She was my first successful fairy. I’d tried copying Casper Dream’s illustration right from when I got my first fairy book, but my funny little felt creations looked nothing like his beautiful artwork. They were too fat and lumpy, with button eyes and wool hair.
Then Miss Lang, the old lady who lived next door, taught me how to sew properly, showing me all the different stitches. She gave me a special sewing kit for Christmas, a little rag doll with a matching outfit of clothes. I wasn’t very interested in making a rag doll but I used the basic pattern to fashion my own fairy. I pored over the picture of the Moonbeam Fairy in my book, doing my best to copy her properly.
I made her out of white silk, though it was very slippery to work with, and I sewed little pearls all round the hem of her dress. I gave her cream feathery wings and long white curly cotton hair way past her knees. She didn’t look exactly like the Casper Dream illustration but she was much better than her lumpy felt fairy sisters.
Will liked my Moonbeam Fairy – and the Rose and the Bluebell and the Autumn Leaf fairy. He particularly liked the Crow Fairy. She crouched on the back of a black crow. I hoped it wasn’t a real stuffed crow. I’d found it on an old hat in a junk shop. It seemed a simple replica, but there was something frighteningly real about its sharp orange beak and beady black eyes. I was never too sure about the Crow Fairy, especially when Will made her sweep through the air, casting evil spells.
He used to play all sorts of magical games with me and my fairies until Dad caught us at it.
‘A lad of your age playing with fairies?’ said Dad, his lip curling.
Will hadn’t gone near them since. But now he reached up and touched them all, making them dance up and down on their elastic threads. He pulled the Crow Fairy by her tiny black toes so that she and her crow bounced up and down as if they were bungee jumping.
‘Don’t, Will.’
He took no notice. He pulled the other fairies in quick succession as if he was bell-ringing. Their wings flapped dementedly as the elastic pinged.
‘Stop it!’ I said, pushing him.
I pushed harder than I meant to. He lost his balance. He tripped, still hanging onto the Crow Fairy. Her elastic snapped and she flew across the room and landed in the corner, slipping right off her crow, breaking one of her feathery wings.
‘Now look what you’ve done!’ I said, kneeling down and examining her. ‘Oh no, you’ve ripped her dress, look, and I haven’t got any more black lace.’
‘It was your fault, shoving me like that, you stupid girl,’ said Will, but he kneeled down beside me. He cradled the Crow Fairy and her bird in his hands. Her flimsy net dress had caught on the crow’s sharp beak and had ripped beyond repair. Will poked his finger through the hole.
‘Poor little ruined Crow Fairy,’ he said. He flew the crow through the air, aiming it straight at me. ‘Vicious beast. Watch out, Vi, it’ll peck you to death.’
Will saw I wasn’t in the mood for fooling around. He stopped larking, pulled a feather out of the crow’s wing and stuck it into the Crow Fairy’s soft back.
‘There. She can fly again now. And you can make her a new dress, can’t you? Haven’t you got anything black? Look, I’ve got black socks, you can have them.’
‘You don’t put fairies in black wool. She’ll look like she’s in winter woollies, little cardie and mittens and bobble hat. It wouldn’t work.’
‘I know! My black velvet waistcoat,’ said Will.
It was another junk shop find, a hippy-type waistcoat straight from the seventies, but it somehow looked amazingly cool on Will. It was his all-time favourite garment.
‘We can’t use your special waistcoat!’
‘Sure we can,’ said Will, taking it off. He thrust it at me. ‘There. Get snipping.’
‘I can’t spoil your waistcoat.’
Will snatched the scissors out of my sewing box and cut right up the back of the waistcoat. ‘There. I’ve spoilt it for you. Now get sewing. Have you got any black sequins? Black ribbon?’
I started cutting out a tiny black dress for the Crow Fairy. Will sat cross-legged beside me, watching. He dug in my sewing basket and found another pair of scissors. He started cutting something out himself from the ruined waistcoat.
‘Are you going to sew, Will?’
‘Boys don’t sew,’ he said, imitating Dad’s voice so accurately I had to check his lips.
