Midnight (13 page)

‘You bought me a silver wand to go with it and when I went back to Miranda's she called me her little Sugar Plum Fairy. Then that horrible Mikey, one of the steps, kept calling me the Sugar Bum Fairy, and I got so cross I poked him in the eye with my wand,' said Jasmine, spluttering with laughter.

‘You watch out for my daughter, Violet,' said Jonathan. ‘She looks such a sweet little sugar lump but she can be a very bad girl indeed. Fairy Princess turns
straight into Wicked Witch. I worked on some new Grimm adaptations a couple of Christmases ago. It was a special kids' show but the Grimm was
very
grim and frightened them into fits. The stage set was pretty scary too, very very dark with lots of gnarled old trees with faces, like those Casper Dream fairy books.'

‘Casper Dream!'

‘Yeah, fantastic artist. Do you like his books, Violet?'

‘I
love
them. They mean all the world to me.' I stopped. They were both staring at me. ‘I – I mean, they
did
, ages ago, when I was just a little kid.'

‘I nearly got to play him once,' said Jonathan.

Now
I
was the one who stared. ‘Does Casper Dream look like you then, Jonathan?' I asked hoarsely.

‘No one knows. He's a bit of a recluse. He just stays indoors chained to his desk, illuminating his fancy manuscripts like a medieval monk,' said Jonathan, miming it all.

‘Have you met him?'

‘No one has. This TV company wanted to do an hour's special programme on his life and work and approached his publishers. Their publicity people were really keen but apparently he wouldn't hear of it. He never gives interviews. So then they rejigged the original idea, interspersing critical appraisal of his work with dramatized scenes—'

‘Of you being the medieval monk figure?' said Jasmine, smiling at him.

‘Yeah, yeah, so what's so funny? There were going to be animations of his work, maybe a few girls dressed
as fairies. Very tastefully – this was a serious arts show.'

‘Even so, I don't think he'd like the idea of animations and people dressed up,' I said.

‘That's right. He still wouldn't hear of it. I tried to find out where he lives to see if I could go and plead with him personally. I'm a big fan of his books, I've got lots of them. Well, not his first little book –
nobody's
got that. Anyway, no one knows where he lives. Even his publishers don't seem too sure. It's as if he's as elusive as his own fairies. He won't phone or e-mail anyone, ever.'

He wrote to
me
, I thought, with a secret shiver of pleasure. He put his address on the letter. I knew where he used to live. If only I'd tried harder to see his house I might even have spotted him. I'd begged Dad to drive me there, but he said it was a crazy idea, and he had a hundred and one more pressing things to do than stalk some artist clear across three counties.

‘I've got
The Smoky Fairy Book
,' I said.

‘Has it been reissued?' said Jonathan eagerly. ‘Oh boy, I've got to get hold of it.'

‘No, I've got the original one.'

‘The first edition? But the print run was so small – and then it was withdrawn because of all the cigarette fuss. How did you get hold of it? Are you
sure
it's a proper first?'

‘I think so. It was given to me as a present when I was seven.'

‘I hope you didn't scribble all over it!'

‘No, of course I didn't,' I said, a little hurt. ‘I didn't ever scribble in my books.'

‘Jasmine did. Well, you lucky, lucky girl! I'll have to have a peep at it some time.'

‘Let's go round to your place now, Violet,' said Jasmine. ‘You can show Dad this old book and me all your other fairies.'

Jonathan looked at his watch. ‘I can't, sweetheart. I've got the matinée at three.'

‘Your boring old matinées! Oh well,
we
can still go round to your place, Violet,' said Jasmine.

I thought of Dad with his feet up on the sofa, shoes kicked off so that the whole living room smelled of his socks. Will once held his nose as he walked past and Dad got furious and lectured him for half an hour on rude and childish behaviour. Mum would go horribly shy and practically bob curtsies – but then she'd run Jasmine down behind her back. And Will . . .? Will disliked all my friends. Look at the way he'd behaved with Marnie and Terry. He was in a bad mood with me anyway because I'd chosen to go over to Jasmine's rather than go out with him. He'd be working on a way of getting his own back. I didn't want to risk him taking it out on Jasmine.

‘It's a bit of a madhouse at my place on Saturdays. It's my mum, she does all her housework and turns everything upside down.' It wasn't really a lie. Mum did her housework
every
day and took it very seriously. ‘I think we'd better stay well clear or we might get roped in to help.'

‘OK, you've talked me out of it,' said Jasmine. ‘But some other time soon, please, Violet?'

‘Yes, of course,' I said, wondering how I was going to fob her off for ever.

‘Violet would far rather come and watch me in my matinée,' said Jonathan, holding his arms up in an actorly attitude.

‘Oh yeah, sure,' said Jasmine.

‘I
would
like to see you act,' I said politely to Jonathan.

‘Then come to the theatre with me, darlings. We'll wangle you the best seats.'

‘She's just being tactful, Pa,' said Jasmine.

‘No, really, I want to,' I said. ‘I love the theatre.'

‘I knew you would!' said Jonathan.

I hoped he'd never find out that my only experience of the theatre so far was the pantomime at Christmas.

