Thunder roared and lightning flashed, and the wind screamed as it sent horizontal rain into Wee Red Hoodie’s face. She felt as if she were wading up some angry river against the current, and her red hoodie was turned maroon with water.
She was so cold, so wet and so afraid as she made her weary way, one heavy, squelching step at a time, to the three wee pigs’ front door.
She held her breath, shaking all over, as much from cold as from fear. She knocked the door.
She saw a pig open the door. A pig she would kill. All at once, she forgot what she had been told to say. ‘I, um … I …’ Her voice failed her. Her heart failed her. She just cried.
‘Och, come on in, Hen,’ said Paddy Pig, beckoning her into the reassuring warmth of the brick house, and moving a chair for her to sit in front of the blazing fire.
She sat down gratefully as the pigs brought her a towel and a bowl of steaming hot spicy vegetable soup.
The pigs had a pleasant little cottage, with plain white walls. The only real decoration was a poster with the Burns poem, ‘To a Mouse’ in big, white letters. She’d never read Burns and certainly couldn’t understand him, but she became fixated with it between mouthfuls of soup. It was that or look the pigs in the eye.
‘There,’ said Paddy. ‘Get some o’ that doon ye. Ye’ll feel better in nae time.’
‘Thanks,’ Red whispered, sipping the soup guiltily.
‘Nae bother at all,’ said Paddy. ‘Look at the state of ye! Poor thing. Ye’re soaked through!’
‘Aye, I am that.’
‘Percy,’ said Peter, ‘away doon to the basement, see if ye cannae find her anything dry to wear.’
‘Och,’ said Percy, stomping huffily off. ‘Yous make me dae everything!’
Paddy laughed. ‘He’ll be up in a minute wi’ some dry claithes. So, tell me, Hen, what were ye daeing oot there in that?’
‘Long story,’ murmured Red, slurping her soup.
‘Fair enough,’ said Paddy. ‘Ye got a name, or dae we have to keep calling you “Hen”?’
‘Scarlet. Scarlet Hood. My pals a’ call me Red, though, or Wee Red Hoodie.’
‘Red it is, then,’ said Paddy, with a friendly snort.
Percy returned and tossed some dry clothes her way. ‘Sorry, this is all I could find. Pigs don’t usually wear claithes.’
Red nodded gratefully and headed to the bathroom. She returned presently wearing a T-shirt bearing the image of Miss Piggy and the slogan Kermit’s a dafty! and a kilt.
‘That,’ said Paddy with pride, pointing to the kilt, ‘is Porcine Tartan. You’re probably not aware of this, but us pigs are in fact the only MSH animal group to have our own official tartan.’
The other pigs beamed with pride.
‘That’s interesting,’ said Red, who found it boring.
‘Aye,’ said Peter. ‘There’s a lot to be proud of in being a pig.’
‘So what brings ye to our door?’ asked Percy.
Red shrunk into her seat and shrugged.
‘She doesnae have to tell us if she doesnae want to,’ growled Paddy, giving his youngest brother a warning glare.
‘Aye,’ said Percy, ‘but I really want to know.’
‘It was my gran,’ said Red. ‘I … was staying wi’ her since my maw and da died. Got fed up wi’ getting knocked aboot affae her, so I ran away. Didnae know where to go. Somebody says, find some pigs, they’ll look after ye. So here I am.’
‘They gied ye good advice,’ said Peter. ‘We’re aye happy to take in a stray. Right, Paddy?’
‘Aye, well said, Peter,’ replied Paddy, ‘very well said indeed. See us pigs, Red? We’re a’ that’s good aboot Glasgow. Ye’ll notice that every time this city gets into the headlines for the wrong reasons, it’s aye humans that’s behind it. Well that’s no how it is wi’ us pigs. We’ll take anybody in. Treat anybody like a brother or sister. It’s important to us, see?’
‘Aye,’ said Peter. ‘Unless ye mess wi’ us. Then ye get seen to. Like that Wolf guy.’
‘Aye,’ said Percy, bouncing with enthusiasm. ‘Tell her the story aboot the Wolf.’
Paddy told the story complete with guffaws and roars of approval from his brothers.
