Magic Beans: A Handful of Fairytales From the Storybag

by Jacqueline Wilson, Philip Pullman, Michael Morpurgo

  So first she took off her mossy coat and folded it away safe in the suitcase, and then she climbed the hill in the warm sunshine with the birds singing and the breeze lifting the scent out of the apple-blossom, and she knocked on the door of the big house.

  ‘Excuse me for knocking,’ she said to the lady of the house, ‘but I’ve just arrived in this land, and I need a job.’

  The lady was a kind sort of a person, and shrewd, and she liked the look of this young girl with her suitcase; so she said, ‘And what can you do, my dear? Can you sew, or polish, or what?’

  ‘I can cook a bit,’ said Mossycoat. ‘There’s some says I’m quite a good cook, or I will be with practice.’

  ‘Well,’ said the lady, ‘if we needed a cook we’d try you out; but I tell you what,’ she said, ‘I’ll give you a job in the kitchen and see how you get on.’

  ‘Thank you, ma’am,’ said Mossycoat, and she followed the lady into the house.

  And such a house it was: a grand hall with a staircase all hung with paintings, and a drawing-room with gilded furniture and Chinese carpets, and a dining-room with a mahogany table so shiny that the silver candelabra seemed to be floating on dark water. The lady took Mossycoat up to a little bedroom in the attic and showed her where she could sleep and put her suitcase, and then took her down to the kitchen.

  On the way through the hall there was a commotion, as a young man came in dressed for hunting, with half a dozen big floppy dogs all leaping up and licking him. Mossycoat took one glance at him, and then she kept her eyes modestly downwards and stood as meek as a nun.

  ‘Who’s this, Mother?’ said the young man.

  ‘She’s our new kitchen maid,’ said the lady. ‘Come this way, my dear, and I’ll show you where you’ll be working.’

  Mossycoat followed her into the kitchen. All the cooks and the under-cooks and the bottle-washers and the pantry-maids and the scullery-maids stopped what they were doing and looked at Mossycoat, and she just kept quiet and looked down. The lady explained what Mossycoat’s duties would S dum" ali be, and then she left the kitchen.

  As soon as she’d gone, the servants started.

  ‘Look at her! Lady Muck!’

  ‘Who does she think she is?’

  ‘Too grand for the likes of us – little snob!’

  ‘Sucking up to madam! There’s no sucking up in the kitchen – no airs and graces in here!’

  The head cook said: ‘What’s your name, then?’

  ‘Mossycoat,’ she said.

  ‘Mossycoat? Bossyboots, more like. You’re one of the workers now. None of your high-and-mighty ways down here – we’ll knock that out of you quick enough, see if we don’t.’

  They were a very low kind of people in that kitchen. They had just enough sense to know what was better than they were, and just enough energy to hate it.

  So Mossycoat set to work, and they gave her the dirtiest jobs: cleaning the sooty grease off the spits, scrubbing the scullery floor, scraping the mud off the potatoes. And they never stopped calling her names and mocking her, although she just kept herself quiet and modest and gave them no reason to. And every so often, when her back was turned, some oaf would take the skimmer, all greasy from the soup, and knock her on the head with it; and she never once complained or tried to hit back. What with all the work and the harsh treatment, her clothes were soon covered in grease and dirt, and her face and hair and fingernails were sadly grubby.

  Now a little while later, it was announced that there were going to be three days of merry-making in a great house nearby. There was to be music, and dancing, and feasting, and fireworks, and invitations were sent out to all the houses in the district. Of course the master and mistress were invited, and the young master too, and it was the talk of the kitchen.

  ‘I wish I could go – I’m as good as they are any day of the week!’

  ‘All them lovely dresses …’

  ‘All them handsome young men! Eh?’

  Mossycoat said nothing. But all this time, the mistress of the house had been watching her, and she noticed what the servants didn’t: she saw how clever and modest little Mossycoat was, and how pretty she was too, under the grime.

