The Boy Made of Snow

by Chloe Mayer

  Annabel came to her senses and pulled out her own hanky from her handbag. She cleaned herself up without looking at him. And with as much dignity as she could muster, she reached for her trolley and left the shed without another word.

  18

  But the Big Billy Goat Gruff charged at the troll and poked his eyes out with his horns, and tossed him off the bridge into the stream.

  From The Billy Goats Gruff

  Ever since I’d first spotted the Troll silently snuffling at the pig bins and the neighbour’s vegetable patch on our lane, I made sure to watch for it most nights. It was hard work staying awake after story-time, standing by the window when I wanted to be curled up in bed. But at night, with the cottages sealed up by their blackout blinds, no one apart from me knew a monster came to roam up and down the lane during the witching hour. It didn’t always come, but when it did I wanted to make sure I saw it.

  I’d worked out it was definitely taking things from the bins – scraps of food – like the dirty animal it was. It was collecting special ingredients for its spells. And it was working out who lived where, I was sure of it. I could almost see it using its massive nose to sniff me out. It was hunting for me the way I was hunting for it. And one day it would work out which cottage Mother and I lived in.

  Tonight, I was at the window earlier than usual because there’d been no story-time. Mother had been a bit forgetful lately, and there had been a few times I’d had to remind her to read to me. This evening when I went down to the sitting room to ask her, though, she said she was too tired and would read to me for longer tomorrow instead. So I used the extra time to keep watch for the Troll. But as I gazed out into the dark street, there was no sign of it.

  Soon though, I knew, watching out for it wasn’t going to be enough. The creature was building up to something, and it was hatching its plans for when it finally found me. One day, it would make its move – and when that day came it would try to get into the house. I strained my eyes as I looked for it in the dark. How could I protect Mother and me and our cottage? I had to be prepared for when it decided to pounce and gobble me up, or steal Mother away to eat her in the woods.

  Booby traps! That was what I needed. Why didn’t I think of it before?

  Tomorrow I’d smash some glass bottles from the bin and sprinkle them along the top of the wooden fence around our garden so it’d cut its claws if it tried to scrabble over. I would get some glue from Daddy’s shed and start sticking a hair from my head across the front and back doors so I could tell if it broke in while Mother and I were out. I’d read spies used that trick and had always wanted to try it. I wasn’t sure how I would distract Mother while I was fiddling with the hair and the glue, but I’d just have to find a way.

  I’d try to think up other Troll traps too – perhaps digging holes outside the back of the fence, the bit that led to the forest, so it would be harder for it to climb over into our back garden. Then I started thinking about what plans I could put into place tonight – no time like the present.

  I crept downstairs and when I got to the bottom I could hear the wireless and smell my mother’s cigarettes so I knew she was sitting in her armchair.

  I tiptoed to the kitchen and set about making a magic potion of poison. I’d leave the mixture out in my room and if the Troll came in, it would see it and gulp it down mistaking it for a refreshing drink. Really of course, it would make it drop down dead on the spot.

  I climbed up onto the sideboard and got a large glass from the cupboard. Quietly, I opened the back door and went into the garden, where I used a stick to push dirt and mud into the cup. Back inside, I mixed in some horrible-smelling cleaning chemicals which Mother kept under the sink.

  Stirring it all together turned it into a smooth brown paste. It didn’t really look very nice but the Troll would be in my room in the dark and wouldn’t be able to see it properly. Also, it’d be thirsty from the effort of breaking into the house, so I was sure it would gulp it down as soon as it saw it. Probably it’d laugh and think how clever it was to be drinking a nice cup of coffee before it carried on with its evil plans.

  Carefully, I carried the cup back up to my room and put it on my bedside table. I’d leave it there, but would hide it from Mother before the next story-time so she didn’t drink it by mistake. I’d keep it under my bed. She didn’t come in my room at any other time and now that she’d stopped cleaning upstairs she wouldn’t find it by accident.