‘Do you no think yous were a bit harsh?’ said Red. ‘I mean, like … even though what the Wolf done was bad and that … cooking him was a bit much, was it no?’
Silence fell, and grew increasingly awkward as it lingered.
‘Takes a lot o’ guts to say what you just said,’ Paddy told her slowly. ‘I respect that. You’re a really good kid and I like you a lot, but what ye have to understand aboot the Wolf is … he was that angry at no being able to blow oor hoose doon, he’d’ve had us for breakfast. No doubt about it. We had nae choice, see?’
‘Aye,’ said Red.
‘We don’t dae stuff like that very often,’ Paddy went on. ‘Maist o’ the time, we wouldnae say “boo” to a goose!’
‘Hey, you know what?’ said Percy. ‘I reckon a new addition to the family would be a great excuse for a party.’
‘True,’ said Peter. ‘That’s another thing ye’ll learn aboot pigs, Red. We’ll never pass up an excuse for a party!’
‘Very well spoken,’ said Paddy. ‘And she is wearing Pig Tartan and the sacred T-shirt. What do you say, Red? Fancy being an honorary pig?’
Red didn’t quite know what to say to that. She shrugged coyly and muttered, ‘Aye, awright then.’
‘Then I solemnly hereby confer upon you the sacred honour and that, of honorary pighood.’
‘Is it no piggery?’ asked Percy.
‘Shut it, you!’ snapped Paddy. ‘Red, do you accept?’
‘Aye,’ Red replied, a tear in her eye.
‘Well, that’s it, then,’ said Paddy. ‘You’re a pig!’
His brothers cheered and wheezed and grunted, clapping Red on the shoulder and hugging her with their trotters. Then they burst into song:
Hello! Hello!
We are the Three Wee Pigs!
‘Four Wee Pigs,’ Paddy corrected.
Hello! Hello!
We are the Four Wee Pigs!
When they started singing, ‘If you’re proud to be a grumphie, clap yer trotters,’ Red joined in, laughing and clapping her hands.
When they sang. ‘Stand up if ya hate the Wolf!’ she leapt to her feet with gusto.
She felt warm and welcome. She felt cherished. The pigs had taken her in, just as the Wolf had … but the Wolf was using her. The hospitality of the pigs was coming straight from their wee hearts.
She began to wonder if she could bring herself to do what she had come to do. Every time that thought arose, she growled inwardly at her conscience and remembered all the advice of the Wolf.
She also avoided looking at the pigs by staring at the poem on the wall.
Wee, sleekit, cow’rin, tim’rous beastie,
O, what a panic’s in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi’ bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee,
Wi’ murd’ring pattle!
‘Ye a fan o’ Burns?’ Paddy asked her suddenly. He had spotted her gaze.
‘Naw, no really,’ said Red, blushing. She didn’t really want to admit that she didn’t understand what she was reading.
‘That’s only up there because Paddy thinks it’s funny,’ said Peter with a glare.
‘Well, it is funny,’ chuckled Paddy.
Red pretended to smile, though she didn’t really get the joke.
‘See, the wee moose in the poem got its hoose wrecked,’ said Peter. ‘Just like me and Percy did.’
‘Because ye never followed my advice,’ said Paddy. ‘That poem’s up there to remind yous o’ that!’
Percy seemed to recognise that Red didn’t understand the poem, and didn’t want to say. ‘See, Rabbie Burns was oot ploughing the field one day … and he accidentally wrecked a wee moose’s nest. So he wrote the poem ‘To a Mouse’, whi
ch says to the mouse … “Sorry aboot that, mate. Didnae mean it.”’
‘It’s no just saying sorry, though,’ said Peter. ‘It’s also saying “I know how ye feel.” Burns identified wi’ the mouse, because he knew what it was like to have everything he worked so hard for wrecked in an instant.’
‘Aye,’ said Paddy. ‘But if the moose had built a brick hoose, maybe he’d’ve wrote a poem aboot breaking his plough.’
‘Shut it, you!’ snapped Percy.
Peter ignored them both and quoted:
But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain;
The best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men
Gang aft agley,
An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain,
For promis’d joy!
Tears were now running down Red’s face.