  S"0e her, alth

  So she sent for her and said, ‘Now, Mossycoat, how would you like a treat? How would you like to come to the ball with us, as our guest?’

  ‘Well, ma’am,’ said Mossycoat, ‘that’s very kind of you, but I think I’d better not, on account of being so grubby. I’d make your carriage all greasy if I sat in it. And I wouldn’t know how to behave at a grand affair like that, and I’d let you down. Thank you kindly, but you’d be better off not taking me.’

  ‘Well, are you sure?’ said the lady, but Mossycoat wouldn’t be budged.

  When she went back to the kitchen, the servants were all agog to know why she’d been sent for.

  ‘Did she give you notice?’

  ‘Are they getting rid of you?’

  ‘What did she say?’

  Mossycoat said, ‘The mistress asked me to the ball, and I said no.’

  ‘You blooming liar!’

  ‘Do you hear that?’

  ‘She says they asked her to the ball! Ruddy nerve!’

  And out came the skimmer, and poor Mossycoat’s head rang.

  The first night of the festivities was such a success that the lady of the house sent for Mossycoat again.

  ‘Mossycoat, my dear, are you sure you wouldn’t like to come? I know you’d enjoy it! And the master would like you to join us, and the young master too. There’s going to be fireworks tonight!’

  ‘Thank you kindly, ma’am, but I think I’d better not,’ said Mossycoat.

  But that evening, when the servants were all sitting round idly in the kitchen smoking or playing cards or gossiping, Mossycoat went to her room. First she washed herself from head to foot, and cleaned all the soot and grime and dirt off her skin and out of her hair. Then she slipped the mossy coat on and went down to the kitchen. She went round from one servant to the next, touching each of them and wishing, and as she touched them they fell asleep, their great greasy heads lolling down on the table or back open-mouthed in their chairs.

  When they were all fast asleep and snoring, she went up and put on her white satin dress with the gold s S/spf">prigs, and the golden slippers, and she wished herself at the festivities.

  Up she flew, through the warm night air, and down she was set outside the ballroom. The band was playing a waltz, and the chandeliers were glowing, and the movement of the ladies and gentlemen on the dance floor was like swans on a lake.

  Well, no sooner had Mossycoat arrived than the young master saw her. He didn’t recognize her, but he said to his mother: ‘Look at that girl in the white dress, Mother! Isn’t she beautiful? Where does she come from, I wonder?’

  ‘If you go and ask her to dance, you might find out,’ his mother said.

  So he came up to her and asked for the next dance. She looked him full in the eyes and said, ‘Thank you, sir, but I’d rather not dance just yet.’

  And she wouldn’t dance with him, nor with anyone else, and he had to be content with that. Nor would she tell him her name, nor where she came from, and for all he begged to know, she just laughed and teased and said, ‘That’s my secret.’

  The only comfort he had was that she wouldn’t talk to anyone else either, though she was gracious and polite and so lovely to look at that all the young men in the place clustered round to flirt.

  Finally the young master went to his mother and said, ‘Mother, if I don’t find out who she is I’ll go mad with despair, but she won’t tell me. Can you ask her for me?’

  The lady sat down with Mossycoat on the terrace, and they sipped their wine and chatted. But the lady got no more out of her than her son; all the strange girl would tell her was that she came from a place where they hit her on the head with a skimmer.

  ‘What sort of a place is that?’ said the lady in surprise.

  ‘Oh, I sho
uldn’t think I’ll be there long,’ was all Mossycoat said in reply.

  Then came the last dance, and the young master tried once more. ‘Please dance with me!’ he said. ‘I’m longing to dance, and there’s no one else I want to dance with but you.’

  ‘Well,’ said Mossycoat, ‘just this once, then.’

  And she held out her hand, and he led her out to the dance floor. She was as light in his arms as a bird of the air, he’d never found dancing so easy and joyful; but it didn’t last, for no sooner had they danced down to the end of the ballroom than she slipped out of his grasp and away through the door.

