The Fairy Doll

by Rumer Godden

  ‘Ting. In the garage.’

  A cleverer child would have said, ‘In the garage?’ Josie, for instance, would not have gone there at all, but Elizabeth went, and there, in the garage, Father was sawing up logs.

  ‘What did they put on the cave floors?’ asked Elizabeth.

  ‘Sand, I expect,’ said Father.

  Sand was far, far away, at the seaside; Elizabeth was just going to say, with a sigh, that that was no good when she looked at the pile of sawdust that had fallen from the logs, and, ‘Sawdust! Fairy sand,’ said the ‘ting’.

  ‘What about a bed?’ said Josie.

  ‘A bed?’ asked Elizabeth, and back came the ‘ting’. ‘Try a shell.’

  ‘A coconut shell?’ asked Elizabeth, watching the blue tits swinging on the bird table, but a coconut seemed coarse and rough for a little fairy doll. A shell? A shell? Why not a real shell? Elizabeth had brought one back from the seaside; she had not picked it up, the landlady had given it to her; it was big, deep pink inside, and if you held it to your ear you heard, far off, the sound of the sea; it sounded like a lullaby. Fairy Doll could lie in the shell and listen; it made a little private radio.

  The shell needed a mattress. ‘Flowers,’ said the ‘ting’.

  Josie would have answered that there were no flowers now, but, ‘Is there a soft winter flower, like feathers?’ asked Elizabeth. ‘Ting’ came the answer. ‘Old man’s beard.’

  Do you know old man’s beard that hangs on the trees and the hedges from autumn to winter? Its seeds hang in a soft fluff, and Elizabeth picked a handful of it; then she found a deep red leaf for a cover; it was from the Virginia creeper that grew up the front of the house.

  Soon the cave was finished – ‘and with fairy things,’ said Elizabeth. She asked Father to cut her two bits from a round, smooth branch; they were three inches high and made a table and a writing desk. There were toadstools for stools; stuck in the sawdust, they stood upright. On the table were acorn cups and bowls, and small leaf plates. Over the writing desk was a piece of dried-out honeycomb; it was exactly like the rack of pigeonholes over Father’s desk. Fairy Doll could keep her letters there, and she could write letters; Elizabeth found a tiny feather and asked Godfrey to cut its point to make a quill pen like the one Mother had, and for writing paper there were petals of a Christmas rose. If you scratch a petal with a pen, or, better still, a pin, it makes fairy marks. ‘Later on there’ll be all sorts of flower writing-paper,’ said Elizabeth.

  There was a broom made of a fir-twig, a burr for a doorscraper; a berry on a thread made a knocker. ‘In summer I’ll get you a dandelion clock,’ she told Fairy Doll.

  ‘You haven’t got a bath,’ said Josie.

  ‘Fairies don’t need baths,’ said Elizabeth. ‘They wash outside in the dew.’

  It was odd; she was beginning to know about fairies.

  ‘What does she eat?’ asked Josie.

  ‘Snow ice-cream,’ said Elizabeth – it was snowing – ‘holly baked apples, and hips off the rose trees.’

  ‘Hips are too big for a little doll like that,’ said Josie.

  ‘They are fairy pineapples,’ said Elizabeth with dignity.

  ‘Look what Elizabeth has made,’ cried Christabel, and she said in surprise, ‘It’s pretty!’

  Godfrey came to look. ‘Gosh!’ said Godfrey.

  Josie put her hand to touch a toadstool, and a funny feeling stirred inside Elizabeth, a feeling like a hard little wand.

  ‘Don’t touch,’ said Elizabeth to Josie.

  Spring came, and Fairy Doll had a hat made out of crocus, and a pussywillow-fuzz powder puff; she ate fairy bananas, which were bunches of catkins – rather than large bananas – and fairy lettuces, which were hawthorn buds – rather small; she ate French rolls, the gold-brown beech-leaf buds, with primrose butter; the beds in the moss lawn were planted with violets out of the wood.

  One morning, as they were all starting off to school, Christabel said, as usual, ‘Elizabeth, you haven’t brushed your teeth.’

  Elizabeth was going back when she stopped. ‘But I have,’ she said. She had been in the bathroom, and ‘Ting. Brush your teeth’ had come in her head. ‘I’ve brushed them,’ said Elizabeth, amazed. Christabel was amazed as well.

  A few days afterward Miss Thrupp said in school, ‘Let’s see what Elizabeth can do,’ which meant, ‘Let’s see what Elizabeth can’t do.’ ‘Stand up, Elizabeth, and say the seven-times table.’

