Fairytales for Wilde Girls by Allyse Near Page B

or what ’ave you. And sometimes, they’re people – people like me an’ you, pet. This wee Child o’ Nimue –’ she held out her finger, which the pink bubble alighted upon, resuming its girl-shape ‘– is Rosekin. She’s o’ the fae-kind.’
    â€˜Fay-kind?’
    â€˜A faerie, dear.’
    Rosekin curtsied her little leaf-skirt, her pointed features grinning at Isola, her toes and ears and eyes included.
    â€˜I like you,’ said the faerie loudly. ‘Do you like me?’
    â€˜Um . . . yes.’
    â€˜You have a lovely garden.’
    â€˜Thanks. My mum –’
    â€˜Yes,’ said Rosekin dreamily, ‘it looks so delicious.’ She fluttered off Mama Sinclair’s hand and landed on Isola’s knee, where she promptly curled up and began biting her own toenails.
    â€˜Rosekin has kept me company these many years – and I’ve been keepin’ her belly full.’ Mama Sinclair chuckled. ‘But I’ll be goin’ soon, an’ I thought you could use another – what did you call it? Ah, a prince .’
    Isola looked nervously down at the grubby faerie girl. Rosekin removed her big toe from her mouth and announced, ‘I’m hungry.’
    â€˜What do you eat?’
    â€˜My favourite’s honeysuckle.’
    Isola looked at Mama Sinclair.
    â€˜Just flowers, lass. The prettier the better. She doesn’t eat much. Just make sure no-one mistakes her for a pest and sprays poisons!’ She got up out of the plastic chair, stretched and paused to watch the dappled shade shifting over her hands for a moment. ‘Be good, Rosekin, my little pest,’ she said, smiling. ‘And happy birthday, Isola Wilde.’ She patted Rosekin’s tiny head with her fingertip, Isola’s head with her hand, and then turned to leave.
    â€˜Where are you going, Mama Sinclair?’ Isola called. ‘I mean, so you can’t be with Rosekin anymore?’
    The rotund lady from Number Thirty-nine turned back and chuckled. ‘Oh bless, my wee Child o’ Nimue – I’m going home!’
    Â 
    A fortnight later Mama Sinclair was buried in the High Cemetery, on a bald hill overlooking the village. She wore her orthopaedic nursing shoes and her Florence Nightingale portrait-pin on her bosom. At her funeral, her husband, the future Boo Radley, spoke at length about her struggle with illness. ‘They always call it a battle, a fight against cancer, but my beautiful wife didn’t believe in war.’ He described her garden, the dirt ingrained in her wrinkles and how she somehow kept flowers blooming year-round. He spoke about her earthy spirituality and her love for animals and children, for hugging and gift-giving, for Vivien’s Wood.
    In the third pew from the back, Isola thought of her huge squashing breasts and a music box with a secret faerie inside. A human Child of Nimue gone from lake to tree to earth again.
    Rosekin was sobbing tiny pink tears in Isola’s dress pocket.
    Isola had only been to one other funeral before – her grandmother’s, when she was four.
    â€˜Don’t worry,’ Mother had said thickly at that occasion, tears trickling over the ridge of her lips as she’d rubbed Isola’s back consolingly, ‘she died in her sleep.’
    Mother had only meant that Grandmother hadn’t passed in pain, but that night, Isola had lain awake, too frightened to close her eyes. Her blankets had been drawn up to her chin, and shadows had played puppet theatre on the walls.
    â€˜Ale,’ Isola had said in a Mother-proof whisper, ‘what happens if I die in my sleep?’
    The summoned spectre had come when called, but couldn’t reassure her that he wouldn’t let that happen. Before she could upset herself any further, he’d reached into his breast pocket and withdrew two strange, golden coins.
    â€˜To pay the ferryman, querida ,’