by Roddy Doyle
—Nobody is too old for once upon a time, said Alina.
The wind shrieked in the chimney. The girls edged closer to Alina's feet. Alina thought of her biochemist, out there mixing cement or cutting wood. She had not seen him since. She had pushed the pram past the shelter. Twice she had pushed; three times. He had not been there. She looked down at the girls. She resisted the urge to kick their little upturned faces. She smiled.
—Once upon a time, she said, again. —There was a very old and wicked lady. She lived in a dark forest.
—Where? said Ocean.
—In my country, said Alina.
—Is this just made up?
—Perhaps.
She stood up. It was a good time for an early interruption, she thought. She carried the baby to his pram, which was close to the door. She lowered him gently. He did not wake. She returned to her chair. She watched the girls watch her approach. She sat.
—From this dark forest the wicked lady emerged, every night. With her she brought a pram.
—Like Cillian's? said Saibhreas.
—Very like Cillian's, said Alina.
She looked at the pram.
—Exactly like Cillian's. Every night, the old lady pushed the pram to the village. Every night, she chose a baby. Every night, she stole the baby.
—From only one village?
—The dark forest was surrounded by villages. There were many babies to choose from. Every night, she pushed the pram back into the forest. It was a dark, dark shuddery place and nobody was brave enough to follow her. Not one soldier. Not one handsome young woodcutter. They all stopped at the edge of the forest. The wind in the branches made – their – flesh – creep. The branches stretched out and tried to tear their hearts from their chests.
The wind now shook the windows. A solitary can bounced down the street.
—Cool, said Ocean.
But the little girls moved in closer. They were now actually sitting on Alina's feet, one foot per girl.
—Every night, said Alina, —the wicked old lady came out of the forest. For many, many years.
—Did she take all the babies? asked Saibhreas.
—No, said Alina. —She did not.
Outside, a branch snapped, a car screeched.
—She took only one kind, said Alina.
—What kind? said Ocean.
—She took only – the girls.
4
—Why? Ocean asked.
—Why? Alina asked back.
—Why did the old lady take girls and not boys?
—They probably taste better, said Saibhreas.
—Yeah, Ocean agreed. —They'd taste nicer than boys, if they were cooked properly.
—And some girls are smaller, said Saibhreas. —So they'd fit in the oven.
—Unless the old lady had an Aga like ours, said Ocean. —Then boys would fit too.
Alina realised: she would have to work harder to scare these practical little girls.
—So, she said. —We return to the story.
The girls were again silent. They looked up at Alina. They waited for more frights.
—It is not to be thought, said Alina, —that the old lady simply ate the little girls.
—Cool.
—This was not so, said Alina.
—What did she do to them?
—You must be quiet, said Alina.
—Sorry, said both girls.
They were faultlessly polite.
Alina said nothing until she felt control of the story return to her. She could feel it: it was as if the little girls leaned forward and gently placed the story onto Alina's lap.
—So, she said. —To continue. There were none brave enough to follow the old lady into the dark forest. None of the mothers had a good night's sleep. They pinched themselves to stay awake. They lay on top of sharp stones. And the fathers slept standing up, at the doors of their houses, their axes in their hands, at the ready. And yet—
—She got past them, said Ocean. —I bet she did.
—Why didn't they have guns? said Saibhreas.
—Silence.
—Sorry.
—And yet, said Alina. —The old lady pushed the pram—
—Excuse me, Alina? said Saibhreas.
—Yes?
—You didn't tell us what she did with the babies.
—Besides eating them, said Ocean.
—You do not wish to hear this story?
—We do.
—And so, said Alina. —The old lady took all the baby girls. She carried every baby girl deep into the forest, in her pram. Until there were no more. Then she took the girls who were no longer babies.
Alina saw that Ocean was about to speak. But Saibhreas nudged her sister, warning her not to interrupt. Alina continued.
—She crept up to the girls in their beds and whispered a spell into their sleeping ears. The girls remained sleeping as she picked them up and placed them in the pram. She pushed the pram past the fathers who did not see her, past the mothers as they lay on stones. The wicked old lady took girls of all ages, up to the age of – ten.
Alina waited, as the little girls examined their arms and legs, wondering how the old lady had done this. She watched Ocean look at the pram. Above them, a crow perched on the chimneypot cawed down the chimney; its sharp beak seemed very close. The wind continued to shriek and groan.
—But, said Alina.
She looked from girl to girl. Their mouths stayed closed. They were – Alina knew the phrase – putty in her hands.
—But, she said, again. —One day, a handsome woodcutter had an idea so brilliant, it lit his eyes like lamps at darkest midnight. This was the idea. Every woodcutter should cut a tree every day, starting at the edge of the forest. That way, the old witch's forest would soon be too small to remain her hiding place. Now, all the men in this part of my country were woodcutters. They all took up their axes and, day by day, cut down the trees.
—But, Alina, said Ocean. —Sorry for interrupting.
—Yes? said Alina.
—What would the woodcutters do afterwards, if they cut down all the trees?
—This did not concern them at that time, said Alina. —They cut, to save their daughters.
—Did the plan work?
—Yes, said Alina. —And no. I will tell.
She waited, then spoke.
—Every morning, and all day, the old lady heard the axes of the woodcutters. Every morning, the axes were a little louder, a little nearer. Soon, after many months, she could see the woodcutters through the remaining trees.
She looked down at Ocean.
—One night she left. She sneaked away, with her pram. So, yes, the plan worked. But—
Again, she waited. She looked across, at the pram.
—She simply moved to another place. She found new babies and new little girls, up to the age of – ten.
