Midnight Read online

  The story was relatively simple, about a little fairy who flew in a blue-grey smoky cloud above fires or candles or cigarettes. When the flame was blown out the Smoky Fairy faded until I could barely see her glimmering on the page and I got scared she would disappear for ever, but then she made friends with a baby dragon who puffed smoke with every breath. The Smoky Fairy perched on his green scaly back and they flew away together, off the end of the page, out of the story. And I flew with them. I tried to fly literally, flapping my arms and galloping round the bedroom in my furry slippers. I must have looked such an idiot, but in my head I was the Smoky Fairy, in my own grey silky fairy dress with gossamer wings.

  I have a horrible feeling I might have told Casper Dream that I was a fairy. I can feel my cheeks flushing even now just thinking about it. But Casper Dream was so kind. He wrote back to me, a proper letter in the same italic black handwriting as on the title page of The Smoky Fairy.

  I unwrapped my precious copy of the book, cellophane crackling, and very carefully opened up the letter.

  Dear violet,

  What a lovely name! I’m particularly fond of violets too. I Shall have to invent a very special tiny violet fairy in a deep purple velvet dress. I’m so glad you like my smoky fariy she Fairy. She pleased too.

  Then he’d drawn me my very own Smoky Fairy picture. The Smoky Fairy was flying, wings outstretched, her toes delicately pointed. She was waving her tiny hand at me.

  I wished it too. I was most impressed with my message from the Smoky Fairy and treasured Casper Dream’s letter. Dad said it was nice of the chap to write back to me but he didn’t make too much of it. No one had heard of Casper Dream in those days. The Smoky Fairy didn’t attract any attention until a teacher complained that it was encouraging young children to smoke. The publishers quickly withdrew the book from the shelves. But Casper Dream’s second book, a big omnibus of flower fairies, was an unexpected enormous success. It won all sorts of awards and made the best-seller lists. Lots of people started collecting Casper Dream books. Everyone wanted to find a copy of The Smoky Fairy, but they were few and far between. One sold for £1,000 on E-Bay. I think a signed copy sells for £5,000 now.

  My copy isn’t signed, but I’ve got my special letter. Casper Dream doesn’t write letters now. I tried writing back to the address at the top of his letter but my envelope came back with ‘not known at this address’. He’d obviously moved to some grand mansion with all the money he’d made. You can write to him via his publishers but you just get a fairy postcard with a printed message on the back: ‘I’m very pleased you like my fairy books. With best wishes from Casper Dream.’ It’s in italic handwriting but it’s not hand-written. I understand. Hundreds and hundreds of people must write to Casper Dream every week.

  I write to him every day. But I don’t send my letters. I hide them in a big silver box at the back of my wardrobe. I squash the letters down flat but the box is nearly full now.

  Dear C.D.,

  I can’t stop writing to you. I feel as if you’re my dearest friend.

  It isn’t as if I’ve made you up. You really did write me that letter. You maybe don’t remember but it doesn’t really matter. I know you even if you don’t know me. I’ve pored over every shimmering page of your books so many times it’s as if I know everything about you.

  I wish we could meet one day.

  I wish you were a real friend.

  With love from

  Violet

  XXX

  From More Fairy Folk by Casper Dream

  Hobgoblins

  Quarrelsome domestic fairies, a little dull and prosaic.

  Four

  I WISHED I could stay in my room all day like Will. Mum called me to help her peel the vegetables for lunch. She looked pale and miserable, her hair sticking up at the back because she’d obviously tossed and turned half the night.

  Dad didn’t get up until midday. He looked awful too, his eyes bloodshot. He smelled horribly of stale drink.

  ‘How’s my little girl?’ he said thickly, putting his arms round me.

  ‘Dad!’ I said, wriggling away.

  ‘Leave her be, Jim,’ Mum said.

  Dad started in on her then, a great rant about what a killjoy she was, and why did she always want to spoil everything, and what was the point of going out to a fancy dinner and dance when she’d sit there looking down her nose at everyone, refusing to join in the fun?

  Mum carried on peeling the potatoes, her mouth pursed up. She seemed to be taking no notice but the potato in her hand grew smaller and smaller until she whittled it right down to a nut.

  Dad went on and on, getting louder. I hated him for it, but I could see how irritating it was, Mum utterly failing to respond. Her white martyred face almost invited insults. One of her eyelids was twitching. I wondered what she was thinking.

  ‘For God’s sake, Iris! Look, let me fill the kettle – I’m desperate for a cup of coffee,’ said Dad, elbowing her out the way.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ Mum said in a mouse-squeak.

  She made Dad his coffee and handed it to him silently. Why didn’t she pour it over his head? Why did she always do exactly as he said?

  I thought of Will. I thought of me.

  I hated thinking that I might be as meek as Mum. I started whipping up the eggs for the Yorkshire pudding, beating so hard the mixture bubbled like a Jacuzzi. I resolved I’d never let Will play games with me again.

  I’d made the same resolution hundreds and hundreds of times.

  I tried to take little notice of Will at lunch time. It was the one meal when he deigned to join us at the table. He ate steadily, saying nothing. Dad commandeered the conversation, eating for England in spite of his hangover – three slices of roast beef, a wedge of Yorkshire pudding, four potatoes, carrots, broccoli and peas, even mopping up his gravy with a thick slice of bread. Then two servings of rhubarb crumble and custard and a cup of tea and Bourbon biscuits.

  ‘There’s nothing like a good Sunday lunch,’ said Dad, belching and rubbing his stomach.

  Will caught my eye and mouthed, ‘Better out than in,’ as Dad said it out loud. I struggled not to laugh.

  Dad frowned at Will. ‘Are you taking the micky?’ he asked.

  ‘As if I’d do that,’ said Will. He stood up. ‘Excuse me, please,’ he said, and walked across the room.

  ‘Aren’t you going to offer to help your mother with the washing up?’ said Dad.

  Will paused. ‘Help my mother?’

  The word echoed through the air after Will had walked out.

  ‘I don’t need any help,’ said Mum.

  Dad stretched and belched again. ‘I’m stuffed,’ he said, as if someone had force-fed him the entire meal. ‘I think I’ll go and walk it off. Yes, let’s go for a stroll, Iris?’

  ‘I’ve got the dishes to do.’

  ‘They’ll keep, for God’s sake. Come on, get some roses in your cheeks,’ said Dad.

  ‘Well, I’ll just put the pots and pans in to soak,’ said Mum, gathering up dishes.

  ‘Oh, don’t bother then, if it’s so much effort,’ said Dad. He patted me on the shoulder. ‘Come on, Violet, you’re up for a walk, aren’t you, sweetheart?’

  I didn’t want to go for a walk at all. But I didn’t want to do the dishes with Mum. I didn’t want to loll in my room by myself any more. I wanted to be with Will. But he’d probably tell me to get lost if I trailed upstairs after him. And I’d only just made my firm resolution.

  I grabbed my jacket and went off with Dad.

  ‘That’s my girl,’ he said. ‘We’ll walk up to the gardens, eh?’

  He used to take me there when I was little. I loved all the flowers, especially the lilies on the ornamental pond. I’d lie on my tummy in the grass, pretending Water Lily Fairies were hopping from pad to pad. I was hopefully past that stage now, but Dad was still trying to treat me like a little girl. It was a wonder he hadn’t grabbed a bag of bread for me to feed the ducks. He even paused by the little p