  Another idea came to me then. And I went back downstairs to fetch a knife from the kitchen. I’d keep that underneath my bed too. I might need a weapon.

  I climbed back into bed finally, but the sight of the cup of poison next to me kept me awake with excitement. I almost hoped the Troll would break in, just so it would drink the potion and die and then Mother and the police would congratulate me for killing it.

  She’d had a row I didn’t really understand with Hansel and seemed sad. It would be wonderful if I managed to kill the monster. I could show her how useful and brave I was, and that she didn’t need Hansel. It was me who would protect her and make her happy. She would smile at me the way she smiled at him. First, I just needed to rescue her. I smiled as I thought how she’d tell me what a clever Darling I was.

  19

  The prince was carried into the house and did not look back for her. The little mermaid felt so sad that she plunged beneath the waves and miserably swam home to her father’s castle.

  From The Little Mermaid

  ‘Ohh, what I wouldn’t do to get my hands on one of them,’ Jean Bainbridge said.

  ‘Go on, Jean!’ One of the other women laughed. ‘What would you do then?’

  ‘I’m perfectly serious, I’ll have you know.’ Jean delicately sipped her dry sherry. Then she looked around the table at all their faces. ‘Well, not really – you know I disapprove of how that Jerry was attacked. But, honestly. I feel so angry! You should have seen her. She’s in a terrible state.’

  Annabel shifted uncomfortably in her seat. She hadn’t wanted to come. It made a nice change to be in the pub, but she didn’t feel she had much in common with these women, even though they were mostly the same age as her.

  She’d run into Jean earlier that day. Annabel vaguely knew several people in the village because it was such a small place, but she wasn’t close with anyone in particular. However, Jean’s husband used to work with Reggie at the bank, and the two women were the same age, so they felt obliged to be friendly when they saw one another. Jean had just turned twenty-nine and had invited Annabel to her ‘little birthday bash’ at the Royal Oak.

  Annabel wished she’d been quick enough to think of an excuse to decline.

  Now they were discussing Evelyn Moore, whose husband Simon had been killed in France.

  ‘She’s in a dreadful state,’ Jean said again. ‘Poor thing. You can’t do anything for her. I don’t think she’d be eating at all if I wasn’t taking her round some bits and pieces.’

  ‘I’ll make her a casserole,’ a woman named Marjorie said. ‘Everyone likes my casserole.’

  The others murmured that it was indeed very tasty. Several of them suggested other dishes they could bring the grieving widow and her son.

  Annabel’s mind started to drift away and she wondered how she could tell Hans about her night out. She liked the idea of casually mentioning it to him, perhaps by simply passing through the orchard as a shortcut to settle a bill with Dawson. She enjoyed the thought of him imagining her having fun without him. She hoped he’d worry that other men would be circling her; he needn’t know there were no decent ones left in the village. She wanted to punish him.

  Also, she hoped that a night out would make her seem more alluring. She didn’t want him to know how bored, boring and unhappy she felt most of the time.

  But her plot to either spite or inspire Hans felt pointless now – she wasn’t having a nice time at all. She wished she were with him in his shed. Failing that, she’d have preferred to be at home, alone, where she wouldn�
��t have to make conversation with these exhausting women.

  All they wanted to talk about was how much they hated the murderous Germans.

  Annabel wondered if Hans had ever killed anyone. She had never asked him. She wondered if Reggie had; but that was somehow harder to imagine. She wanted to ask Jean how the British were different when they were pulling their triggers, and dropping their bombs, but it would be like uttering a treasonous question to the king. What was the point? The king wouldn’t answer and it could only end badly for the questioner.

  She wished they would change the subject. Nobody talked about anything but the war these days. What on earth had people discussed before? She couldn’t remember.

  ‘I was frightened when I first heard about the PoW camp,’ she said finally. The others looked at her, a little surprised. She hadn’t said much all evening and she might have spoken a bit louder than she’d meant to, but she continued anyway. ‘But you see them out and about sometimes in the village and they don’t seem to mean us any harm. It’s a relief because I live so near the camp.’

