Fairy on a Toadstool

by Susan E Willis

elderflower cordial

I am sitting on a big ceramic toadstool in Mr Thompson’s garden. I’d heard him tell his neighbour over the fence that he’d bought it at the garden centre. Being a fairy, I am not exactly sure what a centre is, but I do like the toadstool. It is orange and smooth under my little legs which I have crossed underneath me. I smooth down my green taffeta skirt and tuck my feet into the hem.

I have been in Mr Thompson’s garden for a while now because it is a nice place to hang out and will probably stay here forever. Happy fairies like nice places.

I am a little concerned however because I haven’t seen Mr Thompson for a few days now. Usually I hear his whistle every morning opening the garden shed. In fact, that is where I first met him. In the shed. It had been dark inside but because I can control and project light into places, I had done just that.

He had gasped when he saw me sitting in between his watering can and tub of tomato feed. ‘What the!’

I had fluttered my big green wings in a greeting. ‘Hi, there,’ I’d whispered. ‘If you can see me then you’ll be blessed with good luck and happiness.’

He’d rubbed his eyes and blinked as though he couldn’t believe what he was seeing and then had stumbled backwards out of the shed.

I’d grinned. I know I am a bit of a shock to people, but over the months we have got to know each other. He looks out for me now wherever I choose to settle. Today it is on the toadstool.

I make a little garland of daisies by twirling the stems around each other and place it on top of my blonde curly hair. I would be feeling mischievous and full of fun today if it wasn’t for the fact that Mr Thompson still hasn’t arrived.

My long black antennae start to twitch, and I know someone is coming towards the back of the garden.

It is Mrs Thompson. I watch her sit on the garden bench and talk into a small machine that she is holding onto her ear. Even at this distance I can hear another voice.

‘Oh, Mum, lets hope he’s better today. I wish I could be there with you in this lock-down but I can’t leave the kids and drive up the country. It’s not allowed.’

I watch Mrs Thompson dab her eyes with a white lace handkerchief and then pull her shoulders back. ‘Now, Penny,’ she says. ‘Don’t you worry about me, I’m fine. I’ve to ring the hospital at lunchtime to find out how your dad is.’

My heart starts to flutter, and I straighten out my legs over the toadstool. Oh, no, Mr Thompson is ill and in the hospital.

I know Penny is his daughter because he has told me all about her. And, how their son died in a car accident two years ago. He talks about him a lot.

This poor woman, I think and fly over to her. I perch on the arm of the bench just as she clicks off the machine. I know now why I have been hanging around for so long. Mrs Thompson needs me to restore her emotions and low spirits.

I see her staring at me. Her whole face lights up and she grins then clicks her tongue. ‘My, Bill, told me we had a fairy at the bottom of the garden, but I just laughed. I thought he was teasing me!’

‘No.’ I smile. ‘He wasn’t. I’m here and I want to help.’

Her big blue eyes fill with tears.

I whisper, ‘Mr Thompson told me you had lovely eyes and they were the first thing he fell in love with.’

She leans forwards now and sobs into her handkerchief.

‘Mrs Thompson, if you can see me then you have three wishes,’ I say. ‘Tell me what they are?’

Mrs Thompson sniffles and dries her eyes. ‘I wish Bill was better. I wish Bill would get over this Corona Virus. I wish my Bill was at home with me.’

I spread my wings knowing there is much work to be done and fly off into the sky.

Later that day as I return to the toadstool, I see Mrs Thompson rush outside with the machine on her ear again.

‘Penny! Oh, Penny,’ she cries. ‘Your dad is much better, and the nurse reckons that if he continues to make good progress, he could be home by the end of the week!’

Cruising Into a New Life

 by Susan E Willis

champagne

I take a big deep breath and look in the long mirror in the bathroom. I’m in a single cabin onboard a cruise ship and shake my head at the image before me. It doesn’t look anything like me. Well, I smile, the old me. The old Geraldine Thompson. This Geraldine Thompson who left the sanatorium three days ago looks completely different now. Inside and out.

I’m not the old Geraldine who was frumpy, overweight, with long greyish hair scrapped back into a sever bun. I’d worn black or brown two-piece suits with thick tights and grey shirts all my adult life. My mother’s dressmaker, Mrs Whittaker, had made them exactly to mother’s instructions. Not mine. I’d never had a choice of clothing with Mrs Whittaker. Nor a choice of footwear. My feet had been forever in brown flat brogues or laced up boots.   

