A recent showing of  Chomet’s L’Illusionniste  at a local arts centre reminded me that traditional animation involves an army of  artists whose drawings conjur up a magical world. The animators’ inventiveness has no boundaries, unlike film directors who have to bear the safety of their actors in mind, animators can hurl their protagonists off a skyscraper, can push them over a cliff  or bash them over the head with a blunt instrument. The animated protagonist won’t take offence nor will these antics land them in hospital. The animator‘s skill has the power to mesmerise and dazzle children and adults alike. This is an artform which is often forgotten or seen as “second best” with CGI animated blockbusters from companies such as Pixar Animated Studios dominating the box office. Whilst the scripts are undoubtedly funny, the CGI animation leaves me feeling flat, neither dazzled nor mesmerised. Will their films turn into classics, loved by children for generations to come? 

If your children have driven you to distraction  with films from the Disney Studios or endless repeats of the Toy Story Franchise, why not try out something different and see if you cannot rekindle your love for this wonderful artform dating back to the very beginning of film making. 

Review of L’Illusionniste, France/UK/2010, 80mins/PG 

  

 

L'Illusionniste

 

  

Credits 

Director:                                   Sylvain Chomet 

Screenplay:                               Sylvain Chomet, Jacques Tati 

Producer:                                 Sally Chomet, Bob Last, Philippe Carcassonne, 

Jake Eberts 

Art Direction:                            Bjarne Hansen 

Music:                          Sylvain Chomet 

Animated version of J Tati/ 

the illusionist:                             animator Laurent Kircher 

The furore caused by Tati’s grandson soon after The Illusionist’s opening continues to overshadow the critical assessment of the film’s merits. 

Jacques Tati, the celebrated French performer and film director ( born Tatischeff, 1907 – 1982), wrote the screenplay allegedly as a response to the guilt he felt at having abandoned his eldest child Helga Marie-Jeanne Schiel, the illegitimate product of his liaison with a fellow performer at the Lido de Paris. 

 Tati had met Helga’s mother, Herta Schiel, when she worked with him in music-hall theatre in Paris during the German occupation. Tati’s wealthy sister Nathalie urged him not to marry Herta, when the Austrian born émigrée fell pregnant with Helga. Apparently Herta was eventually persuaded to sign a legal document relinquishing future financial claims and releasing Tati from publicly acknowledging his child. Herta received a sum of money and she left France with her small baby. 

 At the time Tati’s treatment of Herta and her child was the scandal of the theatrical community in Paris. Many of his fellow performers shunned him and he was forced to leave Paris. 

 Tati had begun his career as a professional rugby player but later took the stage as a mime artiste. He decided to film his own act in the 1930s and began directing a number of short films. His debut film Jour de fete/The Big Day was produced in 1947, but it was not until 1953, when he introduced his most famous creation to the world, the hapless, gangly character of Monsieur Hulot, that Tati’s career as a performer and film director really took off. Hulot became the central character of most of Tati’s subsequent films. 

 Hulot’s trademark characteristics were a battered hat, raincoat and pipe. His misadventures arise out of his complete lack of social graces and his inability to communicate with the people around him. Artist Laurent Kirchner used this characterisation to create the animated version of Tati, the illusionist. 

 After a string of successes including Les Vacances de Monsieur Hulot and Mon Oncle, Tati began to write a screenplay with the title L’Illusionniste. He apparently described it as a letter to his daughter Helga. 

 The screenplay deals with the relationship of an unsuccessful illusionist and a girl who believes him to be a real magician. By 1958 Tati and his eldest daughter had lost touch with each other, firstly because Tati had abandoned her during the war and secondly because afterwards he could not bring himself to fulfil his duties as a father due to the shame he felt over his earlier treatment of her. The film was never made during Tati’s lifetime. If his initial motivation had been to heal old wounds and make amends, he later shied away from committing to the project. 

 For a while Helga lived in an orphanage in North Africa. As a teenager living in Morocco, she made several attempts to contact Tati, writing him letters and asking him for help. Sadly, Tati and Helga never met. L’Illusionniste remains the only public acknowledgement of her existence. 

 After Tati’s death the possibility of turning the script into a film was being discussed with his younger daughter Sophie Tatischeff. She refused to let any actor play the part of Tati and it was decided that an animated version of the film would be the best solution. Sophie died in 2001, so she never got the chance to see Chomet’s adaptation of her father’s screenplay. 

 In a letter to the Observer Tati’s grandson Richard McDonald complained that “the sabotaging of Tati’s original L’Illusionniste script, without recognising his troubled intentions, so that it resembles little more than a grotesque, eclectic, nostalgic homage to its author is the most disrespectful act.” 

 Chomet disagreed with the McDonald family and claimed he had sought inspiration from his relationship with his own children, when he adapted the screenplay. Chomet is adamant that Tati wrote the script for his younger daughter Sophie, in recognition of how little she must have seen of her workaholic father during her childhood. 

 The director’s refusal to take the route of many other animators, who use CGI animation in an attempt to emulate Pixar Animation Studio’s success, has produced a visually stunning film. The main action takes place in 1950s Scotland, using Edinburgh as the backdrop.  Critics have described the film as “a love letter to Edinburgh”, where Chomet’s main studio is based. Far less inventive and therefore less dazzling than his 2003 international success Belleville Rendez-vous, work on the L’Illusionniste was completed in studios in South Korea, Paris and London at a cost of some £13,000,000. 

 The film’s main protagonist, the illusionist, travels from city to city in search of ever decreasing opportunities to work as a magician. In the late 1950s rock ‘n roll bands took over the theatres traditionally reserved for variety shows. The introduction of television to households across the world vastly changed people’s expectations with regard to entertainment fit for the 20^th century.  

 The film functions well as homage to the comic performer Tati and as a nostalgic look at music hall acts of the 1950s, but the adaptation fails when it tries to deal with Tati’s troubled relationship with his daughter(s). 

The beauty of the drawings and some of the superb animation sequences, particularly the ones dishing up rabbit stew (look away animal lovers everywhere!) will guarantee the film a place in animation history. However, the questionable adaptation of Tati’s script will not recommend Chomet as the choice director for future projects of a similar nature. 

 The film opened across France in eighty-four cinemas on 16.06.2010. It entered the French box office chart at number eight, taking US$ 600,099 in the opening weekend. By the end of June L’Illusionniste was already missing from the box office charts. The CGI animated film Shrek Forever After (Dreamworks) had entered the charts at number one and had grossed US$ 11,470,044 within its first week. 

 The irony cannot have been lost on Chomet. Just as rock ‘n roll, TV and cinema drove out variety acts, traditionally animated films are facing an uncertain future. 

     

 

 

 

Willow Band

Willow Band, eleven-year-old vampire child, is looking forward to the Christmas lights being switched on, when Willow’s dad get’s an invite from their illustrious Great Uncle Dracullus to do a gig at London’s hottest new venue , the Beating Pulse Club. Vampire dad Dylan cannot afford to turn down such a lucrative deal, so he takes his wife Alice and daughter Willow to meet the aristocratic old blood-sucker.

Willow discovers that her uncle’s table manners leave a lot to be desired and learns that mulled blood-wine gives you more than just a headache, while a very human Darren impersonates a knight in shining armour with moderate success.

Willow's house

In the Limelight is dedicated to humans and vampires alike. Some of you may be grinding their fangs when they remember last year’s Christmas party at the Last Bite Hotel. Is it that time of year already?

A Night out at the Beating Pulse Club

I imagine the former monks tending the monastry’s kitchen gardens, resting once in a while to take in the splendid city panaroma unfolding below, dreaming of their supper. That reminds me…my own stomach is still empty!