  Once again she trotted out her story about how polite even the Bishop spinsters had been to one of the German men.

  ‘Frankly,’ one of the older ladies replied sternly, ‘I’m quite shocked at how friendly some people are behaving towards them. I always avert my face if I see one in the street.’

  ‘Oh, me too!’ Jean said. ‘It’s appalling how some of the villagers are acting as if there’s nothing going on. Personally, I think it’s dangerous that some of them are allowed outside the camp during the day to work and so on. They can come into contact with normal people and who knows what they might do? Supposing one decides to escape and attacks somebody? Or worse, what if they turn somebody into a spy or something.’

  Annabel thought Jean had become a little unhinged by all the ‘keep mum’ posters, ‘careless talk costs lives’ and all that, but it wasn’t the first time she had heard the sentiment.

  ‘Germans have got no compassion whatsoever,’ said the other woman.

  ‘That’s right. I’ll never get over my brother’s death,’ Audrey Meade said shakily. ‘Henry never got to experience life – he will never get married now, never have children …’

  Jean put her arm around Audrey’s shoulders. Annabel wondered if she was regretting her decision to organise this evening. What a birthday.

  ‘It’s a tragedy,’ someone else agreed. ‘But Mr and Mrs Ferris have lost both their sons. Both of them! Can you imagine?’

  ‘It’s the children I feel sorry for.’ This was said quietly, and Annabel looked at the young mousey woman who had spoken.

  Nobody said anything. They all knew she had been looking after her three young nieces who had been evacuated from the East End of London. One night, during the Blitz, their former home had been blown to smithereens and the maelstrom of rubble and fire had consumed their parents, who’d both stayed in town working for the civil service. This woman, who was not long married, had lost her sister and her brother-in-law and then had to tell the girls they were orphans and would never go home again.

  ‘If I could get my hands on one of them …’ Jean said again. But this time there was no jokey riposte. The mood had soured irrevocably.

  Annabel walked home slowly. It was very warm, but it had rained lightly while they were in the pub and now the wet paving stones shone in the moonlight. She was glad of it, because it seemed less dark than it would have done otherwise. How she missed the street lamps, she thought for the thousandth time. Funny the things she’d taken for granted. She listened to the sound her heels made on the concrete, bits of gravel grinding wetly beneath the soles of her shoes. Her footsteps were not a uniform sound; sometimes she slipped a little and her heels scraped along the pavement. She had, perhaps, drunk rather more than she’d intended, but at home the port had gone and the gin was running low, so it was nice to be able to drink freely. She had ordered one gin and bitter lemon after the other, drinking for something to do to avoid conversation.

  They thought she was one of them, with a young child and a husband away fighting, but she wasn’t. Not really.

  Jean had hugged her as they said goodbye at the door of the pub. The others all needed to go in the opposite direction, towards the centre of Bambury.

  ‘Thanks for coming,’ Jean said. ‘I do appreciate it. You’re sure you’ll be all right getting off on your own?’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course I will. Thank you for inviting me, it was … lovely. Happy birthday!’

  Annabel felt stupid now about her plan to show off to Hans and make him think she had friends. She’d felt so lonely sitting in the midst of those women and she felt terribly low now. She wished he lived in the orchard as well as worked there. She would have gone to him right at that moment and woken him up. But he was imprisoned in a Nissen hut, while an old man nearby drank Bovril and kept watch.

  Once home, she considered her options: bed, a nightcap, a cup of tea. She wasn’t sleepy in the least.

  While she was in the kitchen boiling water for the pot, she wished she had some biscuits or something sweet. She was peckish; a lot of alcohol always did that to her.

  I’ll bake him a cake, she thought. I’ll bake him a cake and see him tomorrow and say sorry and make things right again.

  She cursed the war and rationing, for it was hard to bake without plenty of butter and sugar and eggs. But her mother had recently given her a recipe for a cake made out of carrots. It sounded odd to Annabel, but her mother had tried somebody else’s at a church fete and insisted it was really quite nice. ‘Carrots are sweet when you think about it,’ she’d said.

