Peter Pan in Scarlet (2 page)

‘Go back!?’

Go back to Neverland? Go back to the mysterious island, with its mermaids, pirates, and redskins? The Old Boys snorted and blustered and shook their heads till their cheeks flapped. Go back to Neverland? Never!

‘Preposterous!’

‘Ridiculous!’

‘Poppycock!’

‘Fol-de-riddle!’

‘I’m a busy man!’

In the rosy gloom of her parlour, Mrs Wendy poured more tea and passed round the cucumber sandwiches. ‘As I see it, there are three problems,’ she said, ignoring their cries of protest. ‘First, we have all grown too big. No one but a child can fly to Neverland.’

‘Exactly!’ Judge Tootles looked down at the straining buttons of his waistcoat. Over the years, he had indeed grown too big, in every direction.

‘Secondly, we can no longer fly as we could then,’ said Mrs Wendy.

‘Well, there you are, then!’ Mr John remembered the evening when a boy dressed in a suit of leaves had flown into his life and taught him, too, to fly. He remembered leaping from the open bedroom window and that first heart-stopping moment when night had caught him in its open palm. He remembered dipping and soaring through the black sky, blipped by bats, nipped by the frost, keeping tight hold of his umbrella … Oh, how brave he had been in those days! Mr John gave a start as Mrs Wendy dropped a sugar lump into his cup with a pair of silver tongs: his thoughts had been up among the moonbeams.

‘And before we can fly,’ Mrs Wendy was saying, ‘we need fairy dust.’

‘Then it is plainly impossible.’ The Honourable Slightly looked down at the breadcrumbs on his trousers, and a lump filled his throat. He remembered fairy dust. He remembered it glittering on his skin like water drops. He remembered the tingling sensation it sent racing through his veins. Even after all these years, he still remembered.

‘I think it is best if we do not tell anyone we are going,’ said Mrs Wendy. ‘It might upset those we love. Also it might attract the attention of the newspapers.’

There did not seem to be any arguing with her, so the Old Boys wrote down what she said, in their appointment diaries, under the heading

‘I think Saturday week would be best,’ said Mrs Wendy. ‘There is a full moon that night, and the children will not need collecting from school. With luck, this annoying cold of mine will have cleared up, too. So, gentlemen. Shall we say June the fifth? I am sure I can rely on you to arrange everything?’

The Old Boys wrote in their appointment diaries:

Then they sucked their pencils and waited for Mrs Wendy to tell them what to do next. Wendy would know. Why, even with a cold she did not need an appointment diary to remind her what jobs needed doing!

Next day, Mrs Wendy’s cold kept her from going out, but the Old Boys found themselves in Kensington Gardens with butterfly nets, wandering up and down. Looking for fairies.

There was a stiff breeze blowing. Something white and fluffy brushed Mr Nibs’s face and he gave a shriek. ‘There’s one! It kissed me!’ And all the gentlemen went pounding after it. The wind was rising. Other scraps of whiteness scudded past, until the air seemed to be full of flying snowflakes all twirling and dancing, feathery light. The Old Boys trampled the grass flat with running to and fro, swiping at fairies, accidentally swatting each other, whooping and shrieking, ‘Got one!’

‘So have—OW!’

‘Here’s one, look!’

But when they peered into their butterfly nets, all they found were the fluffy seed-heads off summer’s first dandelions. There was not a single fairy in among the dande-down.

All day they searched. As the sun went down and starlings gathered over the glimmering city, the Lost Boys hid themselves among the bushes of Kensington Gardens. Early stars ventured into the sky, their reflections spangling the Serpentine. And suddenly the air was a-flicker with wings!

Jubilant, the ambushers leapt out of hiding and ran to and fro, nets flailing.

‘Got one!’

‘By Jove!’

‘Don’t hurt them!’

‘Ouch! Watch what you are doing, sir!’

‘I say! This is ripping fun!’

But when they turned the nets inside out, what did they find? Midges and moths and mayflies.

‘I have one in here! Definitely! Incontrovertibly!’ cried Mr John, cramming his bowler hat back on to his head to trap the captive inside. The others gathered round, jostling to see. The hat came off again, with a sigh of suction; Mr John reached in with finger and thumb, plucked something out of the satin lining and held it up to show them—the iridescent purple, the shiny, flexing, turquoise body …

Only a dragonfly.

