinet-maker by trade. He had built the greenhouse many years before and often made wooden toys for his great-grandchildren.
When I was 14, Papa died quietly in his sleep. My gran (his daughter) put away one or two mementoes of him. Now, many years later, she has given me one of those keepsakes, and I will treasure it always for what it meant to Papa and for what it represents today.
For Papa, his fighting part in the war came to an abrupt end in 1916. He had fought alongside his kilted regiment as a signalman for two years. Long days and nights were spent standing knee-deep in the miserable trenches of France.
It must have seemed like a miracle when one day as he was coming back down the line after fighting at the front, he heard a familiar voice call his name. It was his own brother on his way to the front with his regiment. They embraced where they stood, neither knowing if they would see each other again.
Finally, Papa was hospitalized. As he slowly recovered as much as he ever would, he watched men come and go—physically and emotionally violated. Some died, while others were sent back to fight at the front.
Papa’s nerves had been shredded with shell-shock and his lungs and stomach severely affected by poisonous gas. He was sent to Calais where he took charge of German prisoners of war. For them, too, the killing had ended. Like our men, they faced lengthy separation from their families.
Perhaps Papa had been chosen because of his quiet understanding. Some of the prisoners were also shell-shocked. So Papa took them to a timber-yard and taught them simple woodwork. Today, it would be called occupational therapy.
Shattered nerves were soothed as they concentrated on carving and handling wood. They used only the simplest makeshift tools. A rapport between the men and Papa meant they began to call him ‘Sergeant Jock’. The carpentry lessons produced imaginative results—beautifully crafted dolls and picture frames.
One young prisoner seemed more distant and forlorn than the rest. He looked particularly sad one evening.
Papa asked what was troubling him. The man managed to blurt out enough in broken English to say letters from home were not reaching him and he longed to see his wife again. Then he broke down and cried, “Why we fight, Jock, why we fight?”
Papa put his arm around the prisoner and said he was sure the war would soon be over. He persuaded him to come to ‘Sergeant Jock’s timber-yard’ to make picture frames for his wife—a present for her when he went home.
The prisoner cheered up as he worked wood for the first time and eventually produced a pair of ornately-decorated frames. He had used little more than nails and a pen-knife to do it.
Meanwhile, Papa was being helped through the lasting effects of shell-shock. He was engrossed in teaching his charges out in the open air, away from noise and confined spaces.
When Armistice Day came at last, the war-weary prisoners and their keepers prepared to go their separate ways.
Away from youths screaming for their mothers and the ‘him or me’ finality of the front, a bond had been formed.
Some of Papa’s men came to him as they were released.
“Sergeant Jock, you have been a kind man. We will never forget you,” they said, giving him a pair of picture frames.
The last to climb into the truck was the young man Papa had comforted when all had seemed so black without news from home.
“Jock, we should never have been enemies,” he said. “Remember me. This is for you.” He pressed a small metal box into Papa’s hand.
Papa looked at the gift, a matchbox holder, laboriously bent into shape and decorated with his name—Sergeant J. McPherson, 1/5 Seaforth Highlanders, 51st Division.
On the edge of an engraved scroll was Papa’s army number, 41564 and the word, Calais. On the front, the cat salient was encircled with the words, Sans Peur.
I have that matchbox holder now. Amazingly, when I moved in to my present home, I discovered that my new phone number was identical to Papa’s number.
The matchbox holder is cold to the touch, but warms as I hold it in my hand like the warmth and care of fellow human beings. To me it is a legacy of hope in the face of adversity - a tangible memory of Papa’s gentleness—the old man I knew who lived the rest of his life Sans Peur.
[This is an article Katy wrote for Woman's Weekly many years ago, about her great grandfather. It captures her love of history, family, humanity, love and peace. It seemed fitting to give Katy the last word in this anthology produced in her memory.]
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
Pat Belford finds being a children’s author very rewarding. Having taught in primary schools in Leeds for many years, she especially enjoys writing fiction for the under–elevens. Her books have been used extensively in UK schools as well as in English speaking countries around the world. She also writes short stories and articles, and has written the librettos for several musical plays for schools. She thinks children love stories which have elements of magic–and unicorns are especially magical!
Elizabeth Ducie had been working in the international pharmaceutical industry for nearly thirty years, when she decided she’d like to take a break from technical writing—text books, articles and training modules—and write about some of her travel experiences instead. She took some courses in Creative Writing and discovered to her surprise that she was happier, a
nd more successful, writing short stories than memoirs or life-writing. In 2012, she gave up the day job, and started writing full-time. So far, she has published three novels, four collections of short stories and a series of ebooks on business skills for writers. Her first novel, Gorgito’s Ice Rink, was Runner Up in the 2015 Self-Published Book of the Year Awards. Website: elizabethducie.co.uk
Helen Ellwood has had three plays staged by amateur production companies in Derby, has been a member of the script writing team for two BBC funded docudramas and has had two short stories broadcast by BBC Radio Derby; all in the past ten years. She has had a short story published in a science fiction anthology, After the Fall, Boo Books. The memoir of her time spent as a castaway on an uninhabited island (Message in a Bottle) was long-listed for the Mslexia Memoir Competition 2014. She has just completed a literary horror/romance novel called The Girl, the Boy and the Breadfruit Tree, based on her memoir. She is sending this out to agents with her fingers crossed.
Elizabeth Hopkinson has had over 60 short stories published in magazines and anthologies, and has won several prizes, including the James White Award, Jane Austen Short Story (runner-up) and National Gallery Inspiration. Her first novel Silver Hands was published by Top Hat Books in 2013 and this year she has published an eBook of previously-published stories, Tales from the Hidden Grove. She is currently working on a trilogy inspired by the world of Italian baroque opera. Elizabeth is a regular member of Swanwick Writers' Summer School, and has led a number of workshops there. She lives in Bradford, West Yorkshire, UK, with her husband, daughter and cat, in a tiny house that is being taken over by books and artwork. Website: elizabethhopkinson.uk.
Maggie Kay (Srimati) is Katy’s sister. Having grown up in Scotland, Maggie moved to London then Devon, where Katy also settled in recent years. Maggie now lives in Cornwall with husband Pat where she writes and runs Thrivecraft—a life and business coaching retreat and training academy. Formerly an ordained Buddhist, Maggie specialises in meditation, law of attraction and spiritual intelligence. Her new book, Diving for Pearls: The Wise Woman's Guide to Finding Love, includes memoirs of her shared spiritual experiences with Katy. Website: maggiekaywisdom.com.