Finally, I find refuge in the manicured monastry gardens, not only famous for containing one of the world’s largest collections of roses, but also reknown for offering delicious food in the hilltop restaurant and cafe. I collapse into a comfortable chair and share my slice of coffee cake with a sparrow, who perches on the wall dividing the rose beds from the former kitchen gardens. The sparrow’s acrobatics are framed by a view over sleepy Bamberg, dozing below in the hot afternoon sun, its two waterways, the Danube canal and the Regnitz river, bi-secting the city like a giant pair of scissors. The city has been sleeping like this for a thousand years or more and I feel myself becoming part of its dream.

Just when I am getting used to this rather pleasant aspect of tourist hell, I realise I must make my way down the steep kitchen gardens to get back to the city centre. My sandals are not made for mountaineering down a very long descent. By the time I reach a mysterious green door leading out of the secret garden into the Little Venice district below, I have two blisters reminding me that my stint in hell is far from over.

Will I ever make it back to the train station, back to Nuremberg and the safety of my friendly B & B? Or will I wander through this maze of cobbled streets, tourist traps and souvenier shops for all eternity?

For more information on Bamberg please contact touristinfo@bamberg.de

Leaving the train station on a bright sunny morning in May, I followed the throng of tourists heading for the main attractions. An unpromising start took us past road works, shopping centres, traffic jams and noisy building sites until finally, we arrived in the town centre.

It’s hard to imagine a more picturesque place; there are more chocolate box buildings, winding cobbled streets and lovingly decorated houses the mind and feet of any tourist can cope with.

A river criss-crosses the town centre and much of Bamberg’s architecture has had to adapt to its acquatic position in this hilly landscape. An 18th century town hall stradled the river  like a witch’s house out of a Russian fairytale, standing tall on two sturdy legs on either side of the embankment, its facade decorated and proudly showing off the town’s rich past. Passing underneath the buidling I crossed a bridge into the heart of the town, where cafes were packed with those longing to be seen and wishing to impress but rarely succeeding. Who could possibly outshine the spendour of those ancient buildings, the largest original medieval township in Europe?

The streets were lined with tiny shops, carved and painted facades, treasure-troves for antique- and souvenier hunters. Restaurants seemed to float on an island in the river, their landlords competing with floral displays and imaginative tableware. Downstream brightly coloured barges moored and artists showed off their ware. Little Venice basked  smugly in the hot May morning, it had no reason to fear comparison with its larger name sake.

A steep climb on a cobbled streets brought me to the church and Schloss district where even more national treasures awaited me, alongside dozens of coaches spilling even more tourists into the main square. I fled the crowds and searching for a restaurant mentioned in my Lonely Planet Guide to Germany, I took a wrong turn into a tiny cobbled street curling around one of the town’s many churches.

I found I had inadvertently staggered into hell. Literally. Hell. Hoelle. Not so much the burning inferno I had been warned about as a child whenever I had expressed an unhealthy interest in sweets or in my teens when I expressed a shocking interest in boys. This was more the medieval equivalent of a day out in Sandwich, Kent.

Ignoring the omen of its name, the town’s upwardly mobile had made this district their 21st century home. Flowers in baskets and brightly painted pots, decorated windows and saloon cars spoke of a different kind of hell…competing with your neighbours…from net curtains to this year’s BMW model…showing off the latest trophy wife or designer child with A-grades and a university career to follow. A goldfish bowl exsistence in pastell-coloured brickwork. A lifetime in a job one hates just to pay off the mortgage on one’s tiny place in Hell.

At Hoelle No. 13 I found what must be the worl’d smallest B & B. One single room (with bath) and one double room (with bath). That’s the choice the weary traveller has to make.

Do I enter Hell alone, spending my night tossing and turning in a single bed contemplating my last shot at redemption? Or do I bring a mate, canoodling on double-bedded splendour before the morning after affect reminds us both that we gave up our chance of redemption long ago?

Leaflets proudly displayed outside a gleaming front door proclaim the landlords’  invitation for my weekend break in Hell. I admit, it was a great relief to find there are baths in Hell. After a hard day’s screaming and sweating in any inviting inferno, a traveller looks forward to washing off  the stinkiness and start purgatory all over again the next day, freshly scrubbed and smelling of deodorant. A mere Euro 39. per night. Bargain. I hadn’t expected Hell to be so reasonably priced. A devillish plan enticing me to stay?

I escaped Hell…and made my way up the Kaulberg to fall into another tourist trap…the footpath up to the castle – yes, there’s always a castle, no German town in the south would be seen dead (or in hell) without one. I forget what this one was called, there are castles everwhere in Bavaria and Franconia, this middle-aged traveller cannot possibly be expected to all remember their names.

Just like Rome in Italy, Bamberg is surrounded by hills, each furnished with a respectably sized church tower from which bells chime at convenient intervals, reminding me that my stomach was still empty. I had strayed into hell instead of the recommended restaurant. My Lonely Planet Guide advised the climb up to the castle, where no doubt I’d find lunch and refreshments.

The views over the town were spectacular, even though I wished I had brought suction pads to keep me upright. This was the steepest footpath I’ve ever had to climb. Another devillish device by the crafty landlords from Hoelle No. 13 or a consumer test conducted by Lonely Planet’s editorial staff?

Exhausted I reached the hilltop with a protesting empty belly and sweaty brow only to discover that a bus stopped just outside the castle. The trees in the shady forest surrounding the keep allowed me to cool off  – both my sweaty brow and my anger – and I drank in the fantastic views over the town and surrounding countryside. Deciding that a local dish of dumplings and goulash would be the right choice for a refugee from Hell, I made my way to the restaurant…only to find it packed to the medieval beams with tourists who had arrived earlier on the little tourist bus. No room at the inn, collect Nil Points and go straight back to Hell.

Typically, the bus was already fully booked for the return journey down the Kaulberg into the town centre, so I braced myself for the steep climb down into Hell with a tormented belly and burning soles.

…to be continued/

If you wish to spend a weekend in Hell, please visit www.hoelle-13.de/galerie or www.hoelle-12.de . For room bookings or more info please email gaestehaus@hoelle-12.de. Nearest airport is Nuremberg.

The next time I will bring sturdy shoes, a backpack full of sticky plasters for my blisters and a flexible VISA friend – the fees for museums, galleries and churches are rather high. During the day, most churches don’t allow you access but in late afternoon they open their doors to anyone wishing to hear church music. For a blissful hour one can relax, drink in the 18th century beauty of the architecture, the decor and paintings. Grateful feet start to recover from the steep cobbled streets outside and the mind retreats into a reverie, oblivious to the noise, dust and turbulent life outside.

Having decided to base part of one of my book projects in this amazing city, I started to view the place with a writer’s eye rather than stumbling around as a tourist. Photographs can only tell so much of a story: there are sounds and smells, there’s a change in light, there’s morning mist and afternoon heat, there’s the smog, there are barking, urinating dogs, there’s music and competing street vendors shouting their heads off on Carl’s Bridge.

Once I had scaled the heights of the Palace Gardens I found myself wandering through 18th century gardens; criss-crossing the hillside, the gardens spread out over a large area below the palace and main tourist throng.

Devided into different sections, some gardens are formal, others are playful with fountains sprinkling water over daffodils and tulips growing in profusion. Some gardens have benches for the visitor to sit and delight at the sights. There is room to take stock, to relax, to marvel at the multicoloured roofs, a russet flood rushing all the way downhill to join the river. At the foot of the hill a music school’s open windows allow violin and cello music to drift up the hill.

Resting by a  fountain  or under scented cherry blossom trees I made notes and found my children’s story progressing nicely – there was so much to inspire and stimulate the creative mind.

