Once Upon A Fairytale

by Bloomsbury Publishing

  But the princess was so sleepy and the giant’s nose was cosy,

  So, blanketed in gobs of snot, she catnapped on a bogey.

  The servants searched the kingdom for the missing royal highness

  And all the time she slept inside a giant snotty sinus.

  But this odd romance of somnolence was over all too soon

  When a violent sneeze propelled the princess halfway to the moon.

  The End

  *

  The stepmother was curious – the next page in the book

  Had a picture of a pumpkin coach. She took another look

  And she nodded. ‘Cinderella, time to rescue you at last.

  But who’d be daft enough to wear a slipper made of glass?’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ said the pea. ‘I’d look fantastic in that dress.

  And there’ll be no dirty work for me when I’m their new princess.’

  He squeezed inside a finger space and rolled into the rhyme.

  The spell was cast. He cried, ‘At last!’ and twirled between the lines.

  *

  The prince and Pea danced merrily around the king and queen.

  ‘Marry me,’ the dim prince said. ‘You’re gorgeous and you’re … green!’

  ‘You noticed me!’ But Pea’s relief was oddly brief and cursory.

  ‘And yet …’ Pea said, ‘I can’t forget the one I’ve loved since nursery.’

  They walked to where the carriage sat and peered behind the scenes.

  ‘Oh, my love,’ Pea cried, ‘you haven’t changed since Halloween!’

  ‘I have,’ said Prince. ‘I changed my pants.’ But Pea said, ‘No, not you!’

  ‘Oh, Sweetpea,’ said the pumpkin coach, ‘you know I love you too.’

  ‘We wish to leave,’ they told the queen and begged for royal pardon.

  And, hand in hand, rolled through the land towards the palace garden.

  The End

  *

  A golden ball began to fall. It made the princess look

  And she saw in its reflection recollections of her book.

  ‘This one’s mine,’ the princess sighed. ‘The Frog Prince – what a joke!

  Who’d want to snog a warty frog? That stench! That slime! That croak!’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ said the wolf. ‘This is my chance to make amends.

  I hereby vow that as of now I won’t eat meat again.’

  The big bad wolf crawled through the gulf and leapt into the rhyme.

  His back bristled, he wolf-whistled and sneaked between the lines.

  *

  The frog prince puckered up his lips and leant in for the deed.

  To Wolf’s surprise, this satisfied a long-forgotten need.

  ‘No one’s ever loved me,’ said the wolf between the kissing.

  ‘Has karma finally granted me a taste of what I’m missing?’

  The two entwined, their eyes aligned, and Wolf began to pout,

  But he got a whiff of girly sniff stuck in his furry snout.

  ‘What’s that smell?’ His urges surged. ‘It’s making me feel funny.’

  ‘Eau de Princess,’ the frog confessed. ‘It rubbed off on my tummy.’

  Despite his vow, the scent aroused a wolfish need to scoff.

  ‘I think I love you,’ sobbed the wolf, and bit his head right off.

  The End

  *

  A tangled shoot took root inside the pages of the book.

  The princess pushed a branch aside to get a better look.

  ‘I see a giant – gosh!’ she cried. ‘He’s hanging by a leaf!

  We must act fast to save him from that troublemaking thief.’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ said the stepmother. ‘Jack’s just misunderstood.

  I’ll save that poor, beleaguered boy. But only if he’s good.’

  She clambered up the bramble leaves and stalked across the rhyme.

  ‘Mummy’s back!’ she cried to Jack and climbed between the lines.

  *

  Jack hurtled down the beanstalk and then hollered down below,

  ‘Mother! Mother, throw the axe! The giant’s about to blow!’

  ‘You trust me?’ said the stepmother. ‘Then, Jack, you are in luck.

  For a stroke of sweet fortuity has led me to your book!’

  The beanstalk shook as giant footsteps thundered overhead.

  ‘Chuck it then!’ cried Jack again, but Stepmother stopped dead.

  She retreated down the beanstalk with a stinging sense of shrewdness.

  ‘Impending death,’ she sadly said, ‘is no excuse for rudeness.’

  She tutted as Jack stuttered, ‘Help!’ and simply shook her head.

  ‘Money doesn’t grow on trees, but “please” is free,’ she said.

