Roxy & Jones

by Angela Woolfe

  And with that, she tha-wunked her hand down onto the shoulder of the person right in front of them, a person who’d been just about to dart down the steps of Mulligatawny Square’s tube station.

  It was, Roxy realized as the person spun round to face them, the lilac-fedora-wearing boy who’d been sipping tea in the window seat of the café.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” the boy demanded.

  “What are we doing? How about you,” Jones demanded back, “and that random act of MAGIC?”

  The boy let out a most un-boy-like shriek. “Don’t use that word!” he gasped, flapping a hand in Roxy’s direction. “She could be anyone!”

  “Oh, chill out,” said Jones. “Roxy’s all right. She knows. Anyway, of course it was blooming magic, what you did back there! No one’s head just randomly turns into a pineapple.”

  “Still, will you keep your voice down?” hissed the boy. He squirmed free from Jones’s grip and darted round the side of the news stand near the tube station. “SMOGs all over the place today,” he grumbled, “and you’re running around yelling your head off about magic for all the world to hear.”

  “It’s a bit late to be worried about that,” Jones said indignantly, “when you’ve just turned Minister Splendid’s daughter into a tropical fruit!”

  “Admittedly, I wasn’t really thinking. Still, at least all my spells are pre-set to wear off at the stroke of mid— Wait, what did you just say?”

  “Tropical fruit?”

  “Before that!”

  “Minister Splendid’s daughter?”

  The boy’s jaw dropped.

  Which made it clear, for the first time, that he was wearing apricot-coloured lipstick.

  “Oh, golly-golly-gosh,” he whispered, taking off his hat to run a shaking hand through his hair.

  Which made it clear, for the first time, that he was also wearing moss-green eyeshadow, thick black mascara and a pearly-peach blusher.

  “Silly mistake of mine this morning,” he muttered, seeing Roxy and Jones’s startled faces, “putting on my usual make-up without thinking. I only realized when I saw my face in the back of a teaspoon back there. Good thing I had a hat in my handbag.” He waggled the bag he was carrying, which – now Roxy saw – actually was a handbag, a huge shoulder bag in daffodil-yellow leather. “Now, are you absolutely sure that was Minister Splendid’s daughter?”

  “Positive,” said Roxy, finding her voice at last.

  The boy let out a high-pitched wail. “And all I was trying to do was stand up for my goddaughter!”

  “I’m not your goddaughter,” said Roxy. “I don’t even have a godfather.” (Let alone, she would have added if she knew a polite way to say it, one who was ten years old.)

  “Not you, dear!” The boy pointed at Jones. “Her! I’ve been keeping my godmotherly eye on her since she ran away from home.”

  “But I don’t have a…” Jones stopped. “Wait a minute,” she said. “You’re not … Frankie?”

  The boy nodded, and gave a little curtsy. “The very same. Your one and only fairy godmother!”

  10

  “Wow,” said Jones in an awed voice. “I mean … just … wow. Last time I saw you, you were a little old lady, pretending to collect money for homeless cats.”

  “I am a little old lady!” said the boy indignantly. “I just tried this new Miracle Makeover spell on myself and it went rather badly wrong. It was supposed to make me look as radiant as I was in my two-hundred-and-sixties. I’m still not sure how it turned me into a ten-year-old. And a boy. And it’s taking longer to wear off than usual. Honestly, my spells never usually last past midnight, but this one’s lingering and lingering…”

  “This is the most awesome news!” Jones let out a little whoop and pulled Frankie in for a hug. “Your timing could not be better! Roxy and I could really use a BOBI right now.”

  “Bobby?” Roxy stared at Jones. “He said his name was Frankie.”

  Jones gave a hoot of laughter. “Not B-O-B-B-Y. Frankie is a BOBI. B-O-B-I.”

  “It stands for Being of Benign Intent, dear,” Frankie said, squeezing Roxy’s hand with his own, faintly powdery one. “BOBI is the name for the Decent Magical people that are still allowed to live in this country. Under strict regulations, that is. And in total secrecy. Both of which I’ve just entirely disregarded,” he sighed, “by zapping the Minister’s daughter, of all people.”

  “Oh, don’t stress about that,” said Jones. “She probs won’t even tell anyone about it. Too embarrassing.”