Cannot wait to go back. Oh, and the lager isn’t half bad either!

7.56 am

The stopwatch feels cold and hard in my hand. I can hear the distant grumble of the ferry huffing and puffing on its way to Denmark. A tired crew is herding passengers to the breakfast bar. My stomach tightens. I should have eaten something before I left the hotel.

 7.58 am

 I shiver and press the button on the watch. Gentle waves reach the deserted shore, a trillion lips pursing to kiss the pebbles on the beach. Broken sea shells call out to the retreating waves. There’s disappointment in their hiss. The moon tells a naughty joke and the sky blushes. An embarrassed sun puts in a fleeting appearance. Between them they decide grey is the appropriate colour for the Baltic skies.

 8.00 am

 A gull sails past me in the first light. How time flies!

 I read somewhere that the sinking of the Titanic cost more than a thousand lives. Most victims died of hypothermia not drowning. Just a couple of minutes they struggled in the waves, then the unforgiving sea claimed them, swallowed them whole until their bodies belonged to the aquamarine world below.

 8.02 am

 Another two minutes gone! Just like that.

 Whilst I have been standing here staring at my soggy boots, a thousand men, women and children died of hypothermia. Frozen stiff, their immovable faces floating just below the surface. Tiny boots dragging their wearers to the bottom of the ocean.

 As a child I used to come to this beach. Wanting me out of the house, she’d sent me here to play among the icebergs which had drifted down from Sweden and Norway during the winter storms. Fetching up in our bay, they would stand tall as a house, lining the coast. We’d climb them like tiny explorers, wearing proud red bobble hats and brightly coloured mittens attached with string to our coats.

 The waves had carved blue caves into the icebergs, their walls decorated with sea dwellers caught on the way. Small beings trapped between layers of ice. Small creatures belonging to the sea.

 Late in the afternoon she’d be standing by the pier, stamping her feet impatiently, calling out to her wayward, unwanted child. I’d squeeze into a hollow in my turquoise cave, trying hard to vanish into the walls. Sea stars twinkled from the roof of the cave. Sleepy seahorses nestled between their sheets of ice, their eternal beds ready made with every winter and undone with every spring. If I stood perfectly still, perhaps she’d give up her search and go home alone? I could sneak in later, when dad was back from work and it was safe to show my face. 

 I’d wait for ages in the blue silence. A small being trapped between layers of neglect. A small creature belonging nowhere.

 8.04 am

 Another two minutes have passed! My watch must be faulty.

 Whilst I have been standing here with the water swirling around my knees, a thousand men, women and children felt a myriad of icicles prick their skin, felt their eyeballs freezing and their nostrils filling with water, their gaping mouths tasting the brine.

 In the distance a man’s walking his dog. I can see the animal’s ears flapping in the breeze. A small creature chasing imaginary cats through the kelp.

 When I was eight I once got my foot stuck in a hole in the ice. She had yelled at me, I was late for dinner. I hurried to climb down from an iceberg as tall as our house. That’s when it happened. I slipped and fell between the edge of my iceberg and its neighbour. I cut my hand, trying to scramble up. My foot was wedged tightly between two icy walls. Would she leave me here until spring time? She had climbed up, cursing, pulling at my leg, tearing at my arm. My foot would not budge. We could not afford a new pair of boots, she hissed. Perhaps my boot would float back to Norway when the ice melted. Would it return the following winter, caught between layers of ice? Would my boot belong to the sea?

 8.06 am

 Ridiculous! For two long minutes I have been standing here watching cold, sharp fangs nip at my thighs. With every new wave coming into the bay, the wind has increased. Snow is drifting across the beach. Snowflakes are settling on my lashes, my nose is dripping. I should have worn goggles. Too late now to go back to the hotel. How time flies by!

 In the summer windsurfers misjudge the currents and drift out of the bay into the open sea, where hours later the coast guard will find them, exhausted, sunburnt men clinging on to their boards. How my first boy friend used to laugh at the surfboard casualties. Small fry spat out by the sea. City dwellers don’t belong here, he said.

 8.08 am

 Just two more minutes.

 I hold the stopwatch high above my head so it doesn’t get wet. A myriad of icicles is pricking my skin. I can taste the salt water on my lips. I wonder if the dog has caught up with the imaginary cats.

 Just two more steps. Turquoise washes over me. I am as light as kelp and as sleepy as a seahorse. What’s that thing drifting past me? A twinkling sea star or is it the naughty moon? Perhaps it’s my mother’s wire brush, bent out of shape by too many beatings.

 I relax into the waves. Nothing to fear. It was only the stopwatch gliding from my hand. Snug in my eternal bed I close my eyes.

 A small being nestling between sheets of ice.  A small creature finally belonging.

 If You Love Him, Tell Him…

        “Stop playing with your food, I’m not telling you again!” Alice Band shot an angry glance across the kitchen table.

         “I’m not playing, Babe. I’m just trying to …erm…soften up the merchandise,” her husband Dylan said. He tapped the dish in front of him with the back of a spoon. “Who’d have thought she’d be so…”

     “Sinewy and middle-aged?” suggested Alice helpfully.

     ”Fit and healthy! She’s an exotic dancer, actually. Naturally she’d be covered in muscles wrestling that huge snake every night.” Dylan tickled the writhing body in front of him. “Oh look, she’s woken up!”

    “Exotic dancer, my foot! You’ve picked up an ageing stripper from that club down by the river!” Alice snorted and mopped up a puddle of milk drenching the breakfast table.  She moved the milk bottle out of the dancer’s reach, as the fully conscious woman had begun to thrash her legs about. “Were you too drunk to tie her up properly?” Alice shredded the milky kitchen cloth into tiny pieces.

    “I wasn’t drunk, Babe…honest…not as such. Just tired, you know…a hard night’s hunting… I came across her when I …erm…after the gig had finished, the boys and I went for a drink. It was Rob’s birthday, what could I do?” Dylan risked an anxious glance at his wife. In an effort to appease her, he grabbed the breakfast dish by the ankles and tied up her legs with a tea towel.

    “Good morning, Willow. Sit down and have some breakfast, darling.” Ignoring her husband, Alice put a plate out for her eleven-year-old daughter, who had just come down the stairs.

    “I think I’ll give breakfast a miss, Mum. I don’t much care for …wrinkly food.” Willow said with a quizzical look at the dancer’s mascara stained face.

The woman was making gurgling noises now. Dylan had gagged her with one of his socks. He had secured the sock with one of the dancer’s own fishnet stockings, fastening the garment with a knot at the back of her platinum blonde head. Willow moved her chair further away from the table.

    “It’s not what my school friends would get for breakfast, that’s for sure!” Darren won’t touch anything that isn’t organic!” Willow pushed her plate away.

    “I know what you mean, darling … there’s way too much face powder and rouge. It can’t be healthy! Perhaps some left-over from yesterday? Do you fancy a slice of that young German tourist we had for dinner?” Alice smiled encouragingly at her, displaying perfectly shaped fangs in a beautiful face untouched by time.

Willow shook her head and poured some milk into her glass. She couldn’t help smiling back at her mother, though. Alice’s efforts to give Willow as normal a childhood as possible touched her and she made an effort to appear cheerful. For her parents this was really dinner, not breakfast. They just called it breakfast because Willow had to get up in the morning to go to school now that the summer holidays were over. They had been up all night, hunting for prey in the neighbourhood.

During the summer pickings were rich, with so many tourists visiting the charming village of Stinkforth-upon-Avon. Now that the autumn school term had started, food was harder to come by, as visitors returned to the cities to resume work. During the holidays Willow had been able to earn her keep by providing the family with employees of a nearby cosmetic research facility. However, this food supply had now dried up thanks to the laboratory closing after several “unexplained deaths and disappearances at the animal testing lab”as a newspaper man had described it in his tabloid column.

