Midnight (18 page)

‘Are you taking this in?' he said.

I nodded, not daring to ask him to repeat it again.

‘Rubbish, you haven't a clue, have you?' he said. ‘Go on, jump in the cab. I'll take you.'

‘But I haven't got any money.'

‘Never mind. I can't have you blundering around all over the town. And Paradise Road isn't in a very nice area.'

‘It's very kind of you.'

‘I've got a daughter your age, darling. I like to think another cabbie would help her out the same way.'

He gave me a lift through many murky streets, skirting blackened warehouses and tough council estates and rows of boarded-up shops, turning down identical bleak streets of tumbledown terraced houses to Paradise Street. It was an ugly street of squat pebbledashed houses with unkempt gardens and rubbish strewn along the gutters.

‘Are you
sure
you want Paradise Street?' said the taxi driver.

‘Yes please. Number twenty-eight,' I said.

The taxi driver drew up outside the right house. The pebbledash had fallen off the walls here and there, and some of the roof tiles were missing. Someone had tacked polythene up at the windows as crude double glazing, making the house look bleary-eyed. The front door was a harsh pillar-box red, like a gash of bright lipstick on a faded old woman.

It
couldn't
be the right house. Someone as artistic as Casper Dream could never have lived here. But I didn't have anywhere else to go, so I thanked the taxi driver fervently for the free lift and pretended everything was fine. He sat in his cab and watched me, looking doubtful. I couldn't possibly hover on the pavement. I had to let myself in the broken gate and walk up the pathway. I waited when I got to the garish front door. I knocked – and the taxi driver finally drove away.

I waited a couple of seconds, holding my breath, and then darted back down the pathway to the gate. I wasn't quite quick enough. Before I could unlatch it the front door opened.

‘Hey, what do you want?'

It was a youngish woman with a tired white face, a grizzling baby drooping on her hip.

‘Oh! I'm sorry. I think I've come to the wrong house,' I gabbled.

‘Oh yeah?' she said suspiciously, looking me up and down. ‘Who did you want to see?'

I took a deep breath. ‘Well, I think Casper Dream might have lived here once,' I said.

‘You what? Some bloke called
Casper
lived here? I doubt that very much.'

‘Have you lived here a while then?'

‘Only six months, and that's long enough. It's a disgrace, this dump. I've been backwards and forwards to the council ever since the baby was born but they won't listen. He's chesty already – he'll get asthma if we don't get out soon.'

The baby started crying harder as if he understood. She joggled him on her hip. ‘I'd better feed him. Well, off you go then.'

‘Yes. Sorry. Goodbye,' I said, as she closed the door.

I edged round the gate and stood staring at her house. I
must
have remembered it wrong. But I'd known it by heart for years, as well as I knew my own address. Still, what did it really matter? Casper Dream certainly wasn't here now.

I closed my eyes tight, scared I was going to start crying right there in the street. I put my hands inside my jacket pockets, clasping the Crow Fairy tight. I heard footsteps. I opened my eyes and saw a very fat man lumbering along the pavement towards me. He was so huge he had to waddle. When he got nearer I could hear the wheeze of his breath.

I liked the way he looked, even though his vast bulk was grotesque. He was wearing a huge olive-velvet jacket, gigantic black jeans and purple suede boots. His longish fair hair kept falling forward across his face. He
was pink with the effort of walking. I didn't like to keep staring at him. He must be so sick of people peering. I swivelled my eyes back to the house and stared at the front door instead.

I waited for the fat man to walk past. He was walking very slowly now, his purple boots barely moving. Then he stopped altogether, almost beside me. He breathed rapidly, wheezing a little. I could smell his lemon cologne. He reached in his jacket pocket, found a silk handkerchief and mopped his brow. Then he gave me a quick shy nod and started shuffling off, back the way he had come.

Perhaps he'd made a special pilgrimage to Number 28 Paradise Street too. There could only be one reason why.

‘Excuse me,' I called timidly after his large back. ‘I know this sounds silly, but do you like Casper Dream?'

He stopped. He turned round, looking wary. ‘Why did you ask that?' he said.

‘Because I think he once lived here. And you seemed to be looking at the house too.'

‘Do
you
like Casper Dream?' he said.

‘I love him. I've got all his books, even
The Smoky
Fairy
. I know them off by heart, all twelve.'

‘Which do you like the most?'

‘I think . . . Well, I like them all, but maybe I like
Midnight
most.'

‘Which page?'

‘The last one, where the princess is looking out of her palace window. Well, I
think
it's a palace – I suppose it could also be a prison, it's hard to tell in the moonlight.
There's a church with a steeple in the distance and the clock is striking midnight. It says on the page opposite the picture that if you wish between the chimes of one and twelve then your wish will come true.'

‘Does it say that? Doesn't it say
maybe
your wish will come true?'

‘Yes, it does! So you really are a fan if you know the books so well.'

Surprisingly, he shook his head. ‘No, I wouldn't call myself a fan. I could find fault with every single illustration.'

‘But they're beautiful! Each and every one of them, even when he's drawing ugly or evil things. They're the most wonderful illustrations ever!' I said indignantly.

‘Well, I shan't argue with you. I'm sure Casper Dream would be very proud if he knew there was such an ardent supporter of his work.'

‘I've always said I'm his number one fan, only that's ridiculous, because hundreds and thousands of people love his books. There's a fan club too, but it's just run by his publishers. He doesn't contribute to the website himself.'

