by Carys Jones
CARYS JONES
Accent YA
Once Upon a Time …
This was the part Tilly Johnson loved best – when the princess casts off her shackles and flees from her faraway town to embrace who she truly is.
Spinning around in front of the small television, Matilda extended her arms and sung along with the princess about letting go. Suddenly she wasn’t in her dimly-lit lounge in Dullerton anymore, but on a frozen hillside, the air whipping past her cheeks and tangling her brown curls.
She spun around and around as the snow swirled like a tornado. She was about to reach the song’s crescendo when the door to the lounge flung open, revealing her sister’s scowling face.
‘Tilly, shut up,’ Monica declared. ‘Some of us are trying to have a conversation.’ She yanked on the phone she’d managed to pull an impressive three feet beyond the confines of the kitchen. Its chord stretched worryingly thin as she wound it around her painted nails.
‘You’ve been too long on the phone as it is!’ another voice said tersely from the kitchen.
‘Shut up, Maria!’ Monica barked. ‘I’m almost done.’
Then, in a considerably softer tone, she said directly in to the phone she was clutching too tightly, ‘Patrick, I’m so sorry. It’s my stupid sisters.’
Tilly glanced longingly at the television where her movie continued to play, but the magic had already left the lounge. She could feel the coarse carpet beneath her bare feet where there should have been the crisp sharpness of snow.
‘Can I finish my movie?’ She shot her sister a pitiful glance.
‘No!’ Monica shouted, nostrils flaring angrily. She was careful to clamp a hand down over the phone’s mouthpiece so Patrick wouldn’t hear her.
‘Turn it off!’ she instructed. ‘And take off that stupid dress. You’re too old to look so ridiculous.’
The door was slammed shut as Tilly looked down forlornly at her sparkling blue dress. It had been one of her favourite gifts that previous Christmas and she wore it as often as possible. What did Monica mean that she was too old? Tilly fingered the fragile fabric, admiring the way it glistened in the light. Surely she wasn’t too old to dress up? Had twelve become the new twenty?
The celebration of her twelfth birthday had been unusually subdued that year but Tilly could still smell the smoke from the candles she blew out just three days ago. She held the memory of her birthday close in her mind, trying to prolong the magic that only birthdays and Christmas seem able to bring.
‘Get off the phone!’ she could hear her sisters arguing on the other side of the thin door. The wood shook fearfully each time they raised their voices.
‘Put it down, Monica! You don’t own the phone!’
The door continued to shake as something banged against it. Tilly watched, her attention momentarily pulled away from the television.
‘Don’t you bite me!’ she heard Maria warn, followed by a sharp shriek.
On her hand, Tilly began to count down from five. Footsteps thundered down the stairs before she had chance to reach two.
‘What are you two doing in here?’ Her dad’s voice boomed far louder than her sister’s bickering ever could.
With a sigh, Tilly reached for the remote and stopped the DVD. She wouldn’t be able to hear it now with the commotion in the next room.
‘The phone doesn’t belong to either of you!’ he was shouting, using his deepest voice, the one he usually reserved for shouting at his friends across the cluttered factory floor at work. Tilly could hear mumbled complaints.
‘I’ve told you countless times, you’re not having mobile phones!’
Tilly could imagine her sisters pouting their lips at him in anger. They asked for mobiles and a computer at least six times a day. Tilly failed to understand why they wanted one so desperately but apparently they were missing out on a whole world of social interaction.
‘Dad, Imogen at school has an iPad, a laptop, and an iPhone 5.’ Monica would list the luxury items on her painted nails while her Dad would wearily roll his eyes.
‘Good for Imogen,’ he’d say before turning his attention back to his newspaper.
‘Seriously, Dad!’ Monica’s voice would rise and she’d bunch her hands by her sides in fists. ‘You’re stifling my development!’
‘Yeah!’ Maria would eagerly agree. ‘We can’t go on Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, or Pinterest.’ Another list was reeled off with militant precision.