     “I think I’ll be turning in now, Babe. I’ll have my breakfast later, if you don’t mind. Just leave it in the larder.” Dylan yawned. He tickled the dancer’s well-toned belly and stood up to leave the kitchen. On his way upstairs he usually picked up his 12-string guitar to play a tune before bedtime, but today he seemed preoccupied and anyway, the guitar was not in its usual place.

     “Not so fast, lover-boy. Do you really think I’m going to store THAT in the larder for your amusement later, when I’m asleep upstairs?” Alice hissed at her husband. She poked the woman in the ribs, provoking a renewal of gurgling and sobbing.

The dancer’s wide eyes stared up from the table, clearly hoping to catch a glimpse of pity in Alice’s eyes. No such emotion was forthcoming, however. Alice threw a tea towel over the dancer’s head, as if she were a parrot to be silenced, picked her up and stuffed the helpless woman into the cupboard under the stairs. Alice locked the door and put the key into the pocket of her red velvet jacket, which she wore over her tight-fitting black dress.

Dylan shrugged his shoulders, ran his fingers through his long brown hair in a distracted, careless way and blew a kiss at his wife. With a final have a nice day at school, Princess he left Willow and her mother and went upstairs to go to bed.

     “MUSICIANS!” said Willow’s exasperated mother and turned away, but she had not been quite fast enough and Willow had caught the sorrow in her eyes.

Willow sat and sipped her milk in silence, whilst her mother tidied up the kitchen. From her seat, Willow had a perfect view of the fields surrounding their remote cottage. She loved the distant glow of the first lights coming from the village. The villagers would be getting up now, sitting bleary eyed over their porridge or munching their bacon and eggs. Willow loved the smell of bacon, although she hardly ever ate anything that wasn’t freshly slain.

She imagined how Felicity Henderson’s father would hold her a lecture across the breakfast table, reprimanding his daughter for only achieving a satisfactory in her last essay. Felicity’s exceptional school record had taken a nose dive of late. Ever since Willow had won the school’s annual poetry competition, Felicity’s confidence had been shattered. Willow grinned. An astounding piece about childhood, truly deserving a place in the school’s year book their teacher had called Willow’s poem about the late vicar’s book club and his encouragement of young minds.

A thumping noise coming from the cupboard under the stairs startled Willow out of her reverie. The old-fashioned clock on the mantle-piece urged her to get a move on or she’d be late for school. She ran upstairs to get her bag. There was just one more item she needed to pack. Moments later she descended the stairs taking two steps at a time.

     “I’ll be back around 6pm today, Mum. There’s an after school activity, which I’d like to go to.” Willow said and quickly closed her bulky school bag.

     “Oh, what activity would that be? Not more Kipling readings, I trust?”

     “Nah, no poetry this time, don’t worry! Our teacher is planning a trip to the Natural History Museum in London. We are short of funds. Our year is collecting things from pupils’ houses, you know, junk people want to get rid of. There’ll be a jumble sale soon. That reminds me – do we have anything old you’d like to chuck out?”

     “I’m sure I could think of something!” Alice said with a nod towards the cupboard under the stairs. “There’s always your old Dad…” she added with a grin and placed a kiss on Willow’s nose. “Be careful now and remember to stay in the shade of the trees when you make your rounds this afternoon.”

Willow ran out of the house and down the tree-lined lane, narrowly avoiding a pile of leaves, which her mother had carefully raked up from under the oak trees surrounding their large garden. She didn’t like lying to her mother, but this was an emergency and it was only a little white lie anyway. If nothing came of her investigation, her mother need never know where her daughter had gone that afternoon. Willow hurried along, as she had to make a brief detour on her way to school.

School was uneventful except for Darren calling Felicity an interfering busy-body, when she’d pestered Willow about the contents of her bulging school bag. Felicity hadn’t taken kindly to this and had threatened to tell her dad, the much-despised new headmaster of their school. Darren had countered this by poking Felicity’s own bag so violently that if fell off the desk, spilling its contents across the floor. It revealed an astonishing number of sweets and also a small make-up bag. Willow chuckled. Mr. Henderson would go mad if he knew his daughter wore make-up in school. Mrs. Henderson would ground Felicity for at least a week. Mrs. Henderson was a dentist demanding total sugar abstinence from everyone living in Stinkforth-upon-Avon.

Willow made her way through a patch of woodland to get to her friend Eddie’s house, ensuring on the way that she wasn’t seen by anyone. Eddie lived in a tumble down house which had stood deserted for thirty years or more whilst Eddie had been in prison. He was a released convict, a wife-murderer. A bake-your-wife-in-a-pie killer. He had taken a hatchet and had cut short his wife’s career as a poultry farmer and unscrupulous pie maker. She’d been the enemy of all pet chickens and small animals. Willow liked him a lot.

Eddie sat in front of the house on his dilapidated garden bench and sipped his afternoon grog. His tousled grey head gave her a friendly nod when she came running up the garden path.

     “Everythin’ went accordin’ to plan. Delivered the message, just as you asked me to. I wasn’t followed and she didn’t suspect anythin’. Eddie’s wrinkly face burst into a lop-sided smile. He made room for her on the bench and she threw herself into the seat next to him.

     “Great! Now we’ll just have to wait. At 5pm we’ll go down to the old barn and see if she fell for the note.” Willow helped herself to a biscuit from Eddie’s tin. “What’s she like in the day light?”

     “Oh, you know…the usual type. Dyed hair, too much red lipstick and if that was a dress she was wearin’ …well, I know I’m old fashioned …but I reckon that girl’s goin’ to catch a cold in that skimpy outfit!”

Willow sat quietly for a while, nibbling her biscuit just for something to do. It was getting chilly and Willow watched Eddie’s breath drifting past her like tiny white clouds. She wished he wouldn’t drink, it wasn’t good for him, but he had assured her, it was only one mug of grog a day to keep the autumn out of his old bones.  She watched a squirrel digging under a fruit tree, where Eddie had placed some hazelnuts. A bird was noisily pecking at an apple which hung up on a branch on a piece of string. The air smelled of log fires, grog and Eddie’s supermarket soap.

Dad had never used cheap soap. Dad smelled of sandalwood, cinnamon and centuries of expensive tobacco. She closed her eyes and saw his long hair sleeked back with gel and his slim manicured fingers strumming his beloved guitar, a dusty bottle of wine on the piano next to him.

Her vampire nostrils told her that Eddie wasn’t taking particularly good care of himself with respect to personal hygiene. Intuition told her that he was scared of the future, old age and loneliness. Dad on the other hand positively reeked of confidence, courage and a gifted musician’s arrogance. When Dad entered a room, all eyes were on him. Eddie crept in and out of rooms, disregarded, an invisible old man in a shabby grey coat. Willow put her hand on Eddie’s arm.

     “Come, it’s time to go. Can you manage with your leg?”

     “Still a bit sore and bothers me in this damp weather, but I’ll manage. Thanks for askin’ though.” Eddie got up and had to lean hard on the back of the bench for a moment, the tiny white clouds coming a bit faster and shallower this time.

They arrived at the old barn a little after 5pm.  Eddie had brought an old lantern and they risked lighting it, once they were inside the barn. Willow’s night vision was as a vampire’s should be, but Eddie needed the light to find his way up into the loft. She opened her school bag and revealed an old camera, 1950s style.

     “It’s one of Dad’s. He collects all sorts of old junk.” Willow explained and handed Eddie the camera. He ascended the ladder, dragging his aching leg behind him as he went up to hide in the hay.

    “Ready?” Willow whispered up into the darkness. Eddie answered with a sneeze.