  ‘No! Wait! Come back!’ he cried, and he ran out after her, but there was nothing there in the dark, nothing at all, only the warm breeze and the stars and his beating heart.

  Mossycoat wished herself back at the house, and first she changed out of her satin dress and put on her dirty old clothes again, and then she went down to the kitchen and woke up the servants.

  ‘Have we been asleep all this time?’ said the pastrycook.

  ‘Oh! You won’t tell, will you, Mossycoat?’ said the scullery-maid.

  ‘If you keep us out of trouble, I’ll let you have my old dress,’ said the housekeeper.

  ‘I won’t say a word,’ said Mossycoat, and nor did she.

  Next day the talk was all of the beautiful girl who’d come out of nowhere and appeared at the ball. No one knew who she was, though all kinds of rumours sprang up: she was a princess from Russia; she was the daughter of a millionaire; she wasn’t a mortal at all, she was a fairy. And everyone was buzzing to see whether she’d turn up for the last night of the festivities.

  As for the young master, he was desperate.

  ‘Father,’ he said, ‘if I don’t find out who that girl is and where she goes to, I’ll explode. I want you to have my best horse ready and waiting outside the door of the ballroom, so if she runs out again I can go after her.’

  ‘All right, son,’ said his father, ‘I won’t let you down.’

  That evening Mossycoat put the servants to sleep again, and this time she put on her silk dress the colour of all the birds of the air. And when she arrived at the ball this time, there was the young master at once, at the head of all the other young men desperate to dance with her; for word had got around, and there wasn’t anyone within fifty miles who hadn’t heard of this mysterious girl who appeared out of nowhere and disappeared again.

  Mossycoat answered no questions except with a smile, and she wouldn’t dance with anyone – except, once again, with the young master.

  He was as proud and happy as a king; down the ballroom they danced, and up again to the orchestra, and never had such a handsome couple been seen in anyone’s memory. Then with a twirl in the music, the two of them turned and danced to the door –

  And the young master must have loosened his grip in the heat of the moment, for she was out of his arms S of>

  And straight he ran after her into the dark, and there was his horse with the groom at the reins –

  ‘Oh, where did she go? Which way? Did you see her?’

  No sign! Not a glimpse! She was vanished and gone. The horse shook his head and jingled his bridle, and stamped a hoof on the stones of the terrace; and the young master ran this way and that, gazing into the dark, calling, imploring the girl with no name to come back, for he loved her …

  Nothing. Silence. Darkness.

  The heartless music played on in the ballroom, and he heard none of it. Then as he turned in despair, he saw something catching the light, something down on the gravel below the windows, a little golden twinkle.

  Her slipper! She’d dropped a slipper as she vanished! He clutched it to his heart. It was all that was left of that beautiful stranger, all that he had to take home from the ball.

  Well, next day you never heard such a to-do.

  It was the talk of every house in the county – the girl who’d won everyone’s heart with her grace and her beauty, the young man she chose from all of the others to be her dancing-partner; and how she was nowhere to be found, and how he was lying ill in bed with a mysterious fever.

  Mossycoat heard the rumours in the kitchen, with all the other servants.

  ‘He’s ill? The young master?’

  ‘Groaning and sickening something terrible …’

  ‘What’s wrong with him?’

  ‘They’re in fear for his life!’

  The doctor was sent for. He arrived in his carriage as soon as he could, and went straight up to the wild-eyed young patient. He tested his temperature and timed his pulse; he took his stethoscope out of his top hat and listened to the thumping of the young man’s heart; he tapped his chest and peered into his eyes, and then he heard a broken whisper. The great physician stooped to listen closer, and then he saw what the young man clutched so tight in his hand.

  He stood up straight and made his diagnosis.

  ‘This is no fever,’ he said solemnly. ‘Nor is it an infection, nor a case of poisoning, nor a plague or a pox or a murrain. This is an affliction of the heart.’

  ‘Oh no!’ said the lady Ssait> of the house, and she stroked the damp hair off her son’s pallid brow.

