THE LESS THAN PERFECT LEGEND OF DONNA CREOSOTE

by Dan Micklethwaite

  Socially speaking, it probably wasn’t the best way for a person to live.

  But perhaps for a princess.

  At the traffic lights, she once again followed the green angel’s advice.

  There were no car horns today.

  If there had been, she would have thought of them as trumpets, heralding her approach.

  Or tried to.

  No pigeons fled at the sight of her, when she reached the other side.

  If they had, she would have thought of them as doves, released into the sky to mark her coming coronation.

  Or tried to.

  In that empty window, however, she seemed anonymous, like the proverbial pauper before trading places. Or like a sacrifice left by the townspeople to placate whatever monster dwelt inside. Selected for her purity, no doubt, and her impeccable virtue.

  If only.

  Although the woman from her tower block hadn’t appeared to recognise her, Donna was worried that the rest of those townspeople might. That they would laugh again to see her like this, as if defeated, disgraced.

  As though they were the same crowd every day, and they occupied the same positions. On permanent lookout for wankers to mock.

  Yet she walked all along New Street without being accosted, nobody grabbing her arm to say Hey, didn’t you…? or Where’s your lance gone?

  No-one even looked twice.

  She pulled her cardigan tighter about her, embracing it like a kind of invisibility cloak.

  This was good, she supposed.

  Better than she could have hoped for.

  To have been let off so lightly.

  Although she was a little put out that there wasn’t even a flicker of yesterday’s fire. Some trace of the embers, of charcoal, a remembrance daubed on the pavement. Donna woz ere. That might have been nice. After all, to judge by what Sammy said, it wasn’t every day that someone walked through Huddersfield in full-on knightly armour.

  Still, at least this way there was less chance of her being hassled in shops.

  In the first of the shops, she couldn’t find anything she wanted. That is, she found several things she fancied trying on, but none that were tied into her quest for a gown. If it hadn’t been quarter-past one already, she might have considered it. As it was, there was no time to waste.

  In the next shop she checked, the story was the same. No decent prom dresses or ball gowns, despite or perhaps due to it being the season, so she didn’t hang around to browse their other wares.

  The shop after that was a charity one, devoted to helping the needy in Africa, and while Donna didn’t really expect to find anything much in the way of regal attire, she stepped inside anyway and homed in on the books.

  The bulk of them today were either thrillers, which she didn’t really read, or cheap romance novels, which usually contained a different kind of fantasy to that which she preferred. No battered spines or sticky-tape stood out to her today, much less roused her pity.

  Besides, there was no time to waste.

  It was twenty-five to two now, and she had no idea how that had happened.

  With her mother it would have been different. Donna didn’t trust her mother’s fashion sense as far as she could throw it, but found she was missing her input, her ideas, her efficiency, all the same. Her presence, even. Which was especially surprising.

  Though whether good or bad surprising wasn’t clear yet.

  In the next place, the big multi-floor mega-chain at the far end of town, she could have filled several bags easily, just with everyday things. But the queues were too long. If she wasn’t careful, she could end up stuck in there for hours: the worst kind of labyrinth, the kind where you could see the way out but couldn’t reach it.

  She didn’t like queueing, particularly not on her own. To cope with the boredom, she always ended up getting things she didn’t really need; falling hook, line and sinker for their impulse-buy bait. If it wasn’t fluffy slipper-socks, it was tiny teddy bear keychains, or glittery scrunchies, or multipacks of underwear adorned with cuddly cartoon animals rather than mass-market fairy-tale faces. Which turned out to be children’s sizes and which, having tried a pair on, she’d had no choice but to discard.

  None of which, she feared, would be a good enough reason to stand someone up.

  She hadn’t wanted to look for owt in Kingsgate, because she hadn’t wanted to run the risk of Sammy spotting her, seeing what she was buying and thinking her even weirder still. And now the quickest way down there would take her back through that square, like revisiting the site of a battle she’d lost. But it didn’t really seem as if there was anything else for it.

  The closer she got, the more she wished she had bought something, anything, from that last shop, so she’d have one of their trademark brown paper bags now to hide herself, her burning face, as she passed. She couldn’t really remember the last time that she’d felt so embarrassed in public.

  Walking past the Library, it seemed as though the statues that framed the steps were embarrassed by her too. Mortally ashamed, distancing themselves after her failed fantasy coup. One of them even had his eyes rolled back in his head.

  She hurried onwards, keeping her own to the ground.

  It was only when she arrived at the shopping centre that she stopped again to look up. The unseasonable sun streamed in through the skylights, bounced off the pale flooring and made the place glow.

  For a moment, it lit up a shop window ahead as though gracing stained glass, conjuring angels and the ghost of the Grail.

  Her breath caught at the thought of the ultimate quest.

  Then an old woman clipped Donna’s left heel with a shopping trolley, and a young boy banged into her right knee and wheeled away crying, prompting his father to spin round and give her the muckiest look.

  I’m sor–

  But they were already gone.

  Lost in the rush.

