by Chloe Mayer
Already I was thinking how I’d tell my best friend Harry all about this – even though he lived a long way away and I wasn’t sure when I’d see him again. I was pretty sure I’d come off looking amazingly brave, well, a hero really.
With those thoughts making me even braver, and even more hero-like, I stepped away from the tracks, closer to the stinking nest. I pinched my nose between my fingers. If I hadn’t been so busy thinking about how far away the exit was, I would probably have smelled the nest before I saw it.
I wondered if any of the train passengers ever looked out of the window at this spot. Or if, as the train exploded into the blackness of the tunnel, they always turned away from the glass thinking there was nothing to see. When they were going through really fast, would they even notice this dark mess of rubbish, pushed up against the walls? And if they did see something, none of them probably realised what it meant. Most grown-ups never thought about Trolls.
Probably, they had enough to worry about, seeing as how they were taking their chances with the Skeleton Service, not to mention the fact there was a war on. I shivered, and remembered again to listen for the tell-tale chugging of the ghost train.
I still had my long stick with me and – with the fingers of my other hand squeezing my nose tightly shut against the stink of the Troll – I began to prod at the nest with a funny mix of delight and horror.
Sliding the tip of the branch underneath the greasy-looking eiderdown that was spread out on the ground, I flipped the corner over, and marvelled at the faded flowery pattern now caked with grime. Using the point of the stick, I scooped up some of the clothes then flung them to one side when I caught the sharp whiff of stale sweat and the tang of whisky, like in the decanter at Grandpa’s house.
I jabbed at the pile of blankets and prodded again, much harder. Horrible, dirty things! Finally I raised my stick and hit the pile in disgust.
But the stick snapped into two pieces at precisely the same time as a roar of pain, or surprise, or fury rose up from the mound. The howling bounced off the slick brick walls of the tunnel and filled my head with the terrifying bellows of the beast. It had been hiding beneath those blankets the whole time.
It sat up and its terrible black eyes were swivelling round trying to find what had attacked it. I was standing directly in front of it but it was as though it wasn’t able to see me at first. I stumbled backwards in fear, still holding onto the shard of stick I’d hit it with.
It was trying to pull itself into a standing position. I gasped as it began to draw itself up on its hind legs; it was turning into the monster it really was. Surely it would catch me and eat me.
‘AAAAAGGHHHHHHHHHHHHH!’
The screaming hadn’t stopped. I was whimpering as I tried to back away from it. I could move, but realised I couldn’t seem to move quickly. It was like the dreams I had where I couldn’t run away from danger. But this was real life and I was just shuffling backwards, as slowly as if I were wading through quicksand.
Then I was falling and the stick slipped from my hand as I grasped uselessly at the air. At first I thought it had somehow managed to trip me up, or was even using some kind of evil magic, but then I realised I had tripped over the metal tracks behind me. Now I was lying flat on my back, staring up at it helplessly, as it lurched from side to side. It was holding its head in its hands.
As I began to try to pull myself away, it took its hands down from its hairy face and suddenly seemed to see me for the first time. It took a step towards me and I was flipping over and I was up and I was scrabbling to get away. I was running I was fleeing I was never looking back it was behind me I knew it was behind me it was going to chase me and get me and kill me—
‘SODDING KIDS SODDING KIDS SODDING KIDS—’
I could hear the words now, the ones buried in the roaring that had got even louder since it saw me. A new higher-pitched scream joined the furious booming of the Troll and I realised it was me.
But I could see the light ahead; the day was still there outside the tunnel as though nothing had happened. I knew I’d be all right if I could only get out of the dark.
A rock landed in front of me, and shocked me so much I nearly stopped running, but then I understood. The Troll had grabbed a stone from the tracks and thrown it at me.
Another one whizzed past my ear, and another, and another. One bounced off my shoulder and I screamed again – I thought it was the Troll’s hand grabbing me. I couldn’t hear its footsteps following me any more, but the echoes made it hard to tell how far away it was.
Get to the light, just get to the light. It was all I had to do to be safe.
When I finally burst out into the sunshine, I kept running.
When the burning pain in my lungs became too much, I stopped on the tracks and turned around. I bent over, resting my hands on my knees, and panted. The Troll was there, but it hadn’t left the hole of the tunnel’s mouth. It had one arm up against the sloping brick wall. I thought it might be afraid of the sun, like Count Dracula. But maybe it was just catching its own breath too. Hadn’t I seen it somewhere before? That’s it – in the village once – begging for change. How had I never realised it was a Troll?
We stared at one another, assessing each other’s power. I’d seen it in daylight before, so it could follow me outside if it wanted. But it seemed tired, so I didn’t think it would.
After a moment or two, I was able to stand again, and I rested my hands on my hips as my heart and breathing slowed down. I had escaped death by Troll and I began to laugh because I’d outwitted it. I had whacked it with a big stick and now I was safely out of its reach.
It saw me laughing and began roaring again. ‘SODDING KIDS!’
It was enough to wipe the grin from my face and I immediately left the tracks to climb up the hill towards the path that would lead me home. I knew its eyes were on my back because of the horrible prickling sensation I felt there, but I kept running and its screams gradually faded to silence behind me.