Mr John opened his fingertips, and eight pairs of disappointed eyes followed the lovely creature as it staggered and waltzed back towards the water.

‘I don’t believe there is a single fairy …’ began Dr Curly, but the others felled him to the ground and clapped their hands over his mouth.

‘
Don’t say it! Don’t ever say that!
’ cried Mr Nibs, horrified. ‘Don’t you remember? Every time someone says they don’t believe in fairies, a fairy somewhere dies!’

‘I didn’t say I didn’t believe in them!’ said the doctor, tugging the rumples out of his suit. ‘I was only going to say, I don’t believe there is one single fairy
here
.
Tonight
.
In this park
. I have mud on my trousers, insect bites on my ankles, and I have not eaten supper yet. Can we give up now?’

The other Old Boys looked around them at the twilit park, the distant, glimmering streetlamps. They looked at the soles of their shoes, in case they had trodden on any fairies by mistake. They looked into the water of the Serpentine, in case any of the stars reflected there were really fairies, swimming. No fairies, no fairy dust. Perhaps, after all, they would not be going back to Neverland.

‘All for the best. Absurd idea,’ growled Mr John, but no one answered.

The Honourable Slightly took from his pocket a gleaming bubble filmy with every colour of the rainbow. ‘Last night I dreamed I was playing water polo with the mermaids,’ he said. ‘This was on my pillow when I woke.’

The bubble popped and was gone.

The park gates were locked when they got there. The Old Boys had to climb over, and Judge Tootles tore his best tweed jacket.

In the end, it was Mrs Wendy who managed it, of course. She led the way to Kensington Gardens next day, wearing a linen coat and a splendid hat with a feather in it.

‘But we looked here yesterday!’ her brother protested. ‘There wasn’t a fairy to be found!’

‘We are not looking for fairies,’ said Mrs Wendy. ‘We are looking for prams!’

Twenty years before, the park would have been busy with nursery maids pushing pramfuls of babies up and down, filling them up with good fresh air. These days, nursery maids were a rarer breed. There were only three today, pushing prams, feeding ducks, wiping noses, picking up rattles thrown out on to the grass. It was a sight that always disturbed the Old Boys …

Once, Curly and Tootles, Nibs, Slightly, and the Twins had all been babies like those in the prams. Once, they had been tucked up, cosy and snug, boggling up at the sky with sky-blue, newborn eyes. But they had fallen out of their prams.

Got lost. Gone astray.

They had been handed in to the Lost-and-Found office, and stored under ‘B’ for babies, right between A for aquaria and C for cricket bats. No one had claimed them, and after a week or so they had been posted off to Neverland. There they had joined all the other Lost Boys, making do without manners or mothers, making do on make-believe meals and catching doses of adventure along with their captain, Peter Pan.

As a pram rolled past, Mr Nibs could not stop himself saying, ‘Oh, do
please
take care of that baby, young woman! I know there’s nothing so
very
terrible about being a Lost Boy, but even so,
do
take care that it does not fall out! Lost Boys are not all as lucky as we were! They are not all adopted by Mr and Mrs Darling and loved and cherished and blessed with custard tarts on Sundays and a university education!’

‘Well, I never did!’ exclaimed the nursery maid. ‘I hope you are not suggesting I might
lose
a baby of mine, sir? As if I would! As if I’d ever …’ But before she could work herself into a paddy, the baby in the pram started to cry.

Mrs Wendy had been leaning over the pram, using the feather from her hat to tickle the baby.

‘What are you doing, madam?’ said the nursery maid. ‘That one can’t abide feathers!’

‘Oh drat,’ said Mrs Wendy, vexed with herself and secretly with the baby, too. ‘Mr Slightly, don’t just stand there! Sing!’

And the Honourable Slightly (who, if you remember, played the clarinet in a nightclub), suddenly realized that the success of the whole plan depended on him. Scooping up the baby, he began to sing.

‘
Orpheus with his lute, with his lute made trees
…’

It was no good. The baby howled more loudly still.

‘
Oh, the grand old Duke of York, he had ten thousand
men
…’

Still the baby wailed.

‘
Come into the garden, Maud,

For the black bat night has flown!
’

‘Now see what you done!’ said the nursery maid, wincing at the noise and looking around for a policeman.

