Glasgow Fairytale

by Alastair D. McIver

  ‘Very astute, Mr King,’ confirmed the mirror. ‘Indeed, the McCinder wimp left your workplace with every intention of carrying out your wishes, but bottled it at the last. She was dazed, confused and friendless, so she turned to the only person she could think of for support; namely the spherical Ms Cameron. Unfortunately, from our point of view, she could not have picked a more … heavyweight ally. Your Jillipoos now knows exactly what you’re up to, and why.’

  King nodded with sudden understanding. ‘Nae wonder she was so keen to separate us.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said the mirror, ‘and since she would, given the chance, almost certainly destroy me – which is not much more in your interest than mine – I trust you can assure me it’s no gonnae happen?’

  King grinned slyly. ‘Oh, I’ll keep you as lang as you’re useful to me. So … how long before you’ve took doon that cloaking spell?’

  ‘Hard to say, but rest assured I can. Patience, Mr King, is a virtue.’

  ‘Aye,’ said King. ‘And I have virtue-ly nane.’

  ‘Very droll,’ said the mirror. ‘You know … for the impatient man, there is a solution which would simplify matters and save considerable time.’

  ‘Tell me more.’

  ‘Well, I am wise to the ways of magic, and know that it is a very rare spell indeed that can outlive the magician who cast it. So if you get rid of the blob, your problems vanish.’

  With a hellish roar, King wrenched the mirror from the wall and gripped it threateningly. ‘Let’s get one thing straight,’ he snarled. ‘Whatever happens, Jill will not be harmed on account of it. Clear?’

  ‘Crystal, Mr King.’

  ‘And you will on no account refer to her as “the blob”.’

  ‘As you wish, Mr King,’ said the mirror, calm as ever. ‘Is there some term you would prefer? The blimp? The hippo? The Stay-Puft Marshmallow Woman?’

  ‘Avoid referring to her at all,’ insisted King, replacing the mirror none too gently. ‘You are on very dangerous ground.’

  ‘No I’m not,’ the mirror informed him matter-of-factly. ‘If you destroy me, you lose all hope of destroying Snowy White. If you do so because I insulted your obnoxious, meddling, fat ex-girlfriend who is trying to thwart you, won’t you feel a wee bit silly?’

  King snarled.

  ‘I know it is difficult for you humans to let go of that kind of feelings,’ the mirror told him gently, ‘but you do yourself no service by clinging to them. She – Jill – is actively plotting to thwart you. She wants to get between you and your ambitions. She wants to get between you and your right – your right – to be the bonniest man in Glasgow; the bonniest man anywhere. She is your enemy.’

  ‘Aye,’ said King. ‘I suppose you’re right.’

  ‘I’m always right,’ said the mirror. ‘You have no friends apart from me.’

  Always the professional, King gave the camera no hint that he was at all upset that day.

  ‘Hello, and welcome to The Reggie King Show.

  ‘Should Scots be given more rights to defend their homes? Later, I’ll be talking to the wife and young son of a bear who was jailed after eating an intruder, who will be calling for a change in the law.

  ‘But first … I’m sure my next guest needs no introduction. A young lad of only seventeen, he has already achieved great things for club and country. Who can forget that goal against England, eh? Please welcome … Harry Charmaine!’

  The studio audience gave the footballer a thunderous cheer, which made him shrink awkwardly and slump shyly into his seat. He shook King’s hand with no conviction at all.

  ‘Harry, it’s an honour to have you on the show. I don’t mind telling you … I’m a huge fan.’

  ‘Aye. Likewise.’ Charmaine nodded vigorously.

  ‘Now, whatever you do next, wherever your career takes you, let’s be honest … you will probably always be remembered for one goal. Last year, at the tender age of sixteen, you became the youngest Scottish player ever to score against the Auld Enemy, England, in a full international. We’ve all seen it a hundred times before … but we all want to see it again, don’t we?’

  There was a roar of assent from the studio audience, who got to see on a giant screen what viewers could see on their TV screens: a golden moment of football action.

  ‘Talk us through this, would you, Harry?’ said King.

  On-screen, an English defender was dispossessed by a Scottish midfielder, who stroked the ball with infinite elegance into the path of the onrushing Harry Charmaine, whose look of grim-faced, warrior-like confidence seemed to have nothing to do with the nervous wreck sitting opposite King in the studio. He controlled the ball easily with his chest, caught it with his laces on the volley, and it sailed from twenty yards into the back of the net.