We went on a terrible police family outing. There was a very camp guy playing Widow Twanky, who kept pretending to swoon at the sight of so many policemen in the audience. Dad started getting edgy about it and called out, heckling him. Mum and Will and I wanted to crawl under our seats and hide.

It was strange walking up to the theatre and seeing Jonathan's name up over the entrance and his big black-and-white face smiling down at us. I started to walk into the foyer but he steered me round to the stage door down the side of the theatre. It was much shabbier inside than I'd expected, and there wasn't very much to marvel at, just endless pale-green corridors and flights of cord-carpeted steps.

However, Jonathan's dressing-room lived up to expectations. He had one of those star-style mirrors with
lights all round, with a photo of Jasmine tucked into the frame. There were several different glamorous girls grinning at him from heart-shaped photo frames, boxes of chocolates and baskets of fruit, and a big casket spilling stage make-up.

Jasmine helped herself to a plum and started experimenting with purple eyeshadow. Then she got started on me, outlining my eyes with black pencil and painting my lips crimson.

‘What do I look like!' I protested, but I was really thrilled. I didn't look like my vague shadowy self any more. I was more defined, as if Jasmine had outlined me all over.

Jonathan sat at his mirror in his T-shirt, expertly applying panstick. He didn't seem the slightest bit nervous. I knew if I had to stand up on stage and act in front of an audience I'd have been shaking with terror.

Jasmine and I left him to change into his stage clothes and went to our seats.

‘The
best
seats,' said Jasmine.

I expected two seats in the stalls but Jasmine threaded her way through more complicated corridors, had a quick conversation with someone, and then led me up the stairs and opened a little door.

‘Oh wow! We're in a box!' I said.

It was incredible sitting there staring right down at the stage, cut off from the rest of the audience in our special red-plush world. I leaned forward, holding onto the gilt rail, and saw several people staring up at me, as if
I
was famous. Then the music started, the lights went up, and
Jonathan came strutting on stage. He sang, he danced, and when he triumphantly finished his opening number he gave Jasmine and me a jaunty wave. We waved back, as if we were about to step right into the show.

Dear C.D.,

I wonder how many letters I've written to you? It must be hundreds and hundreds. I started off on torn-out pieces of notepad, pencilling in big letters, my lines sloping crazily up and down the page. Then I progressed to proper teddy-bear notepaper, and I crayonned on all the bears, giving them little wings to turn them into teddy fairies. Then I went through a Kitty phase, and there were the rainbow letters, and the time I was so into stickers each letter was heavily embossed.

I fancied you probably had some overseas hideaway castle so I started using thin blue airmail letters. I've sent you postcards too, any I can find with fairies, though none are as beautiful as yours. I've drawn you my own fairies too. And I always draw me at the end.

Love from

Violet

XXX

‘
YOU SAT IN
a box!' said Mum at breakfast the next day.

‘It's not that big a deal,' said Dad. ‘It's just a chair in a little balcony, for God's sake.' He yawned and stirred his cornflakes. ‘I'm sick of this mushy stuff. Why can't we have a decent cooked breakfast, a bit of egg and bacon and sausage?'

‘You know why. You're the one with high cholesterol,' said Mum. ‘Fried breakfasts aren't good for you.'

‘Just one day a week, that's all. My mother used to make fabulous fry-ups every morning. No one could beat her fried bread or her fried potatoes!' Dad smacked his lips wistfully. ‘And she's still fit as a fiddle, even though she's . . .' He paused, squinting at the calendar on the wall. ‘Oh God! It's not the eighteenth today, is it?'

‘Yes,' said Mum, sounding a little defiant.

‘It's the old bat's birthday, isn't it? And we haven't got her anything.' Dad looked at Mum reproachfully.

‘But I didn't think, seeing as we're not really on speaking terms any more . . .' Mum didn't finish, but she glanced at Will.

He was standing by the breadbin, working his way through slice after slice of bread and strawberry jam. He didn't pause in his spreading and munching routine, but he chewed more rapidly, as if he had difficulty swallowing.

‘Yeah yeah, I haven't forgotten,' said Dad impatiently. ‘I haven't got Alzheimer's. Come to think of it, that's maybe how she came out with all that spiel. She's quite likely losing the plot, going a bit demented.'

‘That old witch knew what she was doing all right,' said Mum, with uncharacteristic venom.

‘Don't start calling my mother names,' said Dad.

‘You were the one who called her an old bat,' said Mum, chin up.

‘There are bats next door,' I said quickly.

They both looked at me, surprised. Will was looking at me too.

‘What did you say?' Dad asked.

‘Bats. There are lots of them. I think they're roosting in the loft.'

‘Oh God,' said Mum, dabbing at her hair. It was still tumbled round the shoulders of her blue dressing gown, so that from the back she looked as young as me. But her face was pale and lined, especially between her eyebrows and at the corners of her mouth. She'd tensed so
often the lines stayed, even when she rubbed her forehead hard with her fingertips. I wondered if she'd look any younger married to someone like Jonathan.

‘I can't stick bats,' Mum fussed. ‘I
knew
something like this would happen. Why on earth doesn't that niece
sell
the house? I think we should call in the council.'

‘Bats are a protected species,' said Will. ‘They've got squatter's rights.'