Mr Slightly went down on one knee: ‘
Mammy! Mammy!
I’d walk a million miles for one of your smiles, my Ma-a-a-mmy!
’

And suddenly the baby laughed!

It was a noise like water gurgling out of a jug. It was so delicious that the nursery maid clapped her hands and giggled too. ‘His very first laugh, bless him!’

In one movement, the Old Boys lifted their hats. Even Mrs Wendy unpinned hers. Then, to the nursery maid’s astonishment, they tossed the baby back into its pram and went racing out across Kensington Gardens, jumping and reaching and wildly waving their bowlers and brown derbies.

‘Well!’ said the nursery maid. ‘What is the world coming to!’

Among banks of orange aubretia, beside the war memorial, they caught him—a tiny, bluish mite, with red hair and eyes the colour of honey—a fairy! Like a robin out of an egg, he had hatched out of that baby’s first laugh, you see, as all fairies do.

The Old Boys were tired and short of breath, but they were triumphant.

Mistakenly, Mrs Wendy called the fairy Con Brio, not knowing he came ready-fitted with a name.

‘
I am Fireflyer
!
’ said the fairy indignantly. ‘
And I
’
m hungry
!
’

So they took him to the Serpentine Tea Rooms and fed him on ice cream, scone crumbs, and cool tea before bearing him home aloft in Mr John’s bowler, like a little eastern potentate. By the time they reached the house in Cadogan Square, the hat was slightly scorched, but it was also half full of fairy dust.

‘Do you know Tinker Bell?’ asked Mr John.

‘
I know everything
,’ said Fireflyer. ‘
What’s Tinker Bell?
’

Wendy had made a kind of tepee out of a lampshade for the fairy to live in, and now he was busy collecting provisions, in case of a bad winter.

‘It is only June,’ Mr Nibs pointed out.

‘
I get
VERY hungry
,’ snapped Fireflyer. They had noticed this already, since Fireflyer had already plucked all the buttons off the Chesterfield sofa, the rubbers off three pencils, the tassel off the bell-pull, and Mr Slightly’s bow tie. He was like a small squirrel, leaping around the room, sniffing and licking, and scavenging for food. ‘
What’s Tinker Bell? Answer me!
’ Fireflyer repeated. ‘
Fairies die if you ignore them
.’

The Twins explained how, years before, they had lived in Neverland, with Peter Pan and his trusty helper Tinker Bell the Fairy. They described how brave Tinker Bell had been, and how spiteful, how mischievous and how jealous, how beautiful and how …

‘
Not as beautiful as me
!
’ Fireflyer interrupted. ‘
No one
’
s as beautiful as
me … or as hungry
!’ and he nibbled a candle right through to the wick so that it fell over.

‘I do not very well see how you could know Tinker Bell, you little rogue,’ said Slightly, ‘since you were born only yesterday. Ow!’

Fireflyer bit him in the thumb. ‘
I’m very backward, that’s how! I know all kind of things that have done happening. I’m backward as a bee sting, me!
’

Slightly sucked his bitten thumb. ‘And I say that, for a very small person, you tell extraordinarily big lies.’

The redheaded fairy beamed with delight, and bowed very low with an elegant twirl of both hands. From that moment on, he was devoted to Slightly, simply because Slightly had admired the size of his lies.

Despite all Mrs Wendy’s warnings not to attempt flying until they were small again, the Old Boys could not resist trying. Judge Tootles actually grabbed Fireflyer and rubbed himself all over with the fairy, as with a bar of soap. Then he spread his arms and flew like a bird!

… Like a large ostrich, in fact. Or one of those shaggy rhea birds who peck you in the neck at the zoo. Tootles lumbered along for a furlong, flapping his arms, then ran out of breath, as flightless as a dodo.

Dr Curly, who was whippety-thin and very fit, did manage to fly to the top of a lamp-post, but lost his nerve and had to be rescued with a loft ladder. Mrs Wendy assured them, as she put the ladder away, that it would be all right on the night, but they were none too sure.

They watched the days go by like trains. Then suddenly the sixth of June arrived, and it was time to climb aboard it and set off for Neverland. Fireflyer had told them how it could be done. A change of clothes was called for.

All over London and as far afield as Fotheringdene and Grimswater, Old Boys got down old suitcases from their attics and took out all the courage they owned. They went to their banks and withdrew all the daring they had saved up over the years. They checked in all the pockets of all their suits and felt down the back of the sofa to muster all the bravery they could.