  ‘Seven times one are seven,’ said Elizabeth, and there was a long, long pause.

  ‘Seven times two?’ Miss Thrupp said encouragingly.

  Elizabeth stood dumb, and the class began to laugh.

  ‘Hush, children. Seven times two . . .’

  ‘Ting. Are fourteen.’ And Elizabeth went on. ‘Seven threes are twenty-one, seven fours are twenty-eight . . .’ right up to ‘Seven twelves are eighty-four.’

  At the end Miss Thrupp and the children were staring. Then they clapped.

  In reading they had come to ‘The Sto-ry of the Sleep-ing Beau-ty.’ Elizabeth looked hopelessly at all the difficult words; her eyes were just beginning to fill with tears when, ‘Ting,’ the words ‘Lilac Fairy’ seemed to skip off the page into her head. ‘It says “Lilac Fairy,”’ she said.

  ‘Go on,’ said Miss Thrupp, ‘go on,’ and Elizabeth went on. ‘Li-lac Fai-ry. Spin-ning Wheel. Prince Charm-ing.’ ‘Ting. Ting. Ting,’ went the bell.

  ‘Good girl, those are difficult words!’ said Miss Thrupp.

  In sewing they began tray-cloths in embroidery stitches; perhaps it was from making the small-sized fairy things that Elizabeth’s fingers had learned to be neat; the needle went in and out, plock, plock, plock, and there was not a trace of blood. ‘You’re getting quite nimble,’ said Miss Thrupp, and she told the class, ‘Nimble means clever and quick.’

  ‘Does she mean I’m clever?’ Elizabeth asked the little boy next to her. She could not believe it.

  Soon it was summer. Fairy Doll had a Canterbury bell for a hat; her bed had a peony-petal cover now. She ate daisy poached eggs, rose-petal ham, and lavender rissoles. Lady’s slipper and pimpernels were planted in the moss.

  ‘What’s the matter with Elizabeth?’ asked Godfrey. ‘She not half such a little duffer as she was.’

  That was true. She was allowed to take the Sunday newspapers in for Father, and Mother trusted her to wash up by herself.

  ‘You can use my paint box if you like,’ said Christabel.

  ‘You can take your own bus money,’ said Josie.

  ‘Run to the shop,’ said Mother, ‘and get me a mop and a packet of matches, a pot of strawberry jam, half a pound of butter, and a pound of ginger nuts.’

  ‘What have you brought?’ she asked when Elizabeth came back.

  ‘A pound of ginger nuts, half a pound of butter, a pot of strawberry jam, a packet of matches, and a mop,’ said Elizabeth, counting them out.

  ‘But you still can’t ride the bicycle,’ said Josie.

  It grew hot. Fairy Doll had a nasturtium leaf for a sunshade, and Elizabeth made her a poppy doll. To make a poppy doll you turn the petals back and tie them down with a grass blade for a sash; the middle of the poppy makes the head, with the fuzz for hair, and for arms you take a bit of poppy stalk and thread it through under the petals; then the poppy doll is complete, except that it has only one leg. Perhaps that was why Fairy Doll did not play with hers.

  Something was the matter with Fairy Doll; her dress had become a little draggled and dirty after all these months, but it was more than that; her wings looked limp, the wand in her hand was still.

  Something was the matter in Elizabeth too; the bell did not say, ‘Ting’ any more in her head. ‘Dull, dull, dull,’ it said.

  ‘Dull?’ asked Elizabeth.

  ‘Dull. Dull. Dull.’ It was more like a drum than a bell.

  ‘Does it mean Fairy Doll is dull with me?’ asked Elizabeth.

  She felt sad; then she felt ashamed.

  A
fairy likes flying. Naturally. If you had wings you would like flying too. Sometimes Elizabeth would hold Fairy Doll up in the air and run with her; then the wings would lift, the wand would wave, the gauze dress fly back, but Elizabeth was too plump to run for long.

  ‘I’ll put her on my bicycle and fly her,’ Godfrey offered.

  ‘You mustn’t touch her,’ cried Elizabeth.

  ‘Well, fly her yourself,’ said Godfrey, offended, and he rode off.

  ‘Fly her yourself.’ ‘Ting’ went the bell, and it was a bell, not a drum. ‘Ting. Ting. Fly. Fly.’ So that was what Fairy Doll was wishing! Elizabeth went slowly into the garage and looked at the pale blue, still brand-new bicycle.

  ‘It doesn’t hurt so much to fall off in summer as in winter,’ said Elizabeth, but her voice trembled. Her fingers trembled too, as she tied Fairy Doll onto the handlebars.