     “Damn hay ticklin’ a man’s extremities when he can’t defend himself.” She heard Eddie curse as he tried to get comfortable.

     “Shush, someone’s coming! Put the light out!” Willow darted behind an old tractor and it was only now that the spotted some blankets on the floor. There were two empty wine glasses next to a wicker basket with a dusty bottle of wine, stale bread and a half-eaten chocolate bar. A 12-string guitar lay forgotten on a footstool. Willow gasped and took a step back. She nearly tripped over a lantern displaying the remains of a candle. The barn door creaked at this moment and Willow ducked behind a heap of straw.

     “Hello? Is that you, tiger?” A girl’s voice called out in the dark. “Sorry I’m late. A bit difficult to walk across the field in these heels. You’re not cross, honey-bunch, are you?”

Willow nearly retched hearing the girl’s high-pitched sugary voice. The girl had brought her own lantern. She placed it on an empty crate, took off her coat to reveal a very short red dress and made herself comfortable on the blankets right in front of Willow.

 Eddie had not exaggerated. The girl’s bleached hair stood in stark contrast to her cherry-red lipstick. A cloud of cheap perfume wafted over to her when the girl turned to reach for the bottle of wine. Willow held her nose to stop herself from sneezing. Noiselessly she retreated even further behind the stack of straw.

     “Are you hiding upstairs, tiger? It was sweet of you to send a note via that pensioner. My boss never suspected a thing. I just said I had to take care of my poor old relative who’d come for a day‘s visit from the nursing home. The old skinflint let me go half an hour before closing time. Unheard of! You bring me luck, you do.”

A rustling noise from upstairs cut short her chatter. Willow suspected that Eddie was trying not to laugh at the girl’s description of him. The girl was about to get up and investigate, when the barn door creaked again and a man entered. Willow crouched even lower and didn’t move a muscle. The man came closer; his feet crushed the straw on the floor. He didn’t say anything, just stood there hidden in the shadows.

    “There you are my tiger! Come to your sweet Tiffany. Don’t be shy and let me kiss you,” the girl purred. She got up and threw her arms around the stranger’s neck.

    “NOW, EDDIE!” Willow yelled. For a split second a flash light from upstairs illuminated the barn, showing a bewildered Tiffany in mid-hug action, Eddie standing on the top rung of the ladder holding a camera and …Willow’s dad staring back at her.

     “What the hell are you doing here, Princess?”

    “WHAT AM I DOING HERE? What about you … and Miss Tight T-shirt 2009 hanging from your neck, Dad?”

    “I saw the light and came here looking for you. Your mother is worried sick about you!” Dylan said, putting an astonished Tiffany firmly aside.

     “Pull the other one, Dad! I saw you last night going into the barn with Tiffany Trollope here and this morning, a totally different platinum blonde was lying on our breakfast table. You didn’t meet this girl for culinary reasons, Dad. You were planning to …yuk … you were going to snog her!”

    “I warned you not to play with your food, Dylan. You’ve caught your last Blondie-mouse. The game is over, tiger.” Alice said in a choked voice. She had entered the barn unnoticed. Upstairs Eddie relit his lantern and in the flickering light Alice’s eyes glittered with tears.

     “Will anyone tell me what’s going on here? Who are you people?” Tiffany’s voice had become shrill.

     “Don’t pretend you don’t know my husband, little one! The songwriter with a blonde in every dressing room and a bimbo in every barn? How could you not know him? He advertises his services so well! Hands off, he’s MY TIGER …about to be skinned alive.”

    “Listen lady, I’ve never met your husband until just now, when the old pervert up there tried to take our picture. If you’re so worried about your bloke, perhaps you should take better care of him?”

    Alice grabbed Tiffany by the throat lifting her up in the air. “I’ll deal with you later, Bleach Babe!”

     “I swear to you on our daughter’s head that I’ve never seen this girl before.” Dylan interrupted, gazing at his daughter with a look of infinite sadness. He tried laying his hand on Willow’s shoulder, but she evaded his touch.

     “Liar! Eddie gave Tiffany a note asking her to meet you here.” Willow yelled. “How could you, Dad? Just look at that cheap little tar-“

     “Princess, you don’t understand. Just let me explain –“

    “Don’t bother, Dad! I HATE YOU!”

     “Willow! Take your friend and leave now. GO HOME!” Alice pointed at the open door.

Willow and Eddie slunk out of the barn and into the field. Eddie heard Willow crying. He reached into his coat pocket and gave her a handkerchief. She blew her nose and wiped her eyes. Behind her in the barn a fight had broken out. Willow feared that this time her Dad’s luck and her Mum’s capacity for forgiveness had run out for good.

    “It seemed such a good idea … taking a picture of them … telling Dad never to see that little troll again or I’d tell Mum. Oh, what a mess …I’ve made everything worse!” Willow sobbed.

     “You weren’t to know that your Mum would follow your Dad. She’s usually asleep at this time of day, you said.”

    “Oh Eddie, she was so worried, I saw it in her eyes this morning. Dad goes through these funny phases… Mum must have suspected…”

     “Thought you couldn’t take pictures of vampires? No reflection?” Eddie tried to distract Willow.

     “There would have been a photo of the girl though …with Dad’s guitar lying there and … sometimes …if you catch us unawares … in the dark like …you can see an outline of a vampire.” Willow tried to suppress a hic-up.

     “Hence the 1950s camera with a huge flash light?”

    “Yeah. I feel so ashamed, Eddie! The way Dad looked at me just now … he must be so disappointed in me.”

    “Not really my place to say but … I reckon your Dad is a bit of a fool. Such a beautiful wife and daughter who love him … a comfortable home…” Eddie’s voice trailed off.

Willow suddenly felt very sad. What was going to happen now? She’d never seen her mother so upset. Willow felt sad for Eddie, too. He’d never had a loving wife and daughter …or a comfortable home come to think of it. She shouldn’t have dragged him out here on a cold night. She had treated her father’s infidelity like a game. Catch Dad at it –  tell him he’d behaved like an idiot. End of story … and now what? Broken hearts all round!

Darren’s parents were divorced. Darren never got to see his dad. He’d moved away and had written a letter to say that he couldn’t cope seeing his son just during the holidays. He’d sooner give up seeing his son all together than suffering the separation at the end of each summer. Willow had taken for granted that her vampire parents would love each other forever – literally, since they had no natural enemies in the neighbourhood to cut short their after-lives. There was no such thing as a vampire divorce court giving custody. Vampires settled their differences with their fangs and claws. Willow felt sick.

    “He seemed genuinely surprised though,” Eddie said to break the silence.

    “You bet he was surprised at having his cuddle interrupted like that!” Willow kicked a bushel of grass and regretted it instantly. It was covered in cow pads.

    “No, I mean he was surprised at seein’ the girl. Like he’d never clapped eyes on her before –“

At that moment a scream pierced the night and put any thoughts of guilt out of Willow’s mind. Her parents needed her, what was she doing standing about in a field scraping cow dung off her shoes? She turned and ran back to the barn.

Willow was just in time. Her mother was lying unconscious on the floor. During the matrimonial fighting Tiffany had managed to throw some old netting over Alice. In an effort to free herself, Alice had fallen over the crate and knocked her self and the lantern out. Dylan was on the floor, too. A broken bottle lay next to his head. Clearly there was more to Tiffany than met the eye!

    “Ouch, my head …I duelled with Casanova! I beat Mozart in a marathon piano recital and I escaped the Spanish Inquisition …only to be defeated by a shop girl! How humiliating!“ Dylan mumbled when he regained his senses.

Tiffany sat on his chest and held the business end of a broken broom handle over his heart. Dylan remained very still, his eyes signalling to Willow not to do anything rash.