He went on cutting out a long soft strand of velvet with an hour-glass shape in the middle.
‘What’s that you’re making? It won’t fit her.’
‘It’s not for your little Crow Fairy. This is for you,’ said Will.
He tied the shaped part over my eyes and knotted it behind my head. ‘You too shall go to the masked ball, Cinderella,’ he said.
‘What are you now, a fairy godmother?’ I said, pretending we were still larking about, though my heart was pounding.
I knew what was coming now.
Dear C.D.,
Are you ever frightened?
Did you ever play games when you were young – really scary games?
There’s a page in your Midnight book that really haunts me. At first glance it looks as if it’s a completely black illustration, glossy and opaque. But then you see these eyes gleaming in the dark, amber and orange and green, and if you look very carefully you can see these strange twisted shapes. They could just be gnarled old trees – or they could be creatures waiting to get you.
I can’t look at that page without my heart thudding.
With love from
Violet
XXX
From The Book of Flower Fairies by Casper Dream
The Violet Fairy
A small shy fairy, purplish blue, easily trampled upon.
Two
WILL AND I had played the Mask Game for years. We started when we were very young. Will was maybe six, me four. Dad forced us to go to a children’s Christmas party at the police social club. We both loathed these parties. Will didn’t want to charge round playing football and fighting with the other boys. I was much too shy to compare party dresses and disco dance with the girls. We both disliked the conjuring clown. Will was simply bored, and I was such a little wimp I was frightened.
I did quite enjoy the old-fashioned party games after we’d eaten our fill of sausage rolls and crisps and ice cream. I was good at playing Statues even though I was one of the youngest, and I won a pink brush and comb and hairslide set in a game of Pass the Parcel.
The only game I didn’t like was Blind Man’s Buff. I hated the way some big policeman ‘uncle’ tied a sash too tightly round my eyes so that I couldn’t even blink. I didn’t like being spun round and round in the sudden dark. I hated stumbling about with outstretched hands while the other children rushed past me giggling.
I kept running this way and then that way, grabbing thin air again and again. Some of the boys started poking me in the back and trying to trip me. I tried to pull the mask off but the uncle said, ‘Hey, no peeking!’ and brushed my hands away.
I felt as if I was stuck in this awful whirling black world for ever. I started to cry behind the sash. Then my hands suddenly clasped strong skinny arms.
‘You’ve caught me,’ said Will. ‘OK, it’s my go now.’
He’d stood right in front of me and deliberately let himself be caught. But I didn’t realize that then. I wasn’t grateful enough. Another little girl suggested we go off into a corner and play hairdressers with my new brush and comb and hairslides. She was at least a year older than me and very pretty, with long fair curly hair. I was immensely flattered that she wanted to play with me.
I brushed and combed her long curls and then carefully clipped each pink sparkly slide into place, one above the other. They kept slipping sideways but I tried again and again, breathing heavily, until they were perfect. The curly girl fingered them complacently.
‘Now it’s your turn to be the hairdresser,’ I said.
She didn’t want to swap roles. She tried comb
ing my thick black hair but gave up almost immediately, saying there were too many tangles.
‘Brush it first,’ I suggested.
This seemed too much like hard work for her. She dabbed at my hair ineffectually and then flapped her hands, saying it was making her arm ache.
‘I’m tired of playing hairdressers anyway,’ she said, and wandered off.
I followed her anxiously.
‘No, I’m going to play with the big girls now. You’re too little,’ she said, pulling away from me.
‘But what about my hairslides?’
‘They’re mine now,’ she said, and then she ran away.
I looked round for Will. The game of Blind Man’s Buff was over. He was standing by himself, frowning.
I started worrying. ‘Hello, Will,’ I said. ‘I don’t like that girl with curly hair. She stole my hairslides. Will you get them back for me?’
‘You gave them to her,’ said Will.
‘I didn’t.’
‘Yes you did. I saw. When you went off to play with her.’
‘I didn’t want to,’ I lied. ‘She made me. I’d much rather play with you, Will.’
‘Well, I don’t want to play with you,’ said Will.