3
‘… it shall not be death, but a deep sleep of a hundred years into which the princess shall fall.’
From Briar-Rose (Sleeping Beauty)
‘Could the Snow Queen come inside, right into our room?’ asked the little girl.
‘Let her come,’ said Kai. ‘I will put her right on top of the stove and then she will melt.’
From The Snow Queen
Annabel gazed blankly at the sky outside the window as it gradually turned to navy and made the room blue. The gin was all gone and inside her head felt smooth.
She was thinking about the PoWs in their Nissen huts. What were they doing now? It must be strange sleeping in a foreign country as a prisoner. Were they frightened? Or were they plotting escape and retribution?
The sound of the front door made her snap to. She hadn’t realised how late it was, or noticed when the sun went down, for now she found herself sitting in the chair in the dark. She turned off the wireless on her way to the kitchen where she found the boy eating pilchards from a tin with a spoon. She pulled down the blackout blind and they both blinked when she turned on the light. She wasn’t at all sure what time it was. The clock in the kitchen had stopped working long ago.
‘Bedtime …’ she said. Her voice slipped around a little as the word left her mouth.
‘Yes.’
She heard the scrape of his chair on the lino and the thump of the tin in the bin.
He followed as she led the way upstairs to his bedroom. The blackout blind was permanently down in here, and she flipped on the yellow tasselled lamp in the corner before scanning the books on his shelves. So many fairy tales.
He climbed into bed – yes, he still had his clothes on, but he could change into pyjamas later when she’d gone; or not, if he wanted to save the effort and wake up to go straight to school already dressed. Was it a school day tomorrow?
She ran her finger along the books and pulled out Sleeping Beauty. She sat on her chair, over in the corner.
&nb
sp; ‘Once upon a time—’
‘First …’ the boy interrupted her, shyly.
She looked up.
‘First, can you tell me about your Darlings?’
She sighed.
Then she closed the book, folded her hands across it, and leaned back in the wicker seat. He was asking her to tell a story about her childhood – but really he was asking her about the fairy tales.
‘When I was a little girl,’ she began, ‘I had a lovely collection of dollies. Oh, rag dolls and baby dolls and china dolls, which I used to scoop up in my arms and carry about with me. And I called my dollies: my Darlings.’
She heard the boy let out a long breath as he settled back against his pillows.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Why, you’d never see me without at least one of my Darlings clutched to my chest!’ She smiled at the memory. ‘I loved my Darlings so much, you see.’
He pulled the corner of the bedcover up to his cheek and settled his face in the folds as he listened. He was gazing at her, she could tell, but she let her eyes glaze across the distance of time.
‘My nanny, Missus Joan, used to read me fairy stories and I knew most of them by heart – and so, even before I could read, I used to whisper the tales into my Darlings’ little porcelain ears when I was supposed to be asleep in bed. My Darlings were like my own dear little children.’
She stood up, placing Sleeping Beauty onto the cushion, and walked across to the bookshelves to see the titles again.
‘These books aren’t the ones that I had of course, but I had all the same stories.’ She took down an anthology and flicked through the pages to see the drawings. Forests and castles and birds rendered in soothing pastel colours.
‘I used to dream of having a child when I was still a child myself, you know. And when I fell pregnant—’
‘With me!’
‘—I was filled with happiness and the baby inside of me. I’d always wanted to be a mother.’
She shook her head. Looked down at the pictures again.
‘When I realised I was going to have a baby, the very first thing I thought of – before the notion of bonnets and rattles and cribs even entered my mind – no, the first thing I thought of was the stories I would read to the child. I was going to be a real mother, and I already knew just how to do it. So I started to frequent bookshops.’
‘And you bought all the books they had!’ She heard a rustle as he lifted his head slightly, just for a moment, before laying his cheek back against the eiderdown.
Annabel slotted the anthology back in its place, but didn’t turn around from the shelves. She bowed her forehead against the wood.
She remembered hoping another customer would catch her browsing the children’s section, so she could tell them about the baby she was going to have. It was beyond her now why she thought anyone would be the least bit interested. She cringed to think of herself so puffed up with pride and her own sense of importance.
‘I wanted people in the shop to ask me about the baby, I don’t know why. But I kept buying more fairy tales and this pile of books grew steadily until Daddy bought the shelves to hold them all.’
She fell silent again, remembering.
But the boy grew impatient and tried to urge her on. ‘You couldn’t read to me when I was first born, because of your nerves …’
Annabel pushed her head harder against the shelf and closed her eyes.
She’d howled like an animal in that hospital as she was ripped open. Something was bearing down, pushing down through her flesh, tearing its way through her body to get out.
She was barely conscious when she was handed the baby. Before she passed out, she had long enough to note that it was red and wrinkly and was covered in a revolting mucus.
The next day she just stared at it in its cot next to her hospital bed. There was no desire to hold it to her breast or whisper stories into its tiny porcelain-coloured ears. Was this her baby? It screamed so furiously, pummelling its fat little fists in rage.