  The End

  *

  Filled with dread, the princess read the last page of the book.

  She saw the woods, the scarlet hood, and knew just where to look.

  ‘Little Red,’ the princess said, ‘I know how that one ends,

  But perhaps the wolf was honest when he pledged to make amends.’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ said the princess. ‘Bad though he may be,

  I’ll stand up for the wolf the way that he stood up for me.’

  She donned the cape and soon escaped inside the murder rhyme.

  The princess said, ‘I’m Little Red!’ and skipped between the lines.

  *

  The wolf careened between the trees. The woodcutter grew bold.

  ‘Give me the axe,’ the princess asked. He did as he was told.

  ‘You’re the first to ever listen,’ said the princess, feeling flawless.

  ‘And rightly so – that wolf, you know, is newly herbivorous.’

  But when the wolf returned with gravy, Red became suspicious.

  ‘I’m trying to quit,’ said Wolf, ‘but – mmmm – the red ones are delicious.’

  Then a sudden whiff of spawny sniff came wafting up above.

  ‘What’s that smell?’ His hunger quelled. ‘It makes me think of … love.’

  ‘Eau de frog.’ The Princess shrugged. ‘It rubbed off on my bed.’

  She changed her tack and raised the axe. ‘It’s payback time,’ she said.

  The …

  ‘Impostor!’ said the author. ‘I know Little Red by heart!’

  ‘You remind me of that princess that I banished at the start.’

  The princess felt her heart skip in the shadow of the pen,

  But the scribbling and the scratching …

  ‘Wait! You won’t cross me again!’

  ‘I’m armed,’ she said, ‘and I won’t let you banish me forever.

  If I go down,’ the princess frowned, ‘we both go down together.’

  The author giggled nervously. ‘Let’s try to make this work –’

  ‘Give me the pen,’ the princess said, ‘and no one will get hurt.’

  The author cried, ‘I’m sorry!’ as he quickly disappeared.

  But the scribbling and the scratching meant the princess couldn’t hear.

  The Problem with Mr Woolf

  Kelly Archer

  ‘I’m not going!’

  ‘Scarlett!’ said Mum in her I-haven’t-got-time-for-this voice. ‘We always go to Nan’s on Sunday. Think how disappointed she’ll be if you don’t come.’

  ‘Will he be there?’ said Scarlett rather sulkily.

  ‘I expect so.’

  Scarlett crossed her arms and stayed where she was at the top of the stairs.

  ‘Honestly, Scarlett,’ said Mum, ‘Mr Woolf is Nan’s, err, special friend. I really don’t understand what the problem is!’

  This was quite a silly thing for Mum to say, thought Scarlett. It was pretty obvious what the problem with Mr Woolf was. In fact, Scarlett considered herself something of an expert on the subject as last week she’d written a list with the heading (underlined three times in red pen).

  THE PROBLEM WITH MR WOOLF

&nb
sp; 1. His teeth are too big. And too white – suspiciously white

  (Scarlett was sure that if she looked at them directly she’d have after-images burnt on her retinas for weeks).

  2. He’s always spouting poetry or saying things in other languages

  (the man seemed determined to use about ten words where two would have done).

  3. He listens to the most awful jazz music

  (the sort that doesn’t have a beginning or an end and sounds like five musicians all playing a different tune at the same time).

  4. He never wears socks.

  (How can you trust someone who hasn’t grasped the basic principles of keeping your feet warm?)

  5. He kisses Nan.

  She was wondering whether this would be the right time to read the list aloud when Mum said, ‘You are going and that’s that! And I really think you need to get over this dislike of Mr Woolf. He’s always been polite to you and your brother likes him.’

  ‘Oliver is two,’ said Scarlett. ‘He also likes smearing Nutella on the cat and putting Lego bricks up his nose, so I don’t think we can trust his opinion.’

  Mum rolled her eyes. ‘Well, you can’t stay here on your own.’

  ‘I could stay with Mr Woodman,’ offered Scarlett.

  Mr Woodman was their next-door neighbour. He had a Border terrier called Nigel and was good at solving maths problems.

  ‘Mr Woodman is a busy man, Scarlett,’ said Mum. ‘I’m not going to ask him to babysit you just because Mr Woolf plays jazz records!’