  “That’s not the point!” Frankie was actually wringing his hands now. “Such a silly, thoughtless thing for me to do! Performing unauthorized magic is more foolhardy than ever, what with all the extra SMOG patrols around these past couple of days. Granted, they’ve got bigger fish to fry today – they won’t be worrying about one teensy-weensy little transformation spell – but even so…”

  “What fish,” Jones demanded, “have they got to fry?” Her ears seemed to have almost pricked up, like a dog’s. “Is something going on?”

  “Oh, well, dearie, I shouldn’t be talking about it to non-BOBIs, I really shouldn’t…” Frankie looked torn for a moment, but it was all too evident that he liked a bit of a gossip. “There’s been a breakout,” he mouthed dramatically, “from a top-security Dark Magic prison.”

  “Whoa!” Jones let out a whistle. “You mean the one in the mountains, where all the Diabolical prisoners are kept?”

  “That’s the one. There are only rumours at the moment, of course, about which prisoner has escaped. But when you think about the dreadful characters that have been kept there…” Frankie shuddered. “I was on my way this morning to find out what my dear friend Diadora might know about it – she’s a witch, after all, a good witch of course, but still, she’ll be more up to date with the underground news than any of my fairy friends – when the itching in my earlobes got even worse. So obviously I had to deal with that first.”

  “Itching in your earlobes?” Roxy asked anxiously. “Is that anything to do with this Diabolical breakout?”

  “Oh, no, dearie! That’s a fairy godmother thing.” Frankie squeezed Roxy’s hand again. “Our earlobes itch when our godchildren are in danger. And thank goodness that they do!” he added severely to Jones. “After all, how else would I know what’s going on with my only goddaughter? You didn’t even try to wish for me to come, not once! Not even after I came to check up on you, pretending to be that ridiculous homeless-cat charity collector! How was I to know things had got that bad at home? Our earlobes only itch when you’re in danger, not when you’re plain miserable.”

  “It’s true,” said Jones, unusually meek. She was, Roxy realized, Up To Something. “You’re right, Frankie, and I feel bad about it. But better late than never, right?”

  “I suppose…” began Frankie suspiciously.

  “So, this witch friend you said you were going to visit… Any chance Roxy and I could tag along?”

  “Oh! My dear! BOBIs and non-BOBIs aren’t supposed to fraternize these days. Why do you think I pretended to be that homeless-cat loon? Anyway, what could you possibly need to meet a witch for?”

  “Well, we’re on a bit of a … well, let’s call it a scavenger hunt. Just for fun, really. Looking for a witch’s tower, as it happens. I thought a proper witch might be able to point us in the right direction.”

  “Scavenger hunt?” Frankie looked alarmed. “Is it dangerous? Oh, what am I saying – of course it’s dangerous to go looking for a witch’s tower, two non-BOBIs like you! All these SMOGs around at the moment, you could get into the most terrible trouble!”

  “We’ll wait before we actually go to the witch’s tower, then,” Jones said, pressing her foot hard on Roxy’s, which almost certainly meant she was fibbing and didn’t want Roxy to say so. “Let this whole breakout thing die down first. But please, Frankie, let us come with you. After all,” she wheedled, “you’re my fairy godmother. You’re supposed to help me when I need yo
u, right?”

  “True, dear, but that’s more in situations where – oh, I don’t know – you might need my help getting to a fancy ball…”

  Jones snorted.

  “… or when you want to meet a handsome prince…”

  Jones made a retching noise.

  “Oh, fine!” snapped Frankie. “I suppose the SMOGs have bigger things to worry about today than a bit of illegal fraternizing. Besides, the SMOG patrols tend to leave Sector Seven to itself.”

  “Sector Seven? That’s where we’re going?” Jones let out a little whoop of excitement. “Where all the BOBIs live?”

  “Not all of them, dear. But it’s where Diadora lives.” Frankie put his hat back on. “Hmm. It’s quite a walk. Although, I did buy all that veg in the supermarket earlier…”

  He delved deep into the yellow handbag and, a moment later, pulled out a cauliflower and a very shiny purple aubergine.

  Jones and Roxy stared down at them.

  “How are a couple of vegetables,” Jones asked, finally, “supposed to get us to the other side of town?”