During these conversations, regular as clockwork, Tilly felt for her father. The words her sisters would spout and repeat were as alien to Tilly as they were to him.
Defeated, Tilly went over to the television unit and retrieved her DVD, carefully placing it inside its colourful case. She was about to leave the room when the flimsy door opened once again. This time her dad was looking in at her, his cheeks flushed.
‘Are you OK, sweetheart?’ he asked amicably. Tilly nodded as she clutched the DVD to her chest.
‘Your sisters weren’t bothering you, were they?’
Tilly gazed past him. She could see the shadow of the small dining table and the light filtering in from the kitchen, but there was no sign of her sisters.
‘I’m OK.’ She gave a light shrug.
‘Were you watching your movie again?’
‘Yes.’ This made her face bloom with a bright smile.
‘You could certainly teach your sisters a thing or two about getting your money’s worth,’ her father muttered to himself.
‘Daddy, am I too old to be a princess?’ Tilly asked directly, her grey eyes wide and expectant. She watched her father give a sigh and run a hand over the back of his neck. He loomed tall on the other side of the room. He was over six feet tall, and long and willowy. He reminded Tilly of the villains in her beloved movies. For some reason, slim men with dark eyes were rarely to be trusted.
‘Well, Tilly, you’re twelve and you’re about to start secondary school. It’s around this time that most little girls start acting like, you know, little women.’
Tilly wilted. She was already acutely aware of how different she was from other girls her age. Her friends favoured spending their Saturdays at the shopping centre trying on lipstick they couldn’t afford rather than twirling round in princess dresses.
‘But you said I’d always be your princess,’ Tilly protested. Her father groaned and pushed his hands deep into his pockets.
‘Talk to your mother,’ he suggested unhelpfully.
‘OK,’ Tilly chirped brightly before skipping out of the room on her tip toes and heading to her bedroom.
Tilly’s bedroom was the smallest room in the house. It was the third bedroom located to the far right of the landing, adjacent to the bathroom. It could barely accommodate the single bunk bed and chest of drawers that occupied it, but Tilly didn’t care. Size mattered not. Her bedroom was easily her favourite place in the whole world.
She pushed open the door, which always stubbornly caught on the carpet. Hand drawn signs had been taped up on the outside of the door. Tilly had lovingly penned her name in pink ink and decorated it with butterflies and rainbows.
She glanced across the landing, to the wooden door of the bedroom her sisters begrudgingly shared. The wood was no longer visible – every spare inch was covered in posters of men with chiselled jaws holding guitars or posing in stylish clothes. There was a clear divide in their tastes. Half of the men were groomed and clean shaven while the rest had long, messy hair and holey jeans. Tilly had lost count of the times her sisters had argued over the decoration, and she was grateful no one opposed her glitter-infused signs.
With one huge shove the door opened as wide as it could. It was unable to open all the way since it pressed against the frame of the bunk bed Tilly insisted on havi
ng. It had belonged to her sisters and she had inherited it after her eighth birthday.
Once in her room, Tilly closed the door. The back of it was covered in just one poster, which was ripped at the corners and faded, but Tilly refused to take it down. All of her favourite princesses were in the poster, laughing together as though they were having great fun at a party. Tilly liked to imagine that they were at a sumptuous ball together.
‘There.’ Tilly slotted her DVD back in with her collection, stacked neatly atop her chest of drawers. The pink furniture was decorated in countless stickers Tilly had accumulated over the years.
Soft pink curtains were already closed over the window which offered an uninspiring view of the estate. The late afternoon sun always shone too brightly into Tilly’s room, but with the curtains drawn it bathed the space in a rose-tinted glow.
Sighing contentedly, Tilly moved the two steps required to reach her bed. The bottom level of her bunk bed held dozens of stuffed toys gathered near the pillows. They were all pointed in one specific direction – at the small portable television nestled at the far end of the bed. Tilly’s father had promised to buy her a DVD player but it had yet to materialise.