He walked away and left me too.
He didn’t talk to me in the car going home. He didn’t say a word when we were getting ready for bed. He didn’t respond when I called out to him after we’d been tucked up. I crept into his room in the middle of the night and tried to get into his bed but he pushed me straight out onto the floor. I cried and begged him to make friends but he wouldn’t.
He kept it up for days.
‘Please play with me, Will,’ I begged.
He looked at me, his green eyes glittering. ‘You really want to play with me, do you?’ he said.
‘You know I do.’
‘Any game I like?’
‘Of course. You can choose.’
‘Then I choose Blind Man’s Buff.’
I was trapped. Will’s version of Blind Man’s Buff was far scarier than the party game. I always had to play the Blind Man. Will let me blunder around for ages until he allowed himself to be caught. But that wasn’t the end. That was only the beginning. I wasn’t allowed to take the mask off. I had to let Will spin me round again and lead me along, across rooms, up the stairs, down the stairs, and then he’d stop me still and make me guess where I was.
If I got it wrong I had to pay a forfeit. Once when I tore off the mask I found I was standing at the very edge of the stairs. One small step forwards and I’d have gone hurtling down to the bottom. But Will was holding me. He wouldn’t let me go. I had to trust him. That was hard. I loved him so much but I didn’t really trust him at all.
I didn’t trust him now, with the black velvet blindfold over my eyes. I fingered it anxiously. Will’s hands slapped mine.
‘Stop that! You know you have to keep it on, Violet.’
I swallowed. ‘We’re too old for silly games of Blind Man’s Buff, Will.’
‘Perhaps we can make the rules a little more sophisticated then,’ said Will.
‘I don’t want to play.’
‘Don’t be silly, you always want to play with me.’
‘Not Blind Man’s Buff.’
‘But it’s our favourite game. And don’t forget, I’m in charge tonight, Violet. You must do as I say.’
‘Oh yeah, like you’re my master and I’m your slave,’ I said.
‘Exactly,’ said Will. He took hold of me by my wrist. He didn’t hurt but he held me tightly enough to remind me of painful Chinese burns in the past.
Will pulled on my arm and I moved obediently. I still hated the obliterating sensation of the blindfold. It was as if the real world didn’t exist any more because I couldn’t see it. I didn’t feel I existed either. It felt like my eyes had disappeared behind the black velvet.
Will led me across the living room. I responded to the slightest change of pressure of his finger, circumnavigating the table, the chairs, the edge of the bookcase. We walked through the doorway and into the hall.
I started to relax a little. It wasn’t so bad. It was just a silly game. When I was small I panicked the moment I couldn’t see, losing all sense of direction, all common sense. It felt as if Will was leading me through an endless labyrinth to some dark centre of the world.
But I could work out where he was taking me now. I expected him to play the stairs trick again. I moved slowly and cautiously, keeping track. I wouldn’t have to pay any humiliating forfeit. Maybe this time I was going to win.
We didn’t go up the stairs. We went down the hall. I stumbled over something soft, like a small cat, but I worked it out in an instant. I wasn’t going to let one of Mum’s furry slippers faze me!
We went into the kitchen. I tried not to collide with the breakfast bar, the fridge, the waste bin in the corner. Will led me right across the room. I wondered if we were heading for the larder. Was Will going to try to cram me inside, under the bottom shelf? Oh God, he wasn’t going to shut the door on me, was he? Then I’d still be in total darkness even if I tore the blindfold off.
‘Will?’
‘Shh! You can’t concentrate if you talk. You’re going to have to tell me where you are soon.’
‘I know where I am. In the kitchen. Will, don’t put me in the larder. I’ll scream if you do.’
‘And who would hear you? But don’t underestimate me, Violet. I’m not doing anything as obvious. And how could even a skinny little squit like you fit in the larder? I’d have to chop you up first, jointing you just like a butcher.’ He chopped at my body, using the flat of his hand.
‘Stop it! You’re hurting!’
‘I’m barely touching you. You’re such a little wimp. You’re nearly crying.’
‘No I’m not.’