  ‘But he could help me with my algebra homework,’ said Scarlett in desperation.

  Mum frowned. ‘Just put your coat on!’

  It was half an hour’s drive to Nan’s house and Oliver always insisted on having his singalong nursery rhymes on in the car, so Scarlett put her headphones in and tried to remember how this terrible situation had all started. It had begun about six months ago when Nan had announced out of the blue that she was joining the Twilight Encounters Dating Agency. Even Mum had been a bit taken aback at the news.

  ‘Dating agency?’ she’d spluttered, nearly choking on her tea. ‘Are you sure about this?’

  But Nan had been very cheery about the whole thing. ‘Grandad’s been gone for nearly ten years now and it gets lonely just being in the house on my own. Besides, they say that seventy is the new fifty.’

  Scarlett didn’t know who ‘they’ were, but thought that they should probably keep their opinions about people’s nans to themselves.

  At first it was fine because the only people that Nan met were retired accountants who spent their time collecting unusual wing nuts or photographing hedges. Then about a month into her subscription, she met Mr Lewis Woolf. He was at least ten years younger than Nan, with a full head of silver hair and a rather too-dazzling smile. When she was feeling in a more generous mood Scarlett could probably see how Nan might be smitten. But she didn’t understand what on earth they could have in common since Mr Woolf seemed to enjoy quite cultural pursuits while Nan’s main interests, as far as Scarlett knew, were daytime television and Take a Break competitions.

  ‘He’s got a real twinkle in his eye,’ she’d gushed to Mum when she was describing him one afternoon, ‘like the chap who used to be in Lovejoy.’

  Scarlett didn’t know who this was but she felt sure that anyone whose eyes twinkled could not be trusted around grandmothers.

  It didn’t take long before he was at Nan’s house all the time and the full horror became apparent to Scarlett. Now you couldn’t pay a visit without being forced to appreciate the merits of some appalling trumpet solo, which Mr Woolf talked endlessly about and which Nan pretended to like, even though Scarlett was pretty sure she’d prefer to listen to her Tom Jones CD.

  Then the experimental cooking started. Nan had never been a brilliant cook but she had a few dishes that she could make without too much going wrong. Now lunch was a joint effort with Nan stirring something that she couldn’t pronounce, while Mr Woolf stood behind her, occasionally tasting it and saying, ‘A little more pepper, tesoromio’, which made Nan giggle like a schoolgirl.

  Worst of all was the kissing. It hadn’t been so bad when Mr Woolf had stopped at Nan’s hand. Scarlett might even have been able to stomach an affectionate peck on the cheek, but anything else … well, frankly it made Scarlett feel sick.

  ‘We’re here, Scarlett,’ said Mum. ‘Look, I know you’re finding this whole thing with Mr Woolf a bit difficult, but you can be nice just for today, can’t you?’

  ‘OK,’ said Scarlett. ‘For Nan.’

  Before they even rang the doorbell, Scarlett could hear music playing but she took a deep breath and forced a smile onto her face.

  Mr Woolf answered the door. He was wearing pink trousers and loafers with no socks.

  Scarlett felt the smile slipping.

  ‘Ahh, the luminous Sylvia,’ said Mr Woolf as he planted a kiss on Mum’s hand. ‘What is light, if Sylvia be not seen?’

  Scarlett let out a groan but Mum nudged her in the ribs and said, ‘Thank you, Lewis, charming as ever. Scarlett, Oliver, have you said hello to Mr Woolf?’

  ‘Ee-ho,’ said Oliver.

  ‘Yeah, hi,’ muttered Scarlett.

  ‘Ooh, is that my favourite family?’ said a voice from inside the house.

  Then Nan emerged from the kitchen wearing the most awful dress Scarlett had ever seen. It was floaty and beige coloured and showed far too much cleavage. Nan looked like a Yorkshire pudding.

  Even Mum’s jaw fell open.

  ‘Do you like it?’ simpered Nan, doing a little twirl. ‘It’s designer, you know. Lewis picked it up for me on his last business trip to Milan.’

  Picked it up off the floor in Oxfam more like! thought Scarlett.

  ‘Umm, you look … radiant,’ said Mum.