  “Oh, dear child, Vegetable Vehicles are the hottest thing in fairy magic right now. All my friends are transforming vegetables like crazy!” Frankie shot a quick glance over his shoulder to check no one was listening in. “Cabbages into bicycles, onions into milk floats… D’you know, at brunch with the girls last Saturday, I managed to transform an avocado into a scooter. I was ever so chuffed!” Frankie delved back into the bag and pulled out a small pumpkin. “Now, this would take really advanced magic. But I was thinking of giving it a go sometime—”

  “I’m allergic to pumpkin,” Jones interrupted. “But if you can seriously make something out of that aubergine – her eyes were glittering with excitement – “that would be ep—”

  “Absolutely not.” Roxy spoke firmly, surprising herself almost as much as them. “You said it yourself, Frankie, SMOGs are everywhere at the moment. And I’ve already been decontaminated once!”

  “You’re quite right, dear.” Nodding vigorously, Frankie slipped the vegetables back into his handbag. “I don’t know what came over me. Let’s just hop on the tube! It’s only three stops if we take the Splendid line. That’s by far the most sensible way to get to Sector Seven.”

  They took the tube.

  Jones was in a total sulk about it, refusing to even sit next to Roxy and, instead, sprawling across an entire row opposite, listening to Roxy’s music on Roxy’s phone through Roxy’s headphones. (Her sulk didn’t extend to refusing this generous offer.)

  “Well, this is nice, isn’t it, dear?” Frankie was making himself comfortable in the seat beside Roxy. Fortunately, they had the carriage to themselves. He reached into his handbag and pulled out a bag of jelly sweets. “You look like you could use one of these!”

  “Thank you.” Roxy took an orange sweet and popped it into her mouth, relishing the sugary hit. She sat back in her seat and closed her eyes for a moment. “Everything’s been a bit of a surprise, to be honest.”

  “Yes, it’s quite the shock for the few who ever find out!” Frankie nodded with great satisfaction. “Us BOBIs operate in total secrecy, you see. That’s the condition under which we’re allowed to stay in Illustria. The so-called Soup Minister is very clear about that.”

  This – finally – was the chance for Roxy to have her question answered.

  “Look, I’ve been dying to know. If the Soup Ministry isn’t actually anything to do with soup, what’s it the Ministry for?”

  “Moo,” said Frankie.

  This was disconcerting, to say the least.

  “Spelled like this,” Frankie added, reaching into his handbag for a biro and writing on Roxy’s hand.

  Roxy glanced down and read the word MOOOOOH.

  “It stands,” Frankie said, “for Ministry Overseeing, Organizing Or Occasionally Opposing Hocus-Pocus.”

  “That’s a completely bonkers name,” said Roxy.

  “Can’t argue with that, dearie!”

  Roxy could only imagine what Gretel would say if she ever found out any of this stuff.

  “So it’s really a kind of … magic-control Ministry?”

  Frankie nodded. “The high-ups are big on control. And trust me, dear, there’s a lot more than just the occasional opposing of hocus-pocus. Mind you, they needed control when they first took over. This place was chock-full of all those horrible Diabolica-worshippers; it was giving magic a bad name.”

  “But why do you stay?” Roxy couldn’t help asking. “If you’re not allowed to be yourselves apart from behind closed doors?”

  “Because it’s our home, dear child, just as much as it is yours. You’re from Illustria, I presume?”

  “Yes. At least, I was born here, but I’ve moved around over the years.” Roxy knew she was rambling, but this time it wasn’t from nerves. There was something so grandmotherly about the sweet-faced boy sitting beside her that she wanted to tell him everything. “My dad gets married quite a lot. We usually move to wherever my new stepmum lives. And at the last count, I’ve had, I think, ten stepmothers. Or maybe it’s eleven. I lose track. And Dad was married four times before I even came along. My own mum was my half-brother and half-sister’s fourth stepmum.”

  “You poor darling!” Frankie proffered another fruit jelly. “And your own mother is dead, of course?”

  “Oh, no. Mum’s alive and well. At least, I think she’s alive and well. I only get the occasional message since she left my dad and set off to ‘find herself’ eight years ago. The last time I heard from her she was in India. Or maybe it was Nepal. I hope she’s finding herself better than I’m finding her, that’s all I can say!”