  Donna blinked and saw haloes.

  She followed them forwards, found her way to the shop.

  There were three silver mannequins, decked out in long dresses. These were satin and boldly coloured and reached nearly to the floor, as Donna felt the dress of any proper princess should. Not entirely to the floor was best, as it left ample space for showing off one’s tastefully bejewelled shoes.

  Inside, she could only find two of the showcased dresses in her size, but this hardly lessened her excitement. Ignoring the disparaging glances of the girl behind the till, she escorted both into the changing room and took her own sweet time to try them on.

  The first was light blue and she adored the way it hung almost curvaceous on her hips. But the colour blended, oddly, too closely to her skin and made it appear even more pasty than usual, and so, after umming and ahhing, she had to discard it.

  The second was a deeper, darker tone: a bold, almost racing green. While it too made her skin look pale, it was the milky-smooth pallor that Donna associated with princess-style pampering, with being waited on hand and foot by a dutiful network of nurses and maids.

  It didn’t relieve the sharpness of her hips the way the blue one had, unfortunately, but it would still make a great start to her royal collection.

  Wearing it had made her feel better already.

  Just the closeness to its fabric, draped tenderly across her forearm, seemed to lend her a confidence she usually lacked. As she approached the till – at which, mercifully, there wasn’t a queue – she met the assistant’s piggy-eyed gaze without blinking.

  The assistant accepted the dress with a sneer – barely concealed, though she seemed caked in concealer – and inspected the price tag as though the transaction was all an elaborate scam, and she was in no way about to be caught.

  When Donna paid, calmly, with her debit card, the assistant’s face fell.

  She handed the bag over.

  I’ll put
the receipt in here, she said, recovering slightly. In case you have to return it.

  Donna simply smiled. The envy of commoners never ceased to amaze her.

  Walking out of the shop, she could feel her blood rushing – her first princess gown since the pink and gold one she’d worn to bits as a kid – and she really quite wanted to go find some shoes.

  But it was twenty-past two, and there was no time to waste.

  15

  Romance, to nine-year-old Donna Crick-Oakley, had meant being sent to bed early, whenever her parents had wanted a night to themselves. It had meant hearing the music, the soppy old ballads, coming up through the floor like hot air, like helium. It had meant listening to a book on tape, or reading aloud to herself to cover the noise.

  It had meant being left out.

  It had meant never really knowing what was going on downstairs.

  Nobody told her, and she wasn’t sure how to ask.

  Some of the stories she read or listened to on such nights were about true love, of course. But she understood the bond between lovers only as that between the seeker and the sought, the hunter and the hunted. It was a question of purpose. A matter of want.

  We just want some peace and quiet tonight, for a change, her parents would say.

  Although she was never quite convinced that this met the requirements.

  True love, to nine-year-old Donna, had seemed something grander, much more ambitious: the finding of treasure, reaching the goal at the end of a quest.

  Prince Charming, for example, only found his true love when he found the foot that fitted the glass slipper.

  Beauty found her true love when she found a way to turn the Beast back into a man.

  When Donna first began to take notice of Sammy Pankhurst, however, she did not think he was a treasure.

  As a nine-year-old himself, only two months older than she was, he had been a shambles of curly dark hair and red cheeks and white, crooked teeth. He looked nothing like the characters in Disney films, not even the baddies. He looked nothing like she pictured any of the characters in her books.

  Except sometimes, she thought, like Pinocchio, when he’d been turned into a donkey.

  She thought that when he picked on her. Which he seemed to do whenever he was able, especially after he coined the nickname that amused him so much.

  It wasn’t just chanting, though, like the rest of her class. He had pushed her into walls as well, and, when she dobbed him in to the teachers, he’d blamed it on other boys and got away without punishment. He had frequently sent her notes in class informing her that she smelled, and timed their being passed to her so expertly that she got the blame for them, rather than him.

  Though she had not been familiar with the word at the time, she’d thought young Sammy Pankhurst was a right little bastard.

  And yet.

  And yet.

  She had wanted to be near him.

  Grown-up Sammy Pankhurst did not look the same as he had then. He didn’t even look much like his profile picture, cropped out from a group shot of them all in the park. Gone were the dark curls and the red cheeks, replaced by a short, unshowy quiff and a neat layer of stubble, which suited him unexpectedly well.

  As he approached her table now, she thought there was even a kind of swagger about him. A strut. An easiness. A physical confidence that he hadn’t exactly exuded on those cold nights in the park, and perhaps not back in the playground either, popular though he’d been.

  Some kids had played tag in that playground, and some had played house. Some kids just ran around with their Action Men or their My Little Ponies; others hopped around making horsey noises, or rolled about miming machine guns, plosive, explosive, tongues against teeth.

  She had wanted Sammy to help her play Little Red Riding Hood – he could be the wolf or the woodcutter, whichever he chose – but the one time she managed to ask him, he just pushed her and called her the name and ran off.

  She wasn’t sure, as she watched him, what she wanted right now.