  ‘The patient is in love,’ the doctor explained. ‘That’s the long and the short of it, and if he doesn’t find the object of his affection, his heart will give way altogether. You must find the girl who fits this slipper’ – and he held up the young man’s trembling hand, still clutching the golden slipper – ‘or else, send for the sexton to dig the patient’s grave. My fee is ten guineas. Good morning.’

  So that was the state of things. Word went out at once all over the countryside, and girls by the hundred came flocking to try the slipper, for it was announced that the young man was heir to a splendid fortune as well as being ardent and handsome. A line of girls led up the stairs, out through the hall, along the drive, and halfway down the hill, and still more of them came from every direction.

  And you never saw such feet: long knobbly ones, short fat ones, graceful ones but just too big, ones covered in corns and bunions, flat ones, warty ones, pretty ones and tender ones; but not a single one that fitted the slipper.

  Eventually, when the last girl tugged her stocking up with a sigh and trudged off down the hill, the lady of the house said, ‘We’ve tried everything else, my dear; we shall have to ask the servants.’

  You can imagine the glee at that. Every female servant in the house crowded and jostled to shove her foot in the golden slipper, but of course none of them could do it, not even by holding their breath and squeezing.

  The lady said, ‘Is that everyone? I didn’t see Mossycoat.’

  ‘Oh, her,’ said someone, but they had to fetch her.

  She came up the stairs all quiet and modest. Her hair was dusty, there was a smudge of soot on her cheek, and anything less like the girl of the night before would be hard to find; but the lady saw through her, and she felt a lift in her heart as Mossycoat slipped off her grimy shoe and took up the slipper.

  And it fitted.

  The young master gave a cry of joy, but Mossycoat held up her hand.

  ‘No,’ she said, ‘wait. I’m not ready yet.’

  She ran up to her bedroom and washed and put on the white satin dress, and the other slipper, and then came down to the young master’s room, where all the family was waiting to welcome her. The young master ran to her and opened his arms, but again she said:

  ‘Wait. I’ve changed my mind. I’m going to put my other dress on. Sr d#8217;t 8217;

  So she went up and changed, and then she came down once more, and this time she didn’t say, ‘Wait.’

  Well, he nearly ate her.

  And so they were married. There were celebrations and feasting and fireworks and fancy dress, and at the very height of the festivities, the lady said, ‘Now tell me, Mossycoat dear, when we talked at the ball you told me you came from a place where they hit you on the head with a skimmer. Was that true?’

  ‘Perfectly true
,’ said Mossycoat.

  ‘And where was that place?’

  ‘Well, it was in your kitchen,’ said Mossycoat. ‘And I said I didn’t think I’d be there for long.’

  ‘That was true enough,’ said the lady, and kissed her.

  And she sent for the servants and dismissed them all, the lazy cruel slubberdegullions, and set about hiring a better lot of servants altogether.

  As for Mossycoat and her husband, they had a basket of children, and they’re living there now in the house on the hill, as far as I know.

  The Seal Hunter

  Retold by Tony Mitton

  Illustrated by Nick Maland

  HERE IS A story handed down from many a year ago. The tale’s been told by many a tongue but I shall tell it so.

  Duncan MacKinnon was a fisherman.

  He sold his catch for a fee.

  He lived in a lonely stone-built croft

  by the side of the ragged sea.

  And when he could, he would hunt the seals

  and Vhe oleightstrip them of their hides.

  He would keep and cure each precious pelt

  but throw each corpse to the tides.

  Now in those days the pelts were prized

  and folk would pay full well

  for a sealskin cap, or a bag, or boots,

  or clothes, as I’ve heard tell.

  And the local folk came knocking

  at the sealskin seller’s door,

  so in time he left his floats and nets

  and hunted seals the more.

  Duncan MacKinnon rowed the tides.

  At his belt he wore a knife.

  And with the aid of its deadly blade

  he would take each sad seal’s life.

  The hunter soon grew stout and rich

  with the sale of the skins he caught.

  He lived his life by the skill of his knife,