  Then Elizabeth put her foot on the pedal. ‘Push. Pedal, pedal,’ she said and shut her eyes, but you cannot ride even the smallest bicycle with your eyes shut.

  She had to open them, but it was too late to stop. The drive from the garage led down a slope to the gate, and ‘Ting,’ away went the bicycle with Elizabeth on it. For a moment she wobbled; then she saw the silver wings filling and thrilling as they rushed through the air, and the wand blew round and round. ‘Pedal. Pedal, pedal.’ It might have been Christabel talking, but it was not. ‘Pedal.’ Elizabeth’s hair was blown back, the wind rushed past her; she felt she was flying too; she came to the gate and fell off. ‘Ow!’ groaned Elizabeth, but she had flown. She knew what Fairy Doll wanted. Her leg was bleeding, but she turned the bicycle round to start off down the drive again.

  Elizabeth was late for tea.

  ‘What have you been doing?’ asked Christabel. ‘There’s no jam left.’ But Elizabeth did not care.

  ‘You’ve torn your frock. All the buns are gone,’ said Godfrey, but Elizabeth did not care.

  ‘You’re all over scratches and dust,’ said Josie. ‘We’ve eaten the cake.’ But Elizabeth still did not care.

  ‘Well, where have you been?’ asked Mother.

  Elizabeth answered, ‘Riding my bicycle.’

  Christabel was pleased. Godfrey was very pleased, but Josie said, ‘Pooh! It isn’t Elizabeth who does things, it’s Fairy Doll.’

  ‘Is it?’ asked Elizabeth.

  ‘Try without her and you’ll see,’ said Josie.

  Elizabeth looked at Fairy Doll, who was sitting by her on the table. ‘But I’m not without her,’ said Elizabeth.

  Autumn came and brought the fruit; briony berries were fairy plums and greengages; a single blackberry pip was a grape. A hazel nut was pork with crackling. In every garden people were making bonfires, and Elizabeth made one in the fairy garden; it was of pine needles and twigs, and she watched it carefully; its smoke went up no bigger than a feather. It was altogether a fairy time. In the wood she found toadstools so close together that they looked like chairs put ready for a concert; she gave a fairy concert, but, ‘It ought to be crickets and nightingales,’ said Elizabeth. There were silver trails over the leaves and grass. ‘Fairy paths,’ she said.

  ‘Snails,’ snapped Josie. No doubt about it, Josie was jealous.

  School began, and Elizabeth was moved up; she was learning the twelve-times table, reading to herself, and knitting a scarf. She was allowed to ride her bicycle on the main road, and to stay up till half-past seven every night.

  Then, on a late October day when the first frost was on the grass, Fairy Doll was lost.

  Chapter 3

  ‘You must have dropped her on the road,’ said Mother.

  ‘But I didn’t.’

  ‘Perhaps you left her at school.’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘In your satchel.’ ‘In your pocket . . .’ ‘On the counter in the shop.’ ‘In the bathroom.’ ‘On the bookshelf.’ ‘Behind the clock.’ ‘Up in the apple tree.’

  ‘I didn’t. I didn’t. I didn’t,’ sobbed Elizabeth.

  Everyone was very kind. They all looked everywhere, high and low, up and down, in and out. Godfrey said he looked under every leaf in the whole garden that was big enough. It was no good. Fairy Doll was lost.

  Elizabeth went and lay down on the floor behind the cedar chest; she only came out to have a cup of milk and go to bed.

  Next morning she went behind the chest and lay down again.

  ‘Make her come out,’ said Josie, who seemed curiously worried.

  ‘Leave her alone,’ said Mother.

  ‘She must come out. She has to go to school.’ But Elizabeth would not go to school. How could she? She could not say her tables now, or spell or read or sew, and she had not brushed her teeth. The tears made a wet place in the dust on the floor. ‘And I can’t ride my bicycle,’ she said.

  It was Christabel’s birthday. Christabel was twelve. Elizabeth had a present done up in yellow paper; it was a peppermint lollipop, but she did not give it to Christabel.

  She stayed most of the day behind the cedar chest, and a day can feel like weeks when you are seven years old.

  ‘Make her come out,’ said Josie.

  At four o’clock Mother came up. ‘Great-Grandmother has come for the birthday tea,’ she said.

  ‘Great-Grandmother?’ Elizabeth lay very still.

  ‘I should come down if I were you,’ said Mother.