    “Tell them!” Tiffany demanded.

    “I tried, they won’t believe me.” Dylan squirmed under the sharp spike pointed at his chest.

    “Tell them or I’ll stick this thing into you, I swear! My Gran warned me some axe murderer was roaming the country side …. What with all those people disappearing at the cosmetics lab and the vicar vanishing without a trace. I laughed at her, told her not to believe everything she read in the papers. Axe murderer indeed! Look at me … I’m arguing with a bunch of vampires!” Tiffany was furious. Her romantic evening had been ruined. She had been half strangled by a jealous wife and had almost snogged a 400-year-old bloke. Willow sympathised up to a point.

    “Fine! I’ll tell them …I’ve never met you before today … but I did know that you were going to be here tonight, because Rob asked me to give you a message. The message said: GET LOST!” Dylan heaved a sigh. “Happy now?”

    “I’ll be happy when you and your banshee wife are a pile of dust!” Tiffany pressed the stake firmly into Dylan’s shirt.

    “Rob?” asked Willow, her eyes wide with disbelief. “What’s your bass player got to do with this mess?”

    “Princess, he’s been using this barn for his secret meetings with Tiffany, so her husband wouldn’t find out they were seeing each other! Tiffany clearly thought your note was from Rob! Do you think we could discuss this later? Perhaps you could … erm …get your mother to squash this insect on my chest?”

     “It was you I saw going into the barn last night, Dad. I’d know your green coat anywhere. It’s got that embroidery on the back, remember, the one Mum did for you … and that’s your guitar over there!”

    “Princess, Rob borrowed my guitar to impress the girl. I swapped my coat with him last night so I could –“

    “So you could do what exactly?” Alice had woken up and rubbed her head. She tried to free herself from the netting but only succeeded in entangling her long black hair even further.

    “…so I could follow you unnoticed, Babe! Alice, where have you been these past weeks? You sneak off when you think Willow and I are asleep. You evade my questions. I thought … well, I haven’t made a lot of money with my gigs lately and I guess I haven’t been the most attentive husband either … Perhaps you don’t love me any more? Is there somebody else?”

    “After 200 years of marriage you think that of me? You still don’t really know me, do you?” Alice said quietly.

    “The new shoes … that tight dress … and your hair looks different, too –“ Dylan said and Willow saw that he instantly regretted having drawn attention to his wife’s hair, which stuck out from under the netting and looked as if it was covered in bird droppings.

    “Oh darling, how could you think such a thing! I’ve been working at the petrol station. My shift starts at 9pm …we were so short of cash …I was ashamed to tell you … working like a human … with a social security card and a family health insurance plan!”

    “How very touching! Who cares what you’ve been up to, Toothy! I reckon the local police will be pleased to get the killers of all those people. Let’s say I dust your husband and then hand over you and your child in exchange for the reward being offered by the cosmetics company?” Tiffany threatened.

    “You’d have to get past me first, Goldie Locks.” Alice snarled and tried to get up.

    “Hah, you reckon? By the time you’ve staggered over here in your fishnets, your husband will be ready for the vacuum cleaner!” Tiffany raised her arm as if to bring down the stake.

    “Leave my Dad alone, you … you underdressed shop dummy!”

    “Goodbye my little Princess, goodbye dearest Alice, love of my after-life!” Dylan closed his eyes and awaited the blow.

    “Don’t hurt him, I beg you! My darling, please forgive me for suspecting you.” Alice’s voice trembled.

Willow realised that this soppy moment of parental reconciliation presented the best chance she’d get. She launched herself at a surprised Tiffany and knocked her to the ground with a kick to the stomach. With a left hook to the chin she sent the shop girl flying into the tractor wheel. Tiffany sank to the ground like a broken rag doll. Willow couldn’t resist giving her another kick – just to make sure she posed no further threat, of course!

Part of her wanted to throw her arms around her parents. She wished for them all to go home and be a family again. But another part of her, the more grown up part perhaps, decided to leave her parents alone in the barn. Willow tied a rope around Tiffany, placed both of the lanterns on the crate and quietly left. Just before she closed the door, she saw her father affectionately peeling bird droppings out of her mother’s hair.

    “I love you, Dad.” Willow whispered and closed the door.

      “I reckon they’ll be fine now, Eddie. They’ve got candle light, a comfy bed for the night …something to eat and drink.“ Willow pictured Tiffany’s soft white throat and smiled.

She turned and promptly fell over something large lying on the ground. It was Eddie.

The excitement of the events had been too much for him and he had collapsed. His eyelids flickered and he was very pale. His breath was hardly making clouds at all now.

    “I’m taking you to a doctor. Just hang on in there, Eddie, just hang on!” Willow tried to lift him but he sank back to the ground with a groan.

    “Leave me be, girl. Time to say goodbye, I reckon.”

    “No way, Eddie! You have to go into hospital … they’ll make you better!”

    “No point takin’ me to hospital. A useless old man, a convict, a murderer. They won’t bother with me. Just take me back to the house, there’s a good girl.”

With an effort Eddie lifted himself up and supported by Willow, they made slow progress towards Eddie’s house. At the end of the path, Eddie passed out again and Willow, desperate to help her friend, did the only thing she could think of. She took him home. Not to his ramshackle house with the draughty windows and the damp old settee. Not back to his bedroom where Eddie’s wife glared down from the faded photographs.

Willow took him back to her own home, placed him on the sofa in front of the log fire and covered him with a blanket. She’d read somewhere that humans needed warmth when they were poorly. She wasn’t sure what else they needed and was about to telephone Darren, when a thumping noise startled her. Something moved under the stairs!

She had forgotten the snake lady! Willow picked the lock and let the woman out. Her face was swollen from crying and she was bruised from kicking the door for hours, but otherwise she seemed to have survived her day under the stairs quite well.

    “Used to work for a magician. The Great Zeppo made me squeeze myself into all sorts of tight places on stage.” Rita Ramona explained, once Willow had removed the sock from Rita’s mouth.

    Rita was busy surveying the damage to her fishnets, when Eddie regained consciousness and groaned again. “What’s the matter with him? Is he another one of your lunatic family?” Seeing Willow’s distress she added more kindly: “Your granddad’s unwell?”

Willow was about to say that Eddie wasn’t her granddad, when it occurred to her that Rita might be able to help.

     “Yeah, Granddad’s unwell but he refuses to go into hospital. I’ve kept him warm but I don’t know what else I can do.”

     “Leave him to me, ducks. I used to be a paramedic.” Rita gently pushed Willow aside so she could examine Eddie.

Willow marvelled at Rita’s career change from paramedic to contortionist to exotic dancer, not to mention snake wrestler! But most of all she wondered about Rita’s capacity for forgiveness and willingness to help a family who had tried to eat her.

     “I’m sorry, duckie. I don’t think he’s going to make it through the night without a doctor. He’s had a stroke. You’d best say your goodbyes as soon as. I’ll stay with you until … well, until he goes to sleep.” Rita put her arm around Willow’s shoulder.

    “But he can’t die, he just can’t! He’s my friend and I … Willow swallowed hard and bravely carried on: “I love him!”

    “Thank you for … taking me home.” Eddie whispered and closed his eyes.

 THE END

The Importance of Gazelles

          „Arms outstretched, right leg forward, turn… and jump! Mes amies, not like hippos, please! What is all this thump, thump, thump? Think of gazelles; girls, you are supposed to be a fairy princess light as a feather!” Madame Tolstoy gave the metronome a kick to vent her frustration.

She looked down the row of girls and sighed. “You there, petite Blonde, show me the dance routine again.”