  Annabel hoped she hadn’t thrown the recipe away and was relieved when she found it stuffed into a drawer in the sitting room. She realised she still had her mac on and threw it over the banisters on her way to the kitchen. She was quite excited.

  She turned on the oven and made a mess as she stirred the ingredients together with a wooden spoon. Eggs from Dawson’s farm meant she didn’t even need to make do with the powdered kind. The batter tasted surprisingly good, so hopefully the cake wouldn’t turn out too badly after all. She hadn’t realised how much noise she was making as she pulled out pots and pans from the cupboards to find her rarely used cake tin, until the boy came downstairs to see what was going on.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  He was bleary-eyed and she saw him check the time on the clock on the wall, even though it had stopped long ago.

  ‘I’m baking a cake.’ She noticed she was slurring a little as she spoke.

  ‘Now?’

  ‘Yes, now.’ She scraped the thick mixture into the round cake tin she’d found. She stepped over the pans on the floor and nudged a large pie dish out of the way with her foot so she could get to the oven. A blast of fierce heat hit her full in the face as she pulled open the door and she recoiled slightly before pushing the cake inside. She slammed the door closed and stood, satisfied.

  ‘Here.’ She handed the bowl to the boy, who was standing watching her on the other side of the table. ‘You can lick it out if you like.’ She smiled magnanimously and the boy used his finger to scoop up the batter.

  Hans was good for her, she thought. He made her feel things. She looked at the boy and felt an unexpected rush of emotion.

  She made another cup of tea and the boy began to put the pans away. He washed out the bowl and stacked it on the rack to dry, then he poured himself some tea and joined her at the table.

  He seemed excited to be up so late, and Annabel didn’t want to send him back to bed. She rather wanted somebody to bear witness to the triumph of her cake. Warmth and sweet smells were emanating from the oven and although it was a little hot, the kitchen felt pleasantly cosy.

  The boy was wisely keeping quiet; had he started jabbering away he’d have ruined the moment and she would have sent him upstairs.

  After a while, she took out the cake and carefully turned it onto a wire rack to cool. She prodded the sponge gently
with her finger; it had a lovely consistency. It was darker than a Victoria sponge cake, but the russet colour and the smell made her mouth water. It was much better than the one she and her mother had made for her father’s birthday.

  ‘Well done, Mother!’ the boy cried.

  ‘Yes! It does look rather nice, doesn’t it?’

  She didn’t have any icing sugar, so wasn’t able to make a topping, but she didn’t think that would matter too much.

  She wanted to try the thing before she gave any to Hans, so she carefully cut two slices and handed one to the boy. It was warm and delicious. It had been a long time since she’d had something so sweet and so good.

  ‘It’s got carrots in it,’ she said.

  ‘Carrots?’ he laughed, incredulous.

  ‘It’s an old medieval recipe. They used to use carrots as sweeteners when sugar was rare and expensive.’

  ‘Well, it’s jolly nice.’

  She wished Hans could see what a good mother she was being to the boy.

  ‘Isn’t it funny how nothing changes?’ she said through a mouthful of cake. ‘Sugar’s rare and expensive again now. Sometimes, it feels to me as though we’ve reverted to medieval times. Kingdoms of Europe bickering and wars and dark streets and food shortages …’

  The boy was silent. She realised it was pointless speaking to him. She’d have to tell Hans her theory tomorrow when she told him about the origin of the cake.

  ‘Right. Bed.’

  ‘Yes.’

  She yawned as she stood up. She’d go to bed too.

  ‘I’d better clean my teeth again now I’ve eaten a midnight feast,’ the boy said.

  ‘All right.’

  She covered the cake with a clean tea towel and followed him upstairs. She really was quite sozzled.

  Annabel awoke with a dull headache and her mouth so dry it tasted bad. She had some water beside her bed that she’d brought up with her a night or two before. It had an unpleasant taste, but she gulped it down gratefully.