  This action was set to Charmaine’s commentary: ‘Well, it just … fell nicely for me, and I just blootered it. And sometimes when ye just blooter it, it goes in, and that’s what happened on this occasion.’

  ‘Fantastic,’ said King. ‘How does it make you feel to have achieved such a thing at such a young age?’

  ‘Och, well,’ shrugged Charmaine. ‘Ye can only dae yer best, can’t ye? Sometimes yer best is a memorable goal, and in that respect, I’ve been very fortunate.’

  ‘Your humility is admirable. You’re an inspiration.’

  Charmaine blushed.

  ‘Let’s talk for a minute about this charity ball you’ve organised.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Charmaine.

  ‘Now, last year’s Scotland against Sectarianism concert was also your brainchild, so you are developing a reputation for being full of ideas … perhaps surprisingly so.’

  ‘Aye, well,’ shrugged Charmaine, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. ‘Everybody’s got good ideas, but when I get them, they actually happen, ’cause of who I am.’

  ‘So tell us a bit more about this ball.’

  ‘Well, it’s gonnae take place in the Thistle Hotel, on the 18th, in just over two weeks’ time, and the way ye get tickets is by entering the prize draw. That costs a fiver, so anyone can have a chance of going. Ye get a five-course meal, there’s dancing, live music, and it’ll be a’ pure celebrities and that. Folk like … um …’

  King cleared his throat. ‘Well, me for a start!’

  ‘Aye. Aye, yerself as well, of course. It’ll be great. Anyone can go if they get a winning ticket, as I say. And all proceeds go to charity.’

  ‘I’m sure the ladies will think it worth a fiver for the chance to dance with one or both of us, eh, Harry? What do you think, girls?’

  The women in the studio audience screamed.

  ‘I think that’s a yes! So if you haven’t entered the prize draw, what are you waiting for? The number’s on your screen right now!’

  Watching the interview in stolen glances (whilst polishing her foster family’s entire collection of shoes) was Ella McCinder, who had already entered the draw as many times as her pocket money would allow.

  She was trying not to make little noises in appreciation of Harry Charmaine’s existence, as she usually did when he was on TV, since reminding her foster family that she existed was never a good idea.

  ‘Oh, I do want to go to the ball,’ said Kara.

  ‘Me too,’ said Clara.

  ‘And me,’ whispered Ella, regretting it as soon as she did.

  ‘Shut up, you horrible girl!’ hissed Clara.

  ‘Fancy that going to the ball?’ said Kara. ‘What an embarrassment! The very idea!’

  ‘The thought is making me sick!’ cried Clara.

  ‘Please don’t upset my daughters,’ their father said from behind his newspaper.

  ‘Daddikins,’ said Kara, slyly, slinking over and resting her chin on the arm of his chair like a dog. ‘You know, as soon as the prize draw ends, there will be tickets popping up all over eBay. They wouldn’t cost you more than a thousand pounds each, and it would mean ever so much to Clara and myself if we could go.’

  ‘Ever so much,�
� echoed Clara, doing the same with the other arm.

  Their dad cast his paper aside and put an arm round each of them. ‘Well, why not? Nothing’s too good for my wee girls!’

  Ella felt like she was going to throw up. She finished the shoe she was working on, set it aside as quietly as she could, crept upstairs and locked herself in the bathroom.

  Tears poured down her face as she looked in the mirror and said, ‘Oh, I wish I could go to the ball! I wish, I wish, I wish I could go to the ball!’

  Suddenly, she was blown over sideways by a great gust of wind.

  A mini-tornado of sparkling blue dust appeared in the middle of the bathroom floor. It took form, into a kind-faced, middle-aged woman in a flowing, blue dress, with the back cut out for two tiny wings to poke through.

  Ella gasped in terror.

  The woman smiled warmly and said, ‘Don’t you be fear’t o’ me, Hen. I’m just yer Fairy Godmaw!’

  CHAPTER 5

  Scarlet Hood, known to her friends as Wee Red Hoodie (both for her name and for her preference for wearing just that), lived in fear of her granny.

  ‘Ye’ve been fighting again,’ said Granny, leaning forward dangerously on her rocking chair.