The bed boasted a neatly-tucked princess bed cover. A string of fairy lights dangled across the back wall, sharing the same plug socket as Tilly’s television. She loitered for a moment, contemplating snuggling amongst her toys and watching television. But then she considered she’d rather read and in order to do that she had to climb to the top of the tower.
Tilly imagined a beautiful stone tower set amongst an ever green glade where the distant sound of falling water could be heard as soft and alluring as the tinkle of a fairy’s bell. Gathering up her glittering dress in her hands, Tilly clenched her jaw in determination. Carefully she climbed, taking care not to lose her grip and tumble down to the rose bushes below. They had been deliberately placed there so their sharp thorns could deter anyone who might dare to disturb the princess.
With a grunt, Tilly reached the top of her tower. From here she could survey her entire Kingdom.
Crossing her legs, Tilly sat on the top level of her bunk bed and glanced up at the glow-in-the-dark plastic stars stuck to the ceiling. On the wall were taped up pictures of huge trees which towered like giants and beautiful rose bushes in vibrant reds and pinks. Tilly had carefully collected them from gardening magazines.
Like every good princess Tilly knew that whilst this tower was her home, she didn’t need to wait for a prince to rescue her from it. She had the power to leave as and when she wished.
She leaned back to rummage under her pillow, pulling out a battered copy of Little Women. Though the characters weren’t princesses, Tilly still enjoyed reading about them. She opened the book to the page she had previously marked and felt the rose-scented wind filter in through one of the open tower windows.
Savouring the floral scent, Tilly’s soft grey eyes began to dance across the words on the page. She tumbled in to the story like Alice down the rabbit hole. Soon she forgot all about the tower and the sea of thorns beneath and thought only of the story unfolding within her little hands.
Tilly gasped as a loud knock shattered her tranquillity. Was the tower under attack? Had someone pressed a battering ram against the great oak doors, determined to reach the princess inside? Her heart racing, Tilly closed her book and placed it back under her pillow. She wondered if she had time to escape. But where would she go? Even if she descended from her tower she risked crossing paths with the potential intruders.
‘Here you are.’ Her mother’s head appeared around the door, flushed from having had to push so hard to get it open. ‘Didn’t you hear me calling you to come down for dinner?’
Tilly shook her head.
‘Well, come on, it’s on the table.’
Reluctantly, Tilly climbed down from her tower. It seemed that this time the intruders had won.
Tilly’s spirits were lifted when she looked at what awaited her on her plate. There were Potato Smiles, chicken nuggets, and a generous heap of baked beans. Smiling, she sat down and reached for the bottle of ketchup placed at the centre of the table.
‘Hands off, squirt!’ Her hand was promptly slapped away by Monica, who enthusiastically grabbed the bottle instead.
‘Oldest goes first,’ she said as she stuck her tongue out at her little sister.
‘Girls, can we try to have one civilised dinner?’ their father asked.
Monica rolled her eyes as she squirted ketchup over her plate.
‘That’s enough!’ Maria snapped as she snatched the bottle away.
‘ I wasn’t finished!’ Monica moaned.
‘Yes, you were.’
Beside them, Tilly waited patiently for her turn.
‘Dinner looks nice, Mum,’ she offered to her mother. Eyes as green as fresh spring grass gazed at her.
‘Thank you, sweetheart,’ Ivy smiled. Whenever she smiled her features softened in a way that made it look like it was physically impossible for her to ever be mean. But her smile lacked the warmth it used to have. Rays of afternoon sunlight fell on her cheeks, revealing deep set lines and gaunt cheeks.
‘Are you not having any nuggets?’ Tilly asked in alarm as she noticed that there was steamed fish and vegetables on her mother’s plate.
‘Not tonight,’ Ivy said gently. ‘I fancied something a bit different.’
‘Give the ketchup to Tilly,’ Clive ordered Monica. With an angry sneer she shoved the plastic bottle over to Tilly’s side of the table. Tilly imagined it wasn’t a bottle of red sauce but a sacred artefact which was highly coveted within the Kingdom. As she held it above her plate she thought of all the forces who would try to topple her home to lay claim to it.