  ‘Well, come in, come in,’ said Nan. ‘We’re having a poo-ey and crocket and it’s nearly ready.’

  ‘Poulet en cocotte, mon petit chou,’ corrected Mr Woolf.

  ‘Oh yes, that’s what I meant,’ said Nan.

  Scarlett gave Mum a baffled look and Mum whispered, ‘Chicken casserole.’

  Dinner was atrocious. It took much longer than usual because the casserole had nuts in it which Oliver didn’t like and Mum had to pick them out for him. Then there was Nan’s dress, which was far too low-cut for dining in. Every time Nan reached for her wine glass Scarlett saw far more of her than she’d ever wanted to! Most awful was the way Mr Woolf’s left hand kept disappearing under the table, leading to Nan purring, ‘Ooh, Lewis!’ like she’d been tickled. Scarlett could barely swallow her food.

  Mum tried her best to make conversation.

  ‘So, Lewis, you’ve been to Milan? What is it you do again?’

  ‘He’s in the wine business,’ said Nan, failing to notice that one of her long sleeves had fallen into her casserole again.

  ‘Ooh, there’s nothing he doesn’t know about wine. In fact, he chose this lovely Italian one we’re drinking now. What is it again, Lewis – a Chablis?’

  ‘That’s right.’ Mr Woolf beamed, pouring Nan another large glass. ‘With a fine vintage, just like my amore.’

  ‘Oh, I thought you were in the antiques business, Lewis?’ said Mum.

  Mr Woolf raised a grey eyebrow so that it looked like an upside-down ‘V’. ‘I have my finger in a few pies, Sylvia,’ he said, giving Nan a suggestive wink.

  Scarlett scowled at him.

  Eventually, Mum put everyone out of their misery by saying, ‘Well, it must be getting late …’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Nan. ‘What time is it?’

  Nan wasn’t wearing her watch, which was very strange, because it had been a present from Grandad and she always wore it, even though it was ancient and quite often told completely the wrong time.

  ‘Where’s your watch, Nan?’ asked Scarlett.

  ‘Oh, that old thing,’ said Nan. ‘It needs fixing and besides Lewis doesn’t think it goes with my lovely dress.’

  Scarl
ett and Mum’s eyes met. Scarlett was sure that they were both thinking that there weren’t any accessories that could make that dress look worse, but Mum covered it up quickly by saying, ‘Well, Scarlett’s got school in the morning …’

  ‘Well, give me a big hug and then Lewis and I will walk you to the car,’ said Nan, holding out her arms.

  Scarlett normally didn’t mind a hug from Nan but as parts of her were already spilling out over the top of her dress she kept her face discretely to one side. Not only was Nan’s dress a style disaster, it was very scratchy close up and, as Scarlett turned her face, a large label with some numbers on it grazed her cheek. This day just gets worse, she thought and quickly put her coat on before anything else could happen.

  As they got to the car and were saying their goodbyes, Scarlett noticed a lady about Nan’s age on the other side of the street, walking a small dog. When she saw Nan and Mr Woolf, she stopped in her tracks and looked extremely puzzled. Then something seemed to dawn on her and she began waving in their direction.

  Nan was making kissy faces to Oliver so she didn’t notice, but Scarlett saw a palpable look of panic cross Mr Woolf’s face. He began to back towards the house, pulling Nan’s elbow.

  By now the woman’s waving had become a bit more frantic and she’d started to call out, ‘Andre! Andre, is that you?’

  Scarlett was about to roll the window down to hear a bit better when Mum started the car and drove off.

  ‘Mum, did you see that?’ asked Scarlett.

  ‘The dress? I know. Honestly, she looked like an overrisen muffin!’

  ‘No, not the dress!’ exclaimed Scarlett. ‘That woman. She called Mr Woolf Andre.’

  ‘I didn’t notice anyone.’

  ‘There was a lady across the street, with a dog!’ Scarlett was feeling exasperated. ‘She knew Mr Woolf and she called him Andre.’

  ‘Are you sure her dog wasn’t called Andre?’ said Mum.

  Scarlett had to admit that this possibility hadn’t actually occurred to her. But she knew what she’d seen. That lady had recognised Mr Woolf and he had definitely looked like he didn’t want to see her.

  ‘Well,’ she muttered, ‘he’s up to something.’