  Wee Red turned her head to try to hide her black eye inside the red hood. She wanted to gloat. She wanted to boast of the mess she had made of the other girl’s face, but fearless as the eleven-year-old was on the streets, she was reduced to a cowering rodent before her gran.

  ‘Answer me when I talk to ye!’ screamed Granny, picking up her walking stick. ‘Have you been fighting?’

  ‘Naw, I havenae!’

  Granny hit her on the head with her walking stick. ‘Don’t you lie to me!’ she screamed. She hit her on the head again. ‘Don’t you speak slang to me!’ She hit her a third time. ‘And get that hood doon when ye’re talking to me! Show some respect, girl!’

  In a rare moment of bravery, Wee Red took down her hood, squared up to her gran and said, ‘How come it’s awright for you to talk pure Scottish, but no me?’

  ‘Speak up!’ Granny yelled. ‘You know fine well my hearing aid’s near knackered!’ She swung her walking stick once more, but Red side-stepped the blow.

  Granny, in a well-practised move, flung herself onto the floor and writhed around as if bucking for a penalty.

  ‘Oh, my hip!’ said the old woman. ‘My wee prosthetic hip! Oh, my heart! You’re trying to kill me! Imagine sending me, just a wee auld woman, fleeing across the room like that! Help me up.’

  Reluctantly, Wee Red guided her granny back into her rocking chair, to a chorus of ‘Oh, my back! Oh, my knees! I hope I’ve no broken anything!’ and got a slap across her face for her trouble.

  ‘I know what you want! You want me deid! You want me oot the way so’s ye can go and live on the streets! You’re an ungrateful wee brat! I didnae have to take you in when yer maw and da’ got themselves killed! You’re evil, that’s what you are. You’re just born bad!’

  She struck her granddaughter on the head once more for good measure.

  Such was the life of Wee Red Hoodie.

  ‘My … Fairy … Godmaw?’

  Though the limits of Ella’s belief had been tested a lot lately, this … this was something else.

  ‘Aye, deary. Let me explain,’ said the Fairy Godmaw with a soft, kind voice. ‘There’s many ways ye can have a wish come true. Ye can get the big hauf o’ a wishbone. Ye can fling a penny doon a well. Ye can see a falling star. Ye can blow oot the candles on a birthday cake. Or ye can make up yer ain wee ritual … it really doesnae make much difference, but those things don’t always work. There has to be magic in the air, or the planets have to be aligned just right. Something like that.

  ‘Noo, if you happen to be lucky enough to have a Fairy Godmother … and if she hears yer wish … that’s wan way to guarantee yer wish will be granted.’

  Ella nodded slowly, pulling herself up from the floor and sitting on the toilet seat. She had reached the point where acceptance of the impossible was growing on her quite rapidly. ‘So … how did I come to have a Fairy Godmother?’

  ‘Well, you know there is magic in the world, and magic breeds magic, so when you’ve been in contact wi’ someone magical, it rubs aff on ye, and you shouldnae be surprised when magic starts finding you.’

  Ella nodded slowly. ‘So, like, when I talked to Jill, she left a magical residue on me or that, and it’s enough to pluck you oot the faerie realm and attract you to me like a magnet … or something?’

  ‘Well, actually she called me on her mobile,’ said the Fairy Godmaw. ‘Anyway, I’m here to make your fondest wish come true.’ With that, she produced a ticket for Harry Charmaine’s charity ball and handed it to Ella. ‘Now, don’t you lose that!’

  Ella knew it was a bit rude, but she couldn’t restrain herself from examining the winning hologram on the ticket.

  She threw her arms around her Fairy Godmaw, squealing, ‘How can I ever thank you?’

  ‘That’ll dae fine,’ said her Fairy Godmaw, smiling kindly.

  ‘Oh, but … oh …’ Ella could scarcely grasp the reality of it all. ‘I don’t have anything to wear!’

  ‘Don’t you mind that, it’ll sort itself when the time comes. Your clothes will be transformed. You’ll be transformed! Ye’ll no recognise yersel’!’