‘What is it?’ asked Paddy.
‘He had compassion,’ sniffled Red. She found it hard to talk past her choking tears. ‘He was a man … and he felt compassion for a wee moose.’ She took a deep breath, clenched her teeth and made the biggest decision of her life. ‘There’s something yous need to know. See the Big, Bad Wolf? He’s still after ye. He sent me to murder yous all!’
‘What?’ roared Paddy.
Bright lights shone through the window. They heard the roar of a monstrous engine nearby. The pigs looked out the window and, to their horror, saw a bulldozer trundling towards their house, and could make out a hairy silhouette within.
For the Big, Bad Wolf had not been entirely relying on the loyalty of Red: he had a Plan B. A small listening device sat on the outside windowsill, and the enemy of the pigs had heard every sound they made.
‘Traitor!’ Paddy roared at Red. ‘We took you in, treated you like wan o’ us!’
The other pigs snorted hatefully at her.
‘I’m sorry!’ she wailed.
Confusion reigned as the pigs darted desperately about.
‘Grab some stuff,’ called Paddy. ‘Anything we don’t need, don’t grab it. We’re leaving!’
‘What aboot her?’ said Percy. ‘Do we lock her in and let her get buried?’
‘Naw,’ said Paddy. ‘It’d harm us mair than her to become killers.’ But he spat in her face for good measure.
The pigs escaped just before their house was razed to the ground. Their brick house. Their pride and joy. Their home, their life and their dream.
But they had no time to grieve. The wolf was bearing down upon them hard and fast, the wicked glint in his eye made all the more menacing by his burned flesh and missing fur. Only murder was on his vengeful mind.
They ran as one. They knew that if they spread out, it would be likely that two of them would survive. But that’s not how pigs do things.
Suddenly, Wee Red Hoodie jumped on the back of the wolf, grabbing at his ears, biting at the burnt flesh where his fur was thinnest, and making him tumble to the ground.
By the time the Wolf had shaken off the girl, the pigs were nowhere to be seen.
He snarled at the child, and my! What big teeth he had!
‘Have you completely lost your mind?’
‘Naw,’ said Red. ‘I’ve found it.’
‘My dear child, you do know you’re going to die, don’t you?’
‘I deserve to die!’ she screamed. ‘But what I just done for them wee pigs … that might just keep me oot o’ Hell!’
‘Good luck with that,’ said the Wolf.
And in the next instant, Wee Red Hoodie was no more.
CHAPTER 14
‘Och, leave him sleeping,’ whispered Crabbit over the snoring form of Snowy White. ‘He seems to need it mair than we do.’
Though it was still early evening, Snowy was napping when the freaks went out to collect firewood.
Snowy woke to find himself staring into the face of an ugly hag. She bore a passing resemblance to Crabbit, and at first he thought it was she … but, no. This hag, despite having an ugly, green, wrinkled face and torn black robes … had the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen (apart from Jill’s).
‘Sssh,’ hissed the hag. ‘It’s okay. I’m the tablet fairy.’
She presented him with a tray full of his favourite, buttery sweet.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I visit the worthy while they sleep to offer free tablet!’ cried the tablet fairy. ‘And you are certainly worthy.’
Snowy’s mouth watered at the sweet smell: it smelled just like his mother’s. She’d call him in when he’d been out playing and he’d pick up his football and dash in, drooling in anticipation. So many memories in such a simple smell, and he could tell at a glance that the texture was perfect. Still …
‘How do I know I can trust you?’
‘Because if I meant you harm, I could never have got through Jill’s cloaking spell.’
Snowy shrugged. That was good enough for him.
He had forgotten all about Crabbit’s crystal ball. The one she had told him to keep near him at all times, because it would warn him of approaching danger … the one that was burning and glowing furiously, unseen under a pile of laundry on the floor.
He put just a small piece into his mouth, for a nibble at a time is the only proper way to savour the flavour of tablet. Its sweet taste spread over his tongue and pleasantly warmed the back of his throat.
How wonderful he felt for a moment.
Then he felt weak. Not the usual just-woken-up weak; this was another level of weakness that gripped him from deep within and crippled him utterly.