The exhaustion was even worse when Reggie took her home. She didn’t feel able to get out of bed there either. Her hair went unbrushed, her teeth uncleaned, and she could smell herself – a dank, vaguely milky stink – under the covers, but she hadn’t the energy to drag herself to the bathroom to wash. And underneath it all was a hot flush of guilt and shame because something was wrong with her and she didn’t feel anything like how she’d thought she’d feel.
Both sets of parents told her in various ways to pull herself together, but Reggie tried his best to help her – fetching the baby when it screeched and pushing it onto her to feed. It would suck furiously like an animal, hurting her nipples while she cried, and she always needed to roll over and sleep afterwards to recover.
That first year was so hellish she stayed in bed for most of it – until, about eight months after the boy was born, she overheard furious whispering outside her bedroom door. Reggie was resisting attempts by his parents to have her sent away to an asylum.
After that, she realised she had to perform. Of course, she and Reggie – and almost certainly the child – knew she wasn’t really there. Not really Annabel any more. But she would force herself to dress and walk and talk, which was a marked improvement as far as everyone was concerned. Reggie seemed so relieved appearances were being maintained he was happy not to probe too deeply into her emotional state, lest he wake the sleeping beast. Annabel became better at performing and, after a while, she remembered the story books in the child’s nursery.
‘You couldn’t read to me when I was first born, because of your nerves,’ the boy prompted again now. ‘But then when I was one year old—’
‘Yes,’ Annabel said, opening her eyes and raising her head. ‘For the second time in my life, I began to know the words of all the stories off by heart.’
The boy laughed with delight. ‘So do I now!’
It was true. As her son had grown, the words which had seeped into his head before he was even old enough to form his own, were already there, ready to be voiced one day.
Annabel sometimes felt she was invoking the stories, bringing them into the room as she read, and the characters and spells were gradually embedding themselves into the core of the two of them; mother and child.
The months had passed and turned into years, and still Annabel read to the child each night. It turned out she didn’t know how to be a real mother, but she knew how to be a pretend one. She had made an excellent pretend-mother as a child after all.
And she loved the stories, too.
She identified with those young lost women, wandering alone in the woods or trapped in their hovels or their castles or their towers.
Annabel never did whisper the tales into Daniel’s little ears. That would have been unspeakably intimate. Instead, she sat in a chair in the corner of his bedroom, and he perched at her feet or lay in bed while she folded the edges of the book sharply backwards, making the spine crack, as it had cracked often before.
Not long before the boy had started at the local primary school, she’d come across Reggie in the sitting room gently suggesting to their son that he might be too old for fairy stories now.
‘Why, Daniel – soon you’ll be able to read your own books all by yourself like a big boy!’
But the child just stared into his father’s face, across a sea of tin soldiers that divided them on the sitting-room carpet.
She’d crossed the room to the drinks cabinet and busied herself fixing a gin and tonic to make her head smoother. She felt eyes on her back and turned to see Reggie and the boy both gazing up at her with mute appeal written all over their faces.
She quickly turned back to her task.
Reggie apparently decided to continue trying to talk to Daniel. ‘Doesn’t that sound fun? Hmm?’
There was no reply from the boy.
‘Doesn’t it? And you’ll be able to read exciting adventure stories in Boys’ Own magazine about little boys just like you.’
But Daniel’s silence – which she guessed would now be accompanied by a look of despair – must have made Reggie’s heart hurt and the words fell out of him as he quickly reassured his son that he could have the fairy tales for as long as he wanted.
So the stories continued.
Perhaps Reggie had a point. They were funny crooked little things, fairy tales. Quite dark, really, some of them. She remembered reading somewhere that in the original folk stories the evil maternal figures were the children’s real birth mothers. But over the years – and presumably before publication would be permitted in Victorian times – the stories were changed and the ‘wicked stepmother’ character was created. It was considered too horrific and unnatural to contemplate that a mother may not love her own child.
At first, Annabel had identified with the sad, lonely young women bearing their burdens in their towers. Now, she identified with the mothers and thought perhaps the stories weren’t fair to them; certainly they never took their side into account. She could understand how a sickly mother could give her baby away to a neighbour (Rapunzel) or how a desperate mother could be prepared to sell her unborn child (Rumpelstiltskin) or how a starving mother could choose to leave her children behind in the woods (Hansel and Gretel).
The husbands always endorsed their wives’ plans in the stories, but somehow they were not relegated to ‘wicked’ or even ‘step-fathers’. If the mothers were painted as evil, at worst the fathers were painted as weak. She wondered why that was.
Glancing up now, she could see the detritus of household odds and ends placed high up on top of the bookshelves out of the way. Old and worn-out clothes, kept for scraps for the darning she never did, disliked ornaments given as gifts that would never be displayed, and other useless dusty bric-a-brac accumulated over the years. A couple of her tatty old Darlings sat up there, not quite out of sight. Sometimes she felt it was fitting they still listened to her reading the fairy tales each night, but today, suddenly, she felt as though they were up there mocking her. She should have a clear-out and throw it all away. It was all just rubbish.