‘You’re ever so scared though, aren’t you?’
‘Not the slightest bit,’ I lied.
‘Then why is your hand all cold and clammy?’ Will said, clasping it suddenly. ‘Yuck, jellyfish hands.’ He let go and I heard him wiping his own hands unnecessarily on his jeans.
He let go.
I made a dash across the kitchen, trying to yank the blindfold off, but he’d tied it too tightly in a complicated knot. He caught me at once.
‘Aha! You don’t get away that easily.’ He was camping it up, speaking in a silly sibilant stage-villain accent, but his fingers dug hard into my wrist, his nails hurting me. I had to let him lead me back across the kitchen. I tensed as we passed the larder but he didn’t pause. I heard him turning a key, and then opening the back door.
Oh God.
He led me out into the garden, jerking me impatiently when I stumbled on the doorstep. I started shivering. It was too cold to be out without a coat.
‘Are we going to be out here long, Will? Can I get a jacket? It’s freezing.’
‘Stop whining.’ He pulled my arm and I had to follow.
It was much harder keeping a sense of where I was going. Especially as Will seemed to be walking us round in a circle.
‘Round and round the garden, like a teddy bear,’ Will said, reciting the baby’s rhyme. ‘One step. Two step. And a tickly under there.’ His bony fingers scrabbled under my chin, scuttling down my neck.
‘Stop it!’
‘I’m not going to stop. We’ve only just started.’
I was getting hopelessly disorientated, not sure now if I was at the top or bottom of the garden. I wondered what forfeits Will would concoct. They used to be childishly disgusting. I had to eat a worm or lick snot. The worst time was having to drink ten glasses of water just before I went to bed, with inevitable consequences.
He wouldn’t inflict these sorts of forfeits on me now, when we were practically grown up.
He’d think of worse ones.
He suddenly pushed me right into the hedge.
‘For God’s sake, Will!’
‘Go on. Move. Push, Violet.’
Twigs tore at me, scratching my
arms.
‘What are you playing at, Will? You’re hurting! Please let’s stop.’
‘Just shut up. You’ll be through in a minute.’
He gave me one last shove and the threadbare hedge gave way. I was in the garden next door. Miss Lang’s garden – only she didn’t live there any more. Nobody did.
I’d always been a little scared of Miss Lang. She was very old, and she walked with a bad limp, so she had to use a black shiny stick. I didn’t like the sound of its tap tap tap. I used to run away when I heard her coming, but one day she called after me and asked if I’d like to come to tea. I didn’t fancy the idea at all but didn’t know how to say no politely. It was a bit of an ordeal. I had to sit up straight and sip my tea very carefully from a golden cup and nibble daintily at pink wafer biscuits but I managed not to spill anything and Miss Lang seemed to take a shine to me. She asked Will to tea too, but he fidgeted and yawned and showered sponge cake crumbs everywhere and didn’t get invited back.
I went to tea with Miss Lang on a weekly basis. In the summer we had tea in the garden. She made lemonade and iced fairy cakes and we ate them sitting in green canvas chairs under her apple tree. We’d chat for a little while and then Miss Lang would read me strange fairy stories from old-fashioned books with brightly coloured covers, yellow and red and blue and pink – and violet! She gave me The Violet Fairy Book for my tenth birthday, wrapping it up in rainbow paper and tying it with a purple satin ribbon.
Poor Miss Lang had a stroke soon afterwards and was taken away in an ambulance. She never came back. She didn’t die straight away. Mum thought she’d gone into some kind of nursing home. Then a van came and someone cleared all the contents of her house, even the coloured fairy books. The house started crumbling and the garden became a thicket of brambles and ivy, as if the fairies in the books had put a spell on it.
Mum and Dad were forever complaining about the state of the house and the garden, saying it was dragging the price of our house down. Squatters moved in and held loud parties and Dad was outraged. He got them evicted eventually and after that the house was boarded up and the windows bricked in. It made it look ugly and frightening. The garden turned into a total wilderness, rank with weeds. Dad hacked savagely at any plant daring to creep over our fence.