I smile now and smooth down the sides of the white pencil skirt and spin around to look at my back. I chuckle. The navy silk blouse is tight fitting and shows off all my curves in just the right places.

I feel the slight sway of the ship as it comes into dock. I know the routines of cruising as I have been on many before, although always with mother sharing a cabin. This time however, I’ve loved having the cabin all to myself.

Grinning, I peer closer into the mirror at my face. My hair has been cut in a short trendy style and coloured a rich auburn. It is shining with the sun flooding through the balcony window. I’m wearing makeup for the first time in my life.

Mother had never approved of make-up. She’d once snarled at me, ‘You’ll look like a dirty harlot!’

A fellow patient in the sanitorium, Jeanie, had shown me how to apply the rich face cream and foundation. She’d also shown me how to sweep the blusher across my cheeks. I pull down my jaw and grin. With all the weight I’ve lost playing tennis and not eating mother’s favourite stodgy puddings, I actually have cheekbones now. I run the tip of my tongue around my front teeth to make sure the red lipstick hasn’t marked them. I can’t resist a small hoot to myself imaging mother’s face and comments about hussies who wear bright lipstick. 

I place the jaunty blue hat on the back of my head and swish my hair from side to side making sure it is securely fastened. I don’t want it to blow off on my descent down the gangway.  

After sailing for two days, where I’ve mainly stayed in my cabin, we are docking in Rio today and I can feel my insides bubble with excitement.

The water now is gently lapping on the sides of the ship as staff hurriedly lower and secure the metal gangway. I wait in the queue patiently taking big breaths of fresh sea air then follow the man in front who is wearing a white panama hat. He reaches the railings and stands to the side allowing me to go first. I smile my thanks at him and take my first step.

Now that it is time to disembark my stomach lurches and my heart begins to pump. The old feelings of low self-esteem, no confidence, and depressing miserable thoughts fly into my mind.  I can’t do this, I want to shout, this isn’t me. I’m dressed up to look like somebody else.  

My mother’s constant haranguing drones on and on in my ears.

Immediately, my head drops, and I look down. I’d forgotten about my new shoes and I stare at them. They are white with a two-inch heel and a tan toe-covering. They are simply gorgeous, and I smile. Out of my whole transformation it is the shoes that make the biggest difference.

I hear Doctor Jones words in my mind. ‘Step out, Geraldine, you can do this. Walk tall and meet the world right in the eye.’

His words batter out my mother’s drone firmly from my mind. I lift my head up high and place my hand on the rail to make my descent. 

I stride confidently down the first two steps. Out of the corner of my eye I see the man dip his hat.

‘And how,’ he asks, ‘have we been on board for two days and I’ve never met you?’  

My heart soars and I stifle down a giggle. ‘Ah, I’ve been in hiding,’ I tease and tilt my head to the side.

‘Well let me put that right straight away,’ he says taking my arm and guiding me down to the end of the gangway.

His arm is just the extra reassurance I need, and I happily look forward to my adventure in Rio.

The Smiling Ghost

by Susan E Willis

a glass of orange juice 

‘Mam says there’s no such thing as ghosts,’ Emily chants to her best friend, Maggie.

Maggie shrugs her shoulders. ‘Well, I don’t care what your mam says because I saw it!’

Emily sets off to walk across the park towards home. She doesn’t want to hear anymore from Maggie because she is scared. Her brother has a spooky ghost-story book in his room, and she doesn’t like the pictures in it.

She can hear Maggie skipping along behind her and she kicks at the pebbles on the side of the path.

‘Wait up,’ Maggie calls.

But she hurries on. ‘Shut up!’ she yells. ‘You’re just showing off and making it all up.’ 

‘I’m not, Emily. It was a big white cloud that floated down on me when I was lying on the top bunk.’  

Emily bites her lip. She knows what her mam would say and tells her friend, ‘You probably just got tangled up in the sheet.’

‘I…I didn’t,’ Maggie claims and stops to catch her breath. She starts to cough.

Emily stops when she hears Maggie coughing. Her mam told her that Maggie has a bad chest and her mum is worried about her.

She turns around and Maggie is bent over with her hands on her knees just above her red shorts. Her head is down, and she coughs some more for a longer time then spits out some yellow gluey stuff onto the path.

Emily hurries to her and puts her hand on Maggie’s shoulder. She can feel her skinny bones shaking. Emily knows her shoulders have much more muscle on them. ‘Are you alright now?’

Maggie lifts her head up and gasps trying to catch her breath. She usually has rosy cheeks, but her face is now a pale creamy colour. Emily wonders if she should run to Maggie’s house and fetch her mum.