  Last time Great-Grandmother came she had sent for Elizabeth and Elizabeth had come with a tearstained face. It was tearstained now, but, ‘I could wash it,’ said Elizabeth and from somewhere she thought she heard a ‘ting’. Her dress had been dirty; it was dirty now, but, ‘I could change it,’ said Elizabeth, and she heard another ‘ting’. It was faint and faraway; it could not have been a ‘ting’ because the chest was empty, the fairy doll was gone, but it sounded like a ‘ting’. Very slowly Elizabeth sat up.

  ‘Good afternoon, Elizabeth,’ said Great-Grandmother. No one else took any notice as Elizabeth, brushed and clean, in a clean dress, put the present by Christabel and slid into her own place.

  She was stiff from lying on the floor, her head ached and her throat was sore from crying, and she was hungry.

  Mother gave her a cup of tea; the tea was sweet and hot, and there were minced chicken sandwiches with lettuce, shortcake biscuits, chocolate tarts, sponge fingers, and meringues, besides the birthday cake. Mother passed the sandwiches to Elizabeth and gave her another cup of tea. Elizabeth began to feel much better.

  Christabel’s cake was pink and white. It had CHRISTABEL, HAPPY BIRTHDAY written on it, and twelve candles.

  ‘And I,’ said Great-Grandmother, ‘am eight times twelve.’ A dewdrop slid down her nose and twinkled. ‘Eight times twelve. Who can tell me what that is?’ asked Great-Grandmother.

  With her eyes on the dewdrop, before any of the others could answer – ‘Ting.’ ‘Ninety-six,’ said Elizabeth.

  After tea they had races. One was The Button, the Thread, and the Needle. ‘I can race that,’ said Great-Grandmother. ‘I’ll have Elizabeth for my partner.’

  Great-Grandmother threaded the needle as she sat in a chair. Elizabeth had to run with the button, sew it to a patch of cloth, and run back. ‘I can’t . . .’ she began, but, ‘Nimble fingers,’ said Great-Grandmother; the stitches flew in and out, the button was on, Elizabeth ran back, and she and Great-Grandmother won the double prize, magic pencils that wrote in four colours.

  ‘Dear me, how annoying!’ said Great-Grandmother. ‘I had meant to stop at the shop and get a few things – some silver polish, a packet of Lux, a one-and-sixpenny duster, and a nutmeg – and I forgot. Elizabeth, hop on your bicycle and get them for me.’

  ‘But I can’t . . .’

  ‘Here’s five shillings,’ said Great-Grandmother. ‘Bring me the change.’

  ‘Ting.’ Before Elizabeth knew where she was, she was out on the road, riding her bicycle and perfectly steady. Soon she was back with all the things and one-and-fourpence change for Great-Grandmother.

 
‘Then were the “tings” me?’ asked Elizabeth, puzzled. She could not believe it. ‘I thought they were Fairy Doll.’

  ‘I thought so too,’ said Josie. She sounded disappointed.

  ‘How could they be?’ asked Godfrey.

  ‘They couldn’t,’ said Christabel, who after all was twelve now and ought to know. ‘Don’t be silly,’ said Christabel. ‘She was just a doll.’

  ‘Fairy Doll.’ It was Great-Grandmother who corrected Christabel, but her voice sounded high up and far away – As if it came from somewhere else? asked Elizabeth.

  Chapter 4

  In the country, November and December are the best times for hedges, but now no one picked the old man’s beard for a mattress, or winter berries to bake; no one went to the wood for fresh moss and new toadstools. The fairy house was broken up; the bicycle basket was on the bicycle.

  For Christmas they each chose what they would get.

  ‘A writing case,’ said Christabel.

  ‘A reversing engine, Number Fifty-one, for my Hornby trains,’ said Godfrey.

  ‘A kitchen set,’ said Josie.

  Elizabeth did not know what she wanted. ‘Another fairy doll?’ suggested Christabel.

  ‘Another! There isn’t another,’ said Elizabeth, shocked. ‘She was Fairy Doll.’

  On Christmas Eve the tree was set up in the drawing room. Mother opened the cedar chest and brought the decorations down, the tinsel and the icicles, the witch balls and trumpets and bells, the lights and candle clips. There were new candles, new boxes of sweets, new little bags of nuts, shining new coins, and new crackers. ‘But what shall we put at the top?’ asked Christabel.

  Elizabeth ran out of the room, upstairs to the cedar chest.

  She was going to cast herself down – ‘and stay there; I don’t want Christmas,’ said Elizabeth – but the lid of the chest was open, and, on top of a pile of blankets and folded summer vests, she saw the cotton-reel box that had held Fairy Doll.