  ‘But …’ a horrible thought struck Ella. ‘Reggie King will be there. I don’t think I’m his favourite person …’

  Her Fairy Godmaw shook her head. ‘Don’t you worry aboot that. He’ll no recognise you. Your foster sisters won’t recognise you. Naebody who’s looked at you and seen anything but the wonderful young lady you are will recognise you. Kara and Clara only see a skivvy. King only saw a little girl he could use to his ain ends. They’ve never seen the real you and they’re no interested in the real you. But that’s who’s gonnae be shining through at the ball.’

  Ella grinned and cried at the same time. ‘Just like a fairytale.’

  ‘Something like that,’ her Fairy Godmaw agreed. ‘Now … to business. Is there a pumpkin or anything in the house?’

  ‘I think there’s usually some courgettes.’

  ‘That’ll dae. Put wan oot in the driveway when it’s time to go. It’ll turn into a big pink limo for ye.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Ella, not fully understanding.

  ‘The most important thing … whatever happens at the ball, you must be oot o’ there by midnight.’

  She hugged Ella tightly. ‘Good luck, my dear. May all yer flowers have an odd number of petals!’

  And with a puff of sparkling blue smoke, she was gone as suddenly as she had appeared.

  ‘We grow oor ain vegetables, here,’ said Crabbit, handing Snowy a trowel. ‘Once in a blue moon, Jill’s Fairy Godmaw shows up wi’ some bags o’ shopping, but for the most part, ye don’t dig, ye don’t eat.’

  ‘Happy to pull my weight,’ said Snowy.

  ‘Good lad.’

  Snowy and the Freaks shuffled out into the garden. There was a slight shimmering in the distance, as though they were surrounded by a thin layer of running water.

  ‘See that?’ said Crabbit, pointing to the shimmering. ‘That’s the limit of the cloaking spell that’s keeping you alive. Ye can step outside it if ye like, but yer mate will spot ye nae bother wi’ his magic mirror, so I wouldnae.’

  Snowy and the Freaks busied themselves with the gardening, and collecting wood for the fire. Aside from the occasional murmur of ‘Bob the Builder’ and subsequent giggling, there was no conversation between the six of them.

  That night, Snowy was curled on the sofa, gazing into the blazing fire, enjoying the patterns it was making, and the gentle warmth upon his face.

  The fire in front of him was a pale reflection of the fire in his heart.

  The woman who had burst so unexpectedly into his life had told him he was in mortal danger, then ripped him out of reality as he knew it … and utterly, utterly, stolen his heart in the process.

 
He heaved a heavy sigh. He didn’t know when or if he would ever see her again. That bothered him much more than being in mortal danger.

  ‘Haw, Snowy!’ called Crabbit from upstairs. ‘You awake?’

  ‘Yes, Crabbit,’ Snowy sighed sleepily. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Get yersel’ up here,’ called Crabbit.

  Snowy yawned, grumbled, then climbed the creaky wooden stairs to the much colder bedroom of the Freaks.

  ‘Sometimes we tell each other stories at night,’ Crabbit explained. ‘Keeps us all a bit less miserable and helps Nono get to sleep.’

  ‘Nononononono!’ Nono agreed.

  ‘We was wondering,’ Crabbit went on, ‘if you’d like to be our storyteller tonight?’

  ‘Oh, I … I’ve never been much of a storyteller,’ said Snowy.

  ‘Story now,’ insisted Dagger, bearing his teeth.

  ‘Well,’ said Snowy, straining to think. ‘I do know one story about a handsome young man from the Highlands. At least, I have heard it said that he is handsome, but I couldn’t say.

  ‘He had always wanted to move to the big city, so when his great uncle in Glasgow passed away and left him his flat, the young man was ready to start his new life.

  ‘He hoped his life in Glasgow would bring him a job, a woman, and with any luck, some adventure.

  ‘Well, of those three things, fate chose to give him two … or rather, give him one and show him the briefest, most wonderful, most agonising glimpse of another.

  ‘For you see, his life became an adventure when she came into it. She was like a goddess!

  ‘She knocked on his door and he had no sooner opened it than he was quite mad with his love for her. He had never believed in love at first sight until that moment.

  ‘Even when she warned him he was in terrible danger, he could think only of her beauty and how his heart ached with love for her. Even when she made a refugee of him, whisking him away to a strange place full of strange – ers … he could only think of her. She was his world: nothing else mattered … which is just as well, because everything else that was his was taken away. But he didn’t know if or when he would ever see her again.’