Maggie wipes her mouth on the sleeve of her pink T-Shirt and grins. ‘I’m okay now I’ve coughed it up,’ she says.

Emily is not convinced but figures she will take her hand just in case. It feels cold and a bit damp. They start to walk slowly through the park and Maggie mentions the ghost again.

‘Okay, tell me what the ghost really looked like,’ Emily says. ‘I bet it went 'Ooooooo.'’

Maggie giggles and swings their hands together backwards and forwards. ‘Nah, of course it didn’t. But it was friendly-like.’

‘Friendly!’ Emily hoots. ‘How can a ghost be friendly?’

‘Because it smiled at me.’

Emily giggles. ‘Ghosts can’t smile,’ she says, and feels happier now because her friend’s cheeks are pink and shining again.

‘I’m telling you, Em,’ she says. ‘Most of the sheet was covering it’s body but there were two circles cut out for it’s eyes, which were blue by the way, and a long slit for it’s nose and then a bigger moon-shape for its mouth.’

Emily screws her nose up and imagines the moon-shape. ‘So, could you see its lips in the hole?’

Maggie nods. ‘Yeah, that’s how I knew it was smiling at me,’ she says. ‘They were bright red like my mum’s lipstick.’

They reach the edge of the park and Emily can feel Maggie’s hand is warm again but all the same she reckons she should walk with her to her house.

‘And, Em, do you want to know what the ghost said to me?’

Emily nods then smiles when she sees Maggie’s mum come to the gate to meet them. She is glad they are home and knows her mum will look after her. ‘Go on, then. What did it say?’

Maggie grins. ‘Well, it said, I’d come to take you up there into the sky above, but I don’t think you’re quite ready yet,’ she says. ‘But you will be soon, and I’ll come back for you with an angel to guide us up.’

Important News in Kenya

by  Susan E Willis

Earl Grey tea

I’m waking to the light streaming through the windows in our small but delightful room at The Treetops Hotel. I stretch my legs and glance over at Philip’s broad shoulder. My husband is wonderful, and I love him more and more each day we spend together. He grunts slightly in his sleep and I wonder if he is dreaming. Is he remembering the elephants that we watched at the watering hole last night?

It was such a long journey here to Kenya. A little over 4,000 miles but already we are loving the adventure together. Just us two without the children. It’s been a while since we spent any quality time together and when papa asked us to undertake his royal tour we willingly accepted.

I sit up slowly propping the soft pillows behind me. Papa’s health has been a concern to all of us lately. But he insisted upon seeing us off at the airport which was so like him to put his family first.

I think of the untroubled and restful day ahead with our plans to fish for trout in the stream and lunch at a nearby hotel. It will give us both time to relax after the arduous journey. There’s a soft knock on the door and I swing my legs out of bed just as Philip stirs awake. Breakfast arrives and the day begins. 

                                                  

We’ve returned to the hotel this afternoon. To escape the heat of the sun I’ve retired to our room to write some letters while Philip is strolling in the gardens. I sit in front of my dressing table and rub face cream onto my pink forehead. I’ve never had a happy relationship with hot sun and I always try to wear a hat: as opposed to Philip who instantly looks healthy and tanned. However, as most of our free time is spent up in Scotland, I don’t usually have this problem. I think of the breezy drizzle in the Scottish Highlands and smiling, I begin to write my first letter, ‘Dearest, Papa…’

Just as I end the letter with, ‘Your loving daughter, Elizabeth,’ there is a commotion out in the gardens. I look up to see activity at the boundary fences.

My private secretary, Martin Charteris, is striding across the grass towards Philip. I can tell even at this distance that his usual calm exterior is ruffled to say the least. Philip is shaking his head at him. I push the chair back from the desk and hurry to the window.

My husband is hanging his head to his chest. I watch him ram both his hands into the pockets of his knee-length shorts. Something is wrong and it’s serious because Philip can’t look Martin in the eye. I scarper towards the balcony doors and hurry outside into the blazing sunshine.

My first thought is of the children. I feel my stomach lurch at the thought of anything happening to Charles or Anne. The heels of my white stiletto shoes sink into the grass as I almost run towards them both. Perspiration is forming on my forehead and the cotton dress I’m wearing sticks to my back.

As I near them, Martin takes a few steps backwards away from us with his head bowed. I look at Philip whose eyes are filled with tears.

‘What?’ I cry. ‘What’s happened?’

He takes my hands in his. ‘I’m so sorry, Cabbage, but your papa died this morning.’