‘I've heard he's very elusive,' said the fat man.

‘No one knows where he lives and he never gives interviews and he won't do book signings and he doesn't write to anyone.'

‘No one at all?'

‘Well, perhaps he did once, long ago,' I said, hugging my secret to myself. I couldn't help smiling and the fat man smiled back.

‘Did he write to you once too?' I asked. ‘Is that how you know about this house?'

‘I've always known about this house,' he said.

I looked at him very carefully. I stared at his face and imagined it in shadow, at an angle.

‘It's you!' I whispered.

‘And I think I know you too. You're . . . it's a flowery name. Wait a minute. It's Violet!'

‘How do you know me?'

‘You really are my number one fan, Violet. You were the first person to write to me about my books. I treasured your letter.'

‘And you wrote back to me with your address. I wrote back again, but that letter came back unopened.'

‘I moved away. And then when the next book got published I was deluged with letters. I decided I couldn't write back any more. I'm sorry.'

‘I understand. I still write to you though.'

‘What, to my publishers?'

‘No, I write a letter and then I put it in a big silver box at the back of my wardrobe. It's like I'm pretending to post it.'

‘That's a lovely idea. But I don't suppose you'll want to write any more letters now you know what I'm really like. I'm not exactly a handsome prince, am I?'

‘I think you
are
handsome. Quite,' I said.

‘You're a very kind girl, Violet.' He fumbled in his pocket again and found a little leather notepad and a pen.

‘Are you going to give me an autograph?'

‘If you'd like one. And a little picture?'

‘Please!'

He rested the notepad in his left hand and started drawing. I watched carefully as the black lines arranged themselves on the page into a familiar small fairy, looking down, head slightly on one side.

‘It's the Violet Fairy!'

‘It is indeed.'

‘It's magic watching her appear just like that on the page. I feel as if
this
is magic. I mean, I didn't even know I was coming here this morning. I live miles and miles away. But now I'm here and you're here too, by the most amazing, wonderful coincidence.'

‘It's not quite such a coincidence. I come here most days. I have a chauffeur waiting round the corner. I take my little constitutional along this road as far as the house. I pause for a minute or two and while I'm catching my breath I remember a time when I wasn't Casper Dream.'

‘So who were you?'

‘This is a secret, Violet.'

‘I won't tell anyone, you know I won't.'

‘I was a sad shy fat boy called Colin Dunwell. I wasn't very happy at home –
this
home – and I hated school. I wasn't very clever, so that everyone used to say, “Hasn't he Dunwell,” as a sarcastic joke.'

‘You must have been good at art.'

‘I suppose I was, but no one took art seriously. And I didn't draw the sort of things I liked to draw, not at school. But at home I shut myself up in my room and drew
my own fairy world – though I had to hide all my drawings from my brothers or they'd have teased me mercilessly. I hoped to go to art college but I had to leave school at sixteen to go and work in my uncle's newsagent's shop. I hated that too. I'm not very good at meeting people – and all that chocolate was much too tempting too. I ate all day and half the night. I still do, though Olivia keeps gently nagging me to lose some of the weight. She's my editor and now she's my partner too.'

‘With long blonde hair,' I said, sighing.

‘That's right. You know so much about me, Violet. I sent her
The Smoky Fairy
. I wrote it in my teens, while I was still working at the newsagent's. I sent it to so many publishers and they all turned it down. This went on for years. I got so depressed. I felt I'd never ever achieve my dream, but then Olivia saw the manuscript, liked the artwork, asked if we could meet . . . And later, when there was all the fuss and the book had to be withdrawn she still had enough faith in me to commission a new book. Now my whole life's changed and I still can't quite believe it. I don't want to be part of the whole arty literary scene. I'd hate that. And I don't look the part, obviously. So I don't want fame – and I'm not that fussed about the fortune either, though it's lovely to live in a house I like and I can fill it with beautiful things. But the most magical thing of all is being able to work all day creating my own fairy worlds.

‘I like to come here and remember just for a minute what it was like before. I'm so grateful now that I lived
in this ugly house and was always the odd one out because that made me invent my own world of tiny beautiful beings. There we are, here's your fairy.'

He'd drawn the Violet Fairy so beautifully, adding long dark hair just like mine.

‘I shall make a wish,' I said.

‘Do you like art too?'

‘Yes, but I don't really draw much. I sew.'

‘What do you sew?'

I took a deep breath. ‘I sew fairies. Your fairies.' I scrabbled in my pocket and brought out the torn Crow Fairy.

‘Oh my goodness, she's wonderful! She's exactly
right. There are some Casper Dream fairy doll things but I hate them.'

‘I hate them too. You can have the Crow Fairy if you like, though her leg's coming off – and some of her hair's missing. I got mad about something and tore down all my fairies.'

‘I would like the Crow Fairy very much. She's exquisite. But do you know what I think you should do, Violet? I think you should invent your own creatures. You're so skilled. Create your own dreamworld. I wanted a very small world because I'm so big. You're so small, maybe you might want to create large things. Think big and beautiful!'

I thought about it all the way home. Casper Dream had his chauffeur drive me to the railway station. I negotiated my way home again, making all the train changes, tucking my picture of the Violet Fairy very carefully into my pocket so that it wouldn't get crumpled.

Then I walked home from the station. Dad's car wasn't in the driveway so at least I was back before them. I felt sick at the thought of seeing Will. What would I do if Jasmine was still there? I had to knock at the door because I didn't have my key.