Eleven-year-old Felicity Henderson positioned herself in front of her classmates, put her right leg in front of the other with the toe of her pink ballet shoe pointing towards Madame, lifted her arms above her head and raised her heart-shaped face upwards. She gazed at the ceiling, her blue eyes in rapture, as if they beheld a fairy prince instead of a stain caused by the leaky toilet on the second floor.

Her fellow pupil Willow Band had to admit, Felicity looked the part. The mirrors around the room displayed a small army of Felicities dressed in enchanting layers of pink chiffon skirts. Arms gracefully held above her head, poised and still, Felicity awaited the start of the music. On the third beat she turned, pirouetted on the spot and jumped up in the air, twirling her feet daintily in mid air. What a princess, what a leading lady for this year’s performance of the famous ballet Duck Pond!

        THUMP! Felicity landed on the slippery parquet floor with a crash, lost her balance and fell on her behind. Willow snorted. She looked down at her own outfit. Yep, for once her tutu was clean, her tights had no holes or ladders and there were no chocolate stains on her leotard either. This was her chance! She stepped forward and raised her arm into the air.

        “Madame Tolstoy, may I try? Now that Felicity has shown us how easy it is with a bit of concentration, I’d like to have a go, if you please.”

Madame Tolstoy gazed coolly into the speaker’s direction. Willow gulped and withered under Old Pointy Toes’ stare. Madame was scrutinizing her appearance. Willow’s brown hair had escaped the constraint of an elastic band and an unruly strand had glued itself to her forehead. Madame had surely noted the faded pink of Willow’s outfit, an heirloom from her dad’s cousin Meg! Madame would never choose her, not in a million years! However, Madame nodded her approval and the metronome sprung into action.

Willow couldn’t remember the next few moments, when her mum asked her later. She had come to a halt in front of all her classmates. Total silence had greeted her. Everyone had stared at her open mouthed. The metronome had slowed down, the tape recorder had whined and the music had come to an end. Suddenly Madame had clapped her hands and smiled. Willow had pulled it off! She had sailed through the air, had twirled her ballet shoes until they resembled an egg whisk and had landed on the balls of her feet with ease and grace.

        “Bravo!” Madame was thrilled. “What a performance, what style, what…elegance! Just like a gazelle!”

All eyes were on Willow. She stood in the middle of the room, basking in the admiration of all but one of her fellow pupils. One pair of blue eyes bored into the back of Willow’s head.

        “Well, I think mes amies, we have found our leading lady! Ah, I see it is getting late. We’ll meet again on Thursday to determine the other parts in Duck Pond. Au revoir, mes enfants.” Madame switched off her tape recorder and halted the metronome.

        “That was quite a performance! Didn’t know you had in you. One doesn’t associate short-legged people with ballet somehow.” Felicity sat down on the wooden bench in the changing rooms and untied her ballet shoes.

        “Oh I don’t know… fairies don’t have terribly long legs either but they manage to be graceful and …silent. Has anyone ever heard of a fairy flattening a flower with a crash landing?” Willow looked around the changing room and saw her classmates’ faces grin back at her.

        “I am rather surprised at Madame, I must say. The Great Nureijev would never have danced with a ballerina with such fat arms. Still, there’s no accounting for taste.” Felicity peeled off her leotard. One of her long, slender arms reached for a jumper.

        “Funny, I’ve never noticed the Great Nureijev had fat arms. Are you sure you are not confusing him with the Great Houdini again? You know how weak you are on foreign languages.” Willow heard her remaining classmates snigger. The changing rooms slowly emptied and their fellow pupils filed out one by one to the car park behind the school.

They were the last to leave. Felicity insisted on folding her chiffon tutu into a neat package, before it was committed to the safety of her gym bag. Delivered all the way from France via courier, the skirt was a creation by Yves St. Camembert, a costume designer for the Paris opera no less.

By the time they left the changing rooms, all the cars had left. Parents had picked up their daughters and were now on their way home to a dinner in front of the TV. It was dark, much darker than usual. The streetlights had been put out of action by someone throwing stones at the lamps. Glass splinters crunched under Willow’s feet, when she stepped into the car park.

        “I’m so going to get Darren for this! One could break an ankle in these potholes!” Felicity side-stepped a particularly deep specimen and squinted into the night. “I wonder what’s keeping Daddy.”

        “Perhaps Daddy’s busy mixing cement to fill the potholes! Why do you always assume Darren’s behind every thing that goes wrong in this school?” Willow hissed into the darkness.

        “Because he usually is! Face it Willow, your boy friend is a trouble maker. These street lights are his handy work, mark my words. I mean, have you seen where he lives? Lower Stinkforth! That’s were they’re building those council houses.” Felicity sniffed and shouldered her bag.

        “Darren lives in Lower Stinkforth-upon-Avon and you live in the village proper, big deal! His mum owns a very nice two-bedroom semi, thank you very much.” Willow peered into the darkness and wondered if the bus was going to be delayed again.

“Daddy must be working late. It’s such a lot of responsibility being headmaster. What does your father do for a living?”

 “My dad’s a musician.” Willow consulted her watch. The bus was late.

“Oh, you mean in an orchestra? Playing second fiddle, is he?”

“He’s a musician with his own band. Be quiet for a minute, will you! Something’s wrong. Can’t you hear footsteps?” Willow dropped to the floor and pressed her ear onto the tarmac.

“A rock musician? Well, I never! Anything in the charts, anything we’ve heard on the BBC?” Felicity dumped her bag on the ground and sat on it. “Are you displaying artistic temperament or is this eavesdropping on Mr. and Mrs. Mole?”

“Dad’s music isn’t being played on BBC Radio Four, fathead! By the way, what’s that precious tutu ever done to deserve such a punishment twice in one day?”

Felicity jumped up, cursing. She peered into her gym bag. “It’s no

good. I can’t see a thing. I bet it’s flattened and crushed. Oh, Mummy is going to be ever so cross. It took Mrs. Thingummy ages to get the creases out.”

“I take it Mrs. Thingummy is your housekeeper? Doesn’t she

have a proper name?” Willow got up and brushed off her jeans. “Oh I get it. Felicity Henderson is too grand to remember a simple cleaner’s name! Very la-di-da.”

“Daddy says, we are comfortably off, why shouldn’t we have a

housekeeper? I take it your daddy hasn’t made it big in the music industry? No offence, but your tutu doesn’t need ironing, it needs a cremation!” Felicity said with her hands on her hips.

 “Shush, somebody’s coming!” Willow motioned Felicity to follow her into the middle of the car park. These were not Mr. Henderson’s familiar footsteps. Willow sensed danger.

The girls stood back to back, staring into the night. The wind had freshened up and autumn leaves rushed across the tarmac. The trees surrounding the school buildings creaked and moaned softly.

Without warning a hooded figure appeared out of the shrubbery. The man stood outlined against the pale moon light. He circled the girls slowly, muttering under his breath as he did so.

        “Who are you and what do you want?” Willow challenged him.

        “I recognise that voice! You are the girl the late vicar told me about, the one who writes poetry.” A thick voice said. The man came closer.

        “That’ll be me, actually. Did you see my Ode to Youth in the parish magazine by any chance?” Felicity asked keenly.

        “Well, well, if it isn’t little Miss Henderson.” The man came closer still. ““I haven’t seen you in my library for a while.”

        “Oh, now I recognise you. You’re Basil Slimefoot, the assistant librarian, aren’t you? How-de-do?” said Felicity and held out her hand.

        “I don’t think he’s after a polite chat, fathead.” Willow dug her elbow into Felicity’s ribs. “Look, what’s that by the changing room windows!”

Felicity turned her head and spotted the ladder.

        “You’re sick! I’ll tell Daddy about you and then you’ll lose your job!”