He could smell cough syrup. He was seeing double. The tablet fairy was laughing. Why was she laughing? And why was her laugh so … manly?
Though his vision was blurred, he could see she was pulling her face off. He tried to scream, Don’t pull your face off. It’s not good for your health at all!
No words would come out.
Then he saw that she was not pulling her face off at all, it was a mask, and she was not the tablet fairy, she – he – was Reginald King, come to finish him off.
‘Fool,’ he was saying. ‘Dae ye no recognise yer nemesis?’
But he sounded so far away.
And then there was darkness.
‘Snowy? Snowy?!’ Crabbit was shaking him desperately.
He wasn’t breathing. She couldn’t find his pulse.
Nono’s head wasn’t spinning, nor was he repeating his usual syllable. Instead he was facing the ceiling, letting out a howl of anguish, like a coyote.
Dagger was swishing his knife-hands through the air at imaginary enemies: he preferred anger to mourning. ‘The family creed …’ he snarled slowly. ‘It applies here, yes?’
Tears were falling from Crabbit’s grossly misshapen eyes, onto Snowy’s body. ‘Mess wi’ wan of us, mess wi’ all of us,’ she quoted. ‘He came into oor lives. We didnae ask him to, but he came. He made us laugh. He shared his story and listened to oors. He helped wi’ the gardening and the cooking and never complained. Somehow or other he became as much wan of us as any of us. Aye, too right the creed applies.’
‘We kill King?’ roared Dagger, stabbing at the air.
‘We don’t kill!’ snapped Crabbit. ‘But by God, we’ll take away what he cares aboot the maist!’
Dragonman was calmly sniffing Snowy’s mouth. ‘Thanatosium,’ he diagnosed. ‘It’s a magical poison preferred by evil faeries. There’s a chance.’
‘What do you mean a chance? He’s deid! Nae breath, nae heartbeat, nae nothing!’
‘The victim of Thanatosium succumbs to a death-like state for three days, during which the body, though it shows no signs of life, will not cool or decompose. If the antidote is not given to him within that time, he dies forever.’
‘What’s the antidote, then?’
‘Twee as it sounds … true love’s kiss.’
A moment’s silence came over the room.
‘He loves Jill,’ said Glaikit, pleased to know something important for once.
�
�Get her here, now!’ commanded Crabbit. Dragonman was already fumbling in Snowy’s pockets for his mobile.
‘And no a word to her aboot what we’re gonnae dae to her ex,’ insisted Crabbit. ‘She’s a big soft lump when it comes to stuff like that. Better we just get on wi’ it!’
‘I’m no gonnae let ye buy me a hoose, Jack.’
‘How no?’ asked Jack. He was almost pleading.
‘Because … ye don’t just let folk buy hooses for ye.’
Jack looked around the flat. ‘But … do ye no want to get oot o’ here?’
‘Aye,’ said Jill. ‘But … I want to dae it mysel’. Okay?’
Jack slumped. ‘It’s just … you’ve done so much for me … and Punzy. I want to dae something for you, you know?’
‘Och, just leave her,’ said a voice from Jack’s shirt pocket. ‘If she wants to be a numpty and turn doon free hooses, that’s her problem.’
‘Who asked you?’ said Jill, glaring at the offending pocket.
Out popped Thumbelina. ‘Naebody ever asks me anything, but I still tell them what I think.’
Jill couldn’t help but be irritated with Thumbsy, but only when she talked.
‘Maybe naebody asks you anything because naebody wants you to say anything, you annoying little bug. Or do you like annoying people just so’s they’ll notice ye?’
Thumbelina folded her tiny arms. ‘Well, you of all people should know better than to make fun of somebody’s size, ya big, fat pig!’
‘What did you call me?’ gasped Jill.
Thumbelina grinned nastily. Jill felt the blood rushing to her face. It was no secret she was sensitive about her weight.
‘Come on, guys,’ Jack interjected in his most soothing voice. ‘We don’t need this.’
Jill glared at Thumbelina, but before either of them could say anything, there was a knock at the door.
Glad of a chance to escape, Jill answered the door … and found herself face-to-face with the mother she had not seen in four years.
Glasgow Fairytale Page 13