—Where? said Saibhreas.
—You have not guessed? said Alina.
She watched the little girls look at each other. Ocean began to speak.
—You forgot to tell us—
—I did not forget, said Alina. —You wish to know why she took the little girls.
—Yes, please, said Ocean.
—Their skin, said Alina.
She watched, as the goose-bumps rose on the arms and legs of the little girls in front of her.
5
It was dark outside, and dark too in the room. Alina stood up.
—But the story, said Ocean.
Alina went to the door and walked behind the pram. She pushed it slowly towards the girls. She let them see it grow out of the dark, like a whale rising from a black sea. She let them hear it creak and purr. She heard them shuffle backwards on their bottoms. Then she stopped. She stepped back to the door, and turned on the light.
She saw the girls squinting, looking at her from around the front of the pram.
—Tomorrow I will continue, said Alina.
They followed her into the kitchen. They sta
yed with her as she peeled the potatoes and carrots. They offered to help her. They washed and shook each lettuce leaf. They talked to fill the silence.
Alina left them in the kitchen, but they were right behind her. She went back to the sitting room, and stopped.
The pram had been moved. She had left it in the centre of the room, where the little girls had been sitting. But now it was at the window. The curtain was resting on the hood.
Alina heard the girls behind her.
—Did you move the pram? she asked.
—No, said Saibhreas.
—We've been with you all the time, said Ocean.
Alina walked over to the pram. She wasn't so very concerned about its mysterious change of position. In fact, she thought, it added to the drama of the interrupted story. The little girls lingered at the door. They would not enter the room.
Alina picked up the baby from the pram's warm bed. He still slept. O'Reilly would be annoyed.
—I pay you to keep him awake, she'd told Alina, once. —In this country, Alina, the babies sleep at night. Because the mummies have to get up in the morning to work, to pay the bloody childminders.
Alina walked out to the hall. She heard the car outside; she heard the change of gear. She saw the car lights push the colours from the stained-glass windows, across the ceiling. She felt the baby shift. She looked down, and saw him watch the coloured lights above him.
—Intelligent boy.
The engine stopped; the car lights died. Alina turned on the hall light. The little girls were right beside her.
—Your mother, I think, said Alina.
—Our dad, actually, said Ocean.
—How do you know this? Alina asked.
—Their Beemers, said Ocean. —Mum's Roadster has a quieter engine.
—It's the ultimate driving machine, said Saibhreas.
The lights were on, their daddy was home, and the little girls were no longer frightened. But Alina was satisfied. The lights could be turned off, and their fear could be turned back on – any time she wished to flick the switch.
She walked the next morning and thought about her story. She pushed the pram past the shelter and hoped to see her handsome biochemist. He was not there. She pushed into the wind and rain. Seawater jumped over the wall and drenched the promenade in front of her. She turned back; she could not go her usual, mandatory distance. She felt eyes stare – she felt their heat – watching her approach. But there was no one in front of her, and nothing. She was alone. She looked into the pram, but the baby slept. His eyes were firmly closed.
The little girls had their hair wrapped in towels when Alina continued her story that afternoon. They'd had showers when they came home from school, because they'd been so cold and wet.
Alina closed the curtains. She turned on only one small side-light.
The baby slept in the pram, beside Alina's chair.
—And so, said Alina.
She sat.
The little girls were at her feet, almost under the pram.
—Did the old witch come to Ireland? Ocean asked.
Alina nodded.
—To Dublin, she said.
—There are no forests in Dublin, Alina, said Saibhreas.
—There are many parks, said Alina.
—What park?
Alina held up her hands.
—I must continue.
—Sorry, Alina.
Alina measured the silence, then spoke.
—Soon, she said, —the squeak of the pram's wheels became a familiar and terrifying sound late at night as the old lady pushed it through the streets of this city. It was a very old pram, and rusty. And so it creaked and—
Beside them, the pram moved. It did not creak but it moved, very slightly.
The girls jumped.
Alina had not touched it.
The baby was waking. They heard a little cry.
Alina laughed.
—Strong boy, she said. —It was your brother.
Ocean stood up.
—Maybe O'Reilly's right, she said.
—Yes, said Saibhreas.
She crawled away from the pram.
—What did O'Reilly say? Alina asked.
—She said the pram was haunted.
Inside the pram, the baby began to howl.
6
Alina stared at the pram while, inside, the baby kicked and screeched.
—Aren't you going to pick him up? said Ocean.
—Of course, said Alina.
But, yet, she did not move. It was as if she'd woken up in a slightly different room. The angles weren't quite right. The baby's screech was wrong.
She stood up. She approached the rocking pram. The movement did her good. The room was just a room.
She looked into the pram. The baby was there, exactly as he should have been. He was angry, red, and rightly so. She had been silly; the little girls had frightened her.
She turned on the light and the pram was just a pram.
—The pram moved today, said Saibhreas.
She said this later, in the kitchen.
—I should hope so, said O'Reilly. —It's supposed to bloody move. I pay a Polish cailίn to move it.
Alina blushed; her rage pushed at her skin. She hated this crude woman.
—It moved all by itself, said Ocean.
Alina stared down at her chicken. She felt something, under the table, brush against her leg. Mr O'Reilly's foot. He sat opposite Alina.
—Sorry, he said.
—Down, Fido, said O'Reilly.
She looked at Alina.
—Lock your door tonight, sweetie.
—I do not have a key, said Alina.
—Interesting, said O'Reilly. —What happened the pram?
—The baby cried, said Alina. —And so, the pram moved some centimetres.