  16

  Hello.

  Hey, Donna.

  So, how are you?

  I’m good. Thanks. Yourself?

  Good, thanks.

  Ok.

  Ok. Ok.

  What would you like to drink? Would you like a drink?

  What?

  A drink. Would you like one?

  Cappuccino, please. Medium.

  Ok.

  Donna watched him queuing.

  He was behind four other people.

  He seemed to have more patience with it than she would have had.

  Thank you. What did you go for?

  A latté.

  Ok. You say it lah-tay?

  Yeah.

  That’s always sounded kinda posh to me. Have you been living down south, or–

  No. That’s just how I say it. I thought that was how people said it.

  I guess it’s sort of like scone and scon.

  When people ahead of me in line order lattés, they always say it like that.

  Do you say it like, you know, bone, or do you say it like scon? I’ve always said scon, because me and my grandma, my dad’s mum, we always had this joke when I was younger about how, when I’d eaten mine really quickly – because she always had at least one waiting for us whenever we’d visit, you know – I’d say, ‘Look, s’gone!’, and I liked the way she laughed at that. She couldn’t eat hers quickly, though, because she said it gave her heartburn, and it played heck with her dentures.

  I think that’s just the right way to say it.

  What is? Scon?

  No, I was talking about lattés.

  Oh.

  I say scon too, though.

  Ok.

  How have you been, anyway? What have you been up to? Do you still–

  Just hold up there. That’s a lot of questions all at once.

  Sorry. It’s just been a while.

  S’ok.

  Ok.

  I’m alright, though. I’ve been alright. I’ve been... I’ve not been doing too much, I don’t suppose. Bits and pieces. I had a kind of data entry job thing, but it didn’t last. It was only temp work, you know.

  Yeah.

  But I don’t really need the money at the minute. You know, after my dad left and everything.

  Oh, right. I thought I remembered something about that, but wasn’t sure. It’s been – how long has it been?

  Four, four-and-a-half years.

  Feels like longer.

  Yeah, sometimes.

  Do you ever hear from your Dad, by the way?

  Let’s not talk about that, please.

  Ok. Ok, sorry.

  It’s ok. How are you, anyway? What have you been up to? I feel a bit rude not asking –

  It’s ok. I’m working at the market on weekends now. You know I used to work on Wednesdays? Do you remember the stall I used to work in?

  Vaguely, I think.

  Well, it’s not that one that I work at anymore, but it’s similar. Because you know how I used to be a butcher, well, I didn’t used to be a butcher, but I worked at the butcher’s stall.

  Yeah.

  Well, I work at the fishmonger’s now. And I’m getting proper training so as I can prepare all the fish, like, every species – is ‘species’ the right word to use for fish? – every type of fish, anyway, that we sell. So, I’ll be able to prepare it, is the idea, as well as just selling it.

  That’s good, then. That’s – cool.

  Yeah. Do you eat much fish?

  Not too much. But sometimes I like to cook with it. And salmon, like smoked salmon, that’s really good with cream cheese.

  Well, we sell salmon, smoked and unsmoked. Fillets and things. And, like, everything else you could want, really, I guess, so come down
to our stall if you want any. The next time you want any, just come down at a weekend and ask for me and I’ll get you what you want.

  Promises, promises.

  Thanks. Thank you, that’s very nice of you, Sam.

  Sammy.

  Sammy. Sorry.

  No worries. Also, one of the things we notice, me and Jim, the guy who owns the stall, one of the things we notice is that a lot of people seem to buy fish mainly to put in pies.

  Oh?

  Yeah. But they always, when they buy the fish, they always ask us what’s the best way to cook it in a pie. What the best ingredients are, you know, what the best herbs are, what the best kind of sauce to use with it is, whether or not it should have this kind or that kind of potato in, you know – and the thing is, so many people ask us that, me and Jim, that we had this idea. Sometimes it’s even people who’ve asked us before who’ll ask us about it – they’ll ask us, ‘We made a pie like you said last time, and it was really tasty, but we can’t remember what you told us to put in it, you know, and we fancy another.’ – and so many people ask us for our suggestions that we’ve decided we’re just going to start selling our own.

  Your own pies? That, yeah, that sounds like a good idea.

  Yeah. Yeah, it’s a really good idea, because, like I say, people keep asking about our recipe, so we’ve decided to just give them our recipe direct. You know, as a pie, like. Because that’s what our customers want, Jim says. Convenience.

  Yeah.

  Convenience and quality, that’s what Jim says. And our pies’ll be quality, and it’ll be convenient because people won’t have to cook their own from scratch, and they won’t have to ask us for the recipe every time. So it’s a win-win, you know? We haven’t decided yet whether we’re going to pre-prepare some every weekend, like you see in supermarkets, or if we’re going to offer like a pie-on-demand service – that’s what Jim’s thinking of calling it, ‘Pie-on-Demand’ – where people would be able to order a pie in mid-week, say, and then pick it up on Saturday, ready for eating that night, like after the match or something.