And still it did not seem quite enough.

They bought flowers for their wives, toys for their children, and washed the windows for their neighbours. They applied for leave from work. They wrote letters to their nearest and dearest but tore them up again, because GOODBYE is much the hardest word to spell.

Bath-time came at First Twin’s house and while his twin sons were splashing, he slyly picked up some of their clothes from the bathroom floor and stole out into the night.

Time for prayers came in the house next door, and Second Twin told his identical twin sons, ‘Hands together; eyes closed,’—then pinched a school uniform and sneaked away on tiptoe.

At the Doctor’s house in Fotheringdene, Curly reached out to steal his child’s rugby kit … but the new puppy beat him to it, grabbing the collar and hanging on grimly. The animal growled and whined, and its claws scraped loudly on the polished floor. The child roused up—‘
Who’s
there?’
—so there was nothing Curly could do but pick up both shirt and puppy and run.

Storytime came in Mr John’s house, and Mr John read his little ones to sleep, took one last look, then crept to the door holding a stolen sailor suit. On the landing, he gave a guilty start, for there stood Mrs John. She knew, of course. Mr John had not breathed a word about the Journey, but she knew anyway. Wives do. Now she presented him with a packed lunch, a clean pair of socks, and a toothbrush. She even ironed the sailor suit before he put it on. ‘Take care, my love,’ she said, kissed him fondly, and led him to the front door. ‘Do give my warmest regards to Peter Pan.’

Judge Tootles realized, rather late in the day, that he only had daughters. The thought quite unmanned him. His fingers strayed to his large moustache and he stroked it like some dear pet that he must leave behind because of moving house.

Nibs … well, Mr Nibs simply could not do it. Standing beside the bunks in the back bedroom, watching the sleeping faces of his little ones, he simply could not imagine going anywhere without them—ever. He resigned then and there from the trip to Neverland. In fact he even woke the little ones up to ask, ‘What has Neverland got that could
possibly
be better than you?’

And the Honourable Slightly Darling? Well, he sat alone now in his elegant flat, nursing his clarinet. When Fireflyer had told them the secret of growing young again, Slightly had nodded but said nothing. He had watched the day come nearer, and dreamed dreams of Neverland, but said nothing. He had seen the others steeling themselves for the adventure, dusting Fireflyer’s lampshade each day for fairy magic, getting ready to go … and still said nothing. Now he sat in his elegant flat, his clarinet silent in his lap.

He was not one to spoil another chap’s fun. That was why he had not spoken up. And they had all forgotten—his adopted brothers and sister—that Slightly was a widower and had no children—no one whose clothes he could borrow, no one to make him young again.

Because, of course, that’s how it is done. Everyone knows that when you put on dressing-up clothes, you become someone else. So it follows that if you put on the clothes of your own children, you become their age again.

In wardrobes and broom cupboards, hopping down lamp-lit streets, squeezing their heads through little neck-holes and their feet into tiny football boots; straining seams and tripping over dressing gown cords, dropping wallets and fountain pens, and pocketing puppies, the Old Boys struggled into their children’s clothes. You may ask how it was possible for Judge Tootles to fit into a smocked party dress and ballet shoes. All I can say is that there was a tambourine moon shining, magic at work, and somehow all the hooks did up and all the buttons fastened.

Their minds filled up with thoughts of Neverland and of running away. Oddly, as they ran, their feet no longer avoided puddles but preferred to splash through them. Their fingers chose to blip metal railings, their lips to whistle, their eyes to shine.

Dr Curly felt good sense trickle out of his head like sand, to be replaced with squibs and sparklers. The Twins suddenly remembered each other’s favourite fairy stories. Judge Tootles found she could see without her spectacles and, when she swung from the climbing frame in the park, her teeth did not throb. But her top lip felt oddly bare, since for everso long she (or rather he) had worn a great curling moustache there and she missed it now as you might miss a pet hamster.

As the Old Boys rubbed fairy dust into the napes of their necks, short, prickly haircuts grew silky beneath their fingers—except for Tootles, of course, who found she had long yellow plaits and knew ballet positions One to Five.