  “Goodness.” Frankie’s eyes, beneath the brim of his lilac fedora, were bulging. “How … modern! Of course –” he nodded at Jones across the aisle – “my poor goddaughter had a lovely mother herself, rest her soul. Not like that vile stepmother, threatening to call the police because of one tiny cupcake incident.”

  “She got that waaaaaaaart,” Jones suddenly sang out, in a voice like a corncrake with laryngitis, “on the eeeeeend of her noh-oh-oh-OHSE. You know –” mercifully, she had stopped singing – “I quite like this H-Bomb and the Missiles stuff. I mean, yeah, it’s miserable. And weirdly obsessed with witches. But you forget how that H-Bomb guy can really sing.”

  “Well, at least someone can,” said Frankie crisply, getting to his feet as the tube pulled into a station. “Pleasant Street! This is our stop, my dears! Follow me!”

  Obediently, the girls followed Frankie off the train, up the escalator and out of the station.

  “I can’t believe it’s actually here.” Jones was gazing around, in open awe, as they came out into the fresh air. “I’ve only been to Pleasant Street Station once before. I delivered two dozen red-velvet cupcakes to an office near by. I never knew Sector Seven was here!”

  “You have to know exactly where you’re going,” said Frankie, bustling down the busy shopping street before taking a sharp right at a smaller, rather less swanky branch of Mrs Kettleman’s Doughnuts. The road they found themselves on was already quieter than the main one, and noticeably more shabby. “It’s exactly seven paces along here,” Frankie continued, measuring out the seven paces before taking a left turn, “and then we’ll take the seventh turning to the left. We magical folk do love a nice seven!” Jones’s fairy godmother cast an eye around as they hurried along the street. “It’s been months since I was here. It’s more run-down than ever!”

  Roxy silently agreed. This was certainly not the picture-perfect Rexopolis the tourists got to see. The street they were taking now was narrow, and flanked by high, grey blocks of flats with not enough windows. The few shops – a minimart here, a phone store there – had dusty windows and looked thin on both stock and customers.

  “Basically, after the Great Clean-Up, Minister Splendid built all these mega-grim flats,” Jones explained, seeing Roxy’s face, “and forced all the BOBIs to live here so he could keep tab
s on them.”

  “Don’t be so dramatic, dear.” Frankie tutted. “Nobody is forced to live here. They’re more kind of … encouraged. And yes, Minister Splendid did build all these rather spartan flats for them to live in. But really, if you’d seen some of the grotty hovels inhabited by the elven folk back in the Cursed Kingdom—”

  “So why don’t you live here, then?” Jones asked, not-terribly-politely.

  “I just prefer to live among regular people. Ooooh, you two must come for tea at my flat one day, when the SMOG patrols have died down a bit. It’s only small, but, my dears, the city views are to die for!”

  Just as Frankie said this, they came out, abruptly, into a kind of square – though technically it was a septagon rather than a square, as it had seven distinct sides.

  “This is the Septagon,” said Frankie (which made a lot of sense). “The heart of Sector Seven.”

  It didn’t look like a very healthy heart. It was almost entirely deserted apart from a couple of shabby market stalls and a pavement café with half a dozen customers, three of whom got up and left their seats the moment Frankie, Jones and Roxy walked into the Septagon.

  “Rude!” muttered Frankie. “Honestly, this is why I don’t socialize with many BOBIs these days. They’re so skittish around strangers! Now, let’s head down Street Seven Point Five –” he began to cross the Septagon – “and head to dear Diadora’s flat.”

  “Diadora is a nice name,” said Roxy politely.

  “Oh, yes, isn’t it? It’s a fairy name, traditionally. But then, although Diadora is a witch, her mother was a fairy. One of Sleeping Beauty’s fairy godmothers, in fact.” Frankie shot a side-eyed glance at Jones. “Some lucky fairies get lovely, easy godchildren.”

  “Load of pig poo,” said Jones, not looking the slightest put out. “It’s easy to be easy if you drop off for a hundred years.”

  “Anyway, Diadora’s mother, Daphne the Dandelion Fairy, is the clever one who managed to weaken the evil fairy Mortadella’s curse, so Sleeping Beauty was only put to sleep, instead of dying.”

  “So it’s not just Rapunzel?” Roxy glanced from Jones to Frankie and back again. “It’s Sleeping Beauty, too?”