‘I’m so not ready for school on Monday,’ Monica announced with disdain.
‘Urgh, me neither,’ Maria echoed. It was rare for the sisters to agree on anything.
‘Make sure you take care of Tilly on Monday.’
Maria scrunched up her face as though she’d smelt something awful.
‘What? We’re not babysitting the squirt.’
‘No way!’ Monica echoed between a mouthful of beans.
‘You need to look out for Tilly,’ their mother insisted, sounding as stern as she could. ‘It’s her first day at the big school; she’ll need you.’
Upon hearing her name thrown around the table Tilly blinked and came back in to the moment. Why were people talking about her?
‘Seriously not happening,’ Monica said forcefully. ‘I’m not being shown up on my first day back.’
‘Tilly won’t show you up,’ Ivy said defensively, shooting a loving glance in her direction.
‘She will!’ Maria insisted angrily. ‘She’ll probably show up dressed like a stupid princess.’
‘Don’t be silly,’ Ivy sighed, ‘she’ll be wearing her uniform like everyone else.’
Tilly struggled to swallow the piece of chicken lodged in her throat. She had seen the uniform her older sisters wore to school. It consisted of a dark green sweater and black trousers, dull and drab. The sentiment echoed in her mind – ‘like everyone else.’ Tilly didn’t want to be like everyone else. She’d always been different. She’d thought her mother loved that about her.
‘Do I have to wear the uniform?’ she asked sadly.
‘See!’ Monica shrieked. ‘She already wants to go to school looking like something Disney threw up.’
Tilly defensively drew back. She didn’t understand what was wrong with wanting to dress up. Her sisters were always displaying on the outside how they were inside, with heavy black eyeliner and clunky boots. Why couldn’t Tilly do the same?
‘Yes, you have to wear the uniform,’ Tilly’s mother explained. Then she shifted her gaze to address her older daughters. ‘Stop insulting your sister and finish your dinner.’
Monica mumbled something to herself before shoving a forkful of beans into her mouth.
The rest of dinner was uneventful. Tilly, who was
always the last to finish, was polishing off the last of her smiley faces as her father began to collect up the empty plates. Tilly noticed that her mother’s plate was still full.
‘You should have had what we had,’ she told her mother earnestly. Ivy looked at her plate.
‘I guess I’m just not that hungry,’ she explained. Tilly shrugged and went back to finishing her dinner.
Tilly skipped through the lounge, eager to get back to her tower, but she stopped when she clocked the pile of washing crammed in a plastic basket beside the sofa, waiting for her mother to iron her way through it while watching Poldark. At the top of the pile was a pale green shirt and a pair of smart black trousers. Tilly could see from the size that it was her school uniform. Dread began to close around her like a fist, each finger squeezing unpleasantly against her. Secondary school terrified her. It was her sister’s territory, a place where girls chased after boys and teachers gave out detention as though it were candy. It wasn’t a place where fairy tales could flourish. Swallowing nervously, Tilly turned away and hurried up the stairs, more eager than ever to lock herself away.
A great storm had occurred out at sea. Ships had succumbed to the relentless waves which burst against their boughs and people feared that more souls would be lost. A dark, unforgiving sky hung ominously above the water.
The captain of the fleet’s remaining ship did his best to hold steady at the wheel. He had the most precious cargo on board: the princess. He knew the entire Kingdom depended on her safe passage home. Cold water flung against him but still he remained at the wheel, his jaw clenched with steely determination. He’d weathered worse storms. He’d make it back to harbour no matter what.
‘Tilly, come on! You’ve been in there forever!’ a voice whined through the bathroom door, forcing Tilly to put down her plastic ship and let it fend for itself amongst the strawberry-scented bubbles.
‘I’m in the bath!’ she shouted back. She heard Monica groan on the other side of the door.
‘Ten minutes, squirt. Then I’m coming in, so you’d better be decent.’