… But the Honourable Slightly had no children. So he sat in his elegant flat, feeling every one of his thirty years weigh on his shoulders. Tugging off his evening tie, he went early to bed, hoping at least to
dream
of Neverland.

As for Mrs Wendy, well, she wrote a letter to the household, explaining how she was going to visit a distant friend and would return very soon. Before she put on her daughter Jane’s clothes, she darned the girl’s slips, rubbed out her day’s mistakes with an India rubber, crocheted a happy dream to slide under her pillow, and put her prayers in alphabetical order. Then she packed a few useful things in a wicker basket and wriggled into a small, clean sundress appliquéd with sunflowers and two rabbits.

‘It is always so sultry hot in Neverland,’ she told her sleeping child. ‘… How extraordinary! A perfect fit.’ Surprised by the last sneeze of her cold, she quickly reached for a handkerchief from the pocket of her discarded gown, tucked it up her little puffed sleeve, then crept out on to the balcony.

As she combed her share of fairy dust through her hair, lists and birthdays emptied out of her head, along with politics and typewriting; poems and recipes. Even her husband became a shadowy recollection. Not her daughter Jane, of course. No mother could ever forget her daughter. Not under any circumstances. Not for a minute.

In the sky over Kensington Gardens, a flock of flying children gathered, like birds in autumn getting ready to migrate. They floated on their backs, paddled along on their fronts, rode on the warm updraught from the High Street chimneys and got grubby in the smoke. A strand of old fog unravelling over the River Thames made them cough.

Owls blinked in astonishment. Nelson on top of his column raised his telescope to his one good eye. Statues of famous men pointed and jumped from foot to foot. (One on horseback even bolted.) Policemen on their beats heard squeals of laughter, but looked in vain for someone to arrest.

‘Where is Nibs?’ called Wendy.

‘
Not coming!
’ answered Fireflyer.

‘Where is Slightly?’ John wanted to know.

‘
Not coming
!
’ cried Fireflyer, glowing with glee.

‘
Oh
, yes I am
!
’
And Slightly came porpoising through the air, his wavy hair a-glitter with fairy dust. He was wearing an evening shirt whose tails came down past his nine-year-old knees and whose sleeves flapped way beyond his fingers. In his hand he clutched a clarinet, like a dueller’s sword. ‘I went down to the foot of the bed, you see! Haven’t done it for twenty years! Right down to the end and beyond! I remembered, you see! You can end up
anywhere
if you dare to go right down to the bottom! Which way now, Fireflyer?’

‘
How should I know?
’ snapped the fairy.

But everyone else answered for him: ‘
Second to the right
and straight on till morning!
’

At set of moon, after they had gone, the rain came down in exclamation marks.

The further they flew, the more they forgot of being grown-up and the better they remembered their days in Neverland. Sunshine! Leapfrog! Picnics! Into their heads tumbled daydreams and excitements. And all their feelings fizzed inside them, and all their muscles were twangy. They almost forgot to remember why they were making the journey.

‘If the Redskins are on the warpath, I’m going too!’

‘Do you think Tinker Bell will be pleased to see us?’

‘
Oh, will she be there, then, this Tinker Bell
?
’

‘I can’t wait to see Peter’s face when I give him his presents!’

‘I can’t wait to see the mermaids!’

‘
I said
, will Tinker Bell be there
?
Fairies die if you ignore them, you know
.’

‘I hope there are new villains to fight!’

‘Do you think there will be
new
Lost Boys, as well?’

At the thought of that, there was a sudden silence. Of course it was altogether possible! Boys fall out of their prams all the time, and nursery maids are notoriously bad at noticing. In all likelihood Peter Pan had gathered a new band of followers around him since the days of Nibs, Curly, the Twins, Slightly, and Tootles.

‘Will the underground den be big enough for us all to fit?’ Curly wondered anxiously.

‘Will the others even let us in?’ whispered the Twins.

‘They better had, or I’ll beat down the door!’

‘There might even be Lost Girls,’ said Wendy, uneasily. ‘Girls are so much sillier than they were when I was a baby.’ She was not at all sure she wanted there to be Lost Girls; without the right upbringing, girls can be so very …
domestic
.

Fireflyer the fairy, scorching between them like a hot cinder, suggested gleefully,
‘Maybe Peter Pan will cull you if there are too many! That’s what Peters do, isn’t it?
’ and the younger boys turned pale with fright.