        “Oh really? I don’t think it’ll come to that, little Miss Headmaster.”

“He’s got a knife!” Willow reached behind her, squeezing Felicity’s arm briefly. “Don’t antagonise him!”

The man had completed his circle. Leaping forward, he grabbed Felicity’s wrist and pulled her towards him. He held the knife to her throat with one hand and clamped his other hand tightly over her mouth. Her frightened eyes bulged out of their sockets. The blade was piercing her skin. Willow smelled blood trickling down Felicity’s throat.

Basil stroked Felicity’s hair. “There, there, hush little girl. Don’t you cry…Basil is going to kiss it better.”

        “Let go of her at once!” Willow took a step forward.

“Or you’ll do what? Scream for help? Nobody’s going to hear you. Nobody’s going to care! I’ve watched you for weeks. Out late at night, walking across the fields. Your mummy and daddy are too wrapped up in themselves to bother with you. As for Miss Henderson here, her Daddy’s far too busy working his way into Stinkforth’s upper class. Invited to the mayor’s dinner party, isn’t he? His dutiful wife is beside him. They’ve all but forgotten you, little Miss Henderson!” He shook Felicity hard, his fingers cutting into her pale cheeks.

“LET.GO.OF.HER. Last warning!” Willow took another step forward. Basil stood his ground.

“Day after day girls come into my library. Their grubby little hands all over my books. Torn pages, chocolate stains, chewing gum under the reading desks. And all the while they are smiling, fluttering their eyelashes at me, hitching up the skirts of their school uniforms, when they’re climbing up the ladder to get a book from the grown up section!”

“You are sick! LET HER GO!” Willow screamed.

“Hm, feisty, aren’t you? I reckon you and I will have some fun discussing that anatomy book you tried to borrow a few weeks ago!” Basil’s knife hand moved slowly down from Felicity’s throat to her chest. “But first it’s little Miss Thingummy’s turn.”

Felicity fainted and slid out of Basil’s grip. He let her fall to the ground, where she lay like a crushed fairy princess, long blonde hair streaming across the tarmac, her pale face raised to the moon.

Basil stepped over her body and approached Willow. In the faint light he didn’t see the change that had come over her face. In the darkness she could sense him coming closer. She could smell his cheap aftershave, his sweaty armpits and even the ink stain on his wrist.

Basil did not see the fangs until it was too late. Willow leaped up, turned in mid-air and hit Basil hard across the face with her foot. She landed softly on Felicity’s gym bag. Willow got up fast. The man was lying under a dead streetlight among the glass fragments. Basil didn’t move. Willow approached, kneeled down and lifted his knife hand. His fingers were still holding tight. She let his hand slide to the ground. He had stepped into a pothole and had broken his neck in the fall.

Felicity was still out for the count. In the distance, working its way up the steep lane, Willow could hear the bus. She grabbed their gym bags, strapped them over her shoulder and lifted up Felicity.

        “Don’t hurt me!” Felicity opened her eyes just as the bus left the school and headed for Wilberforce Lane. She blinked. “How did I get here? Where’s that man?”

        “What man?” Willow helped her to sit up straight. “You’ve banged your head harder than I thought!”

        “What are you talking about? There was this man and he had a knife… he threatened us!” Felicity rubbed her temples as if that would help to disentangle the cotton wool in her head.

        “Listen fathead, you tried to demonstrate Madame’s dance routine in the car park, you mucked it up as before and crashed like a hippo…not on your behind this time but on your head. Though how anyone’s supposed to know the difference with a face like yours…”

        “Haha, very funny. So I imagined seeing Basil the Librarian threatening us in the car park?”

        “You will day dream of your secret admirers! It’s a hell of an age gap, but hey, as long as you’re both happy!” Willow grinned.

She could see how Felicity tried to work out what had really happened but it seemed her head hurt too much.

        “How did I get this scratch across my throat?”

        “Vampires? How should I know?” Willow pulled a face. “There was glass everywhere, fathead, you work it out!”

        “Did I dream Madame made you leading lady, too? Please tell me that was part of my nightmare –“

        “Nope, glorious reality, I’m afraid. Best girl won. Or should I say…best gazelle won?” Willow chuckled, thinking of her four meter leap across the tarmac and a mid-air turn combining Madame’s dance routine with some fancy footwork of her own.

The bus stopped at Felicity’s destination. She got up and walked to the exit, rubbing the back of her head.

        Just before the bus driver closed the doors, Felicity shouted: “You’re right, I must be concussed. In my dream I saw you standing in the middle of Madame’s class and guess what?”

        “WHAT?” Willow pressed her nose against the windscreen and rolled her eyes. “You finally recognised my genius? You saw the most inspired dance routine ever?”

        “You were all alone! I mean…four walls lined with mirrors and you stood there with no reflection in any of them! Idiotic, the things we dream.” Felicity shook her head and turned into her street to enjoy a TV dinner for one, whilst Mrs. Thingummy ironed the creases out of Yves St. Camembert’s chiffon.

The End

I took numerous writing classes where the tutor tried hard to seperate me from my voice. I read several  ”How To” books explaining how to write for children and found the writers’ own children’s books were not exactly top drawer, which is probably why they had to supplement their income with “How To” books in the first place.

Finally, I decided never to take another writing class and I locked away all those well-meant books of expert advice. The responsibility of living up to all that expertise had killed my creative spirit dead.

Within days of making this discovery I started writing short stories again…No more excuses of why I couldn’t possibly complete chapter 14 of my book. No delaying tactics, no following tutor’s writing rules, no hunting for the dictionnairy in the laundry basket. Finally, no critic was looking over my shoulder whispering “you’re just no good!”

 Wonderful writing, free flow, the story tells itself.

I close my eyes and I see my little protagonists clearly. Never mind adjectives, never mind characterisation. What are the children doing? Are they having fun? Are they scared, are they alone, who would they like to have as a friend?

The real Willow is dancing through the kitchen in front of my mind’s eye. Her smile could melt an iceberg. She’s talking to me. I listen. She tells the story now. I just operate the keyboard.

Yesterday a friend  sent me pictures of her first snowman in 26 years. A little snow and I’m off to childhood days. In November I celebrated my 49th birthday. Today I’m just ten-years-old, hurtling down a hill, racing my sleigh against the other youngsters.

Walking through the forest, I find myself jumping into snow drifts, delighting in the powdery snow sticking to my trouser legs, creeping into my boots. Upon reaching the mountain top, I look over the white valley spreading out in front of me like a princess surveying her frozen kingdom. Half timbered houses dream suspended in time, feeble sunshine lights up trees and paints them in gold. Have I jumped into the middle of a Brother’s Grimm fairy tale?  The absence of colour seems to sharpen my perception of the world around me. Is that a little red choo-choo train racing across the horizon? Are those tiny yellow dots Mrs. Windmüller’s labradors?

I let myself fall into a slice of virgin snow and lie there spreadeagled, wondering where my skating boots have got to. When I was eight, I stayed out until dark,  pirouetting like a weightless balerina on a black lake.  Every sound around me seems magnified now. Birds tweeting, a dog barking at a neighbouring farm, the baker’s van driving through the village below. To hell with adult concerns like mortgages, unemployment, world politics and mountains of ironing to be done. There’s a frozen river down there and I’m itching to show off my skating skills.

I re-emerge into my 49th year round about the time when I slip crossing the road and land on my bottom. Squealing kids, mothers hide a smile behind their gloved hands, a bus driver gives me a friendly wave. Did that dog just grin back at me?

My knees creak, my back hurts, my fingers are frozen and I need to pee. Yep, I’m safely back in middle-age, where I belong. It was nice to take a little holiday.