witch with wild hair, who encouraged them towards a mountain of soft, rich clothes, including rings, beads, crowns, tiaras for the three girls, crowns and helmets for the boys. They put them on over what they wore, emerging from the spangled heap as princesses with rings on fingers and princes with hats on heads.
That one’s better
, said the pretty little witch,
try that
, and he did. Then they sat with the King Frog, who still wore his fez and his green cloak, who told them stories and sang them songs until they were singing, too. They ate and sang and sang and ate, and did races round the room where everyone managed to win and saw themselves reflected in their finery in a mirror on the wall, and yelled and laughed and laughed. Then Grandad did his magic tricks, which made them quiet for a while, and then they played another game where they had to turn away and draw each others’ faces on paper the witch gave them, fold up the paper and put it in a pot, and each of them pull one out and guess whose face it was. And then the witch got them playing again. Then the Auntie of the three girls who was called Monica came to collect them, and she laughed, too, and took them home still in their adorning garments which they were told by the witch they must keep, and yet the Auntie lingered, watching the King Frog waving goodbye from his seat and telling them,
don’t ever be sad
and they said,
no, never
.
Then it crashed: the whole thing crashed.
Beatrice came back early to collect her sons, just as the little girls stumbled downstairs in assorted garments and pushed across her path on the stairs. She saw three
common
little girls pulling coats over petticoats, blowing bubbles andwaving feathers, drunk with fatigue, being led away by a woman who smelled of heavy perfume with a fierce face and overdone hair who was lighting a cigarette as she went. The woman nodded and smiled through crimson lips. Beatrice had an abhorrence of smoke and lipstick. When Beatrice entered the room, she saw a scene of depravity and reacted with horror. Not only were there scruffy little girls who had clearly undressed, there were her boys, flopped on the floor, wearing silly clothes, filthy and exhausted. They were playing dead. She pulled at them, hissed at them, come away, come away now and shouted for Gayle, who followed her. Gayle came in behind and saw an almighty mess, a scene of carnage, loud colours, fabric trampled into the floor, and a pretty girl dressed in a tattered cloak, who was breathless from running round and who bowed towards her. There was rouge on the girl’s cheeks and black lines round her mischievous eyes. She looked like a precocious and knowing child. Mess was anathema to Gayle: she hated mess: it was tantamount to losing control and Gayle never lost control.
‘’Allo,’ Di said. ‘You aren’t taking him away yet, are you? The others are playing at being dead.’
Patrick was clutching at her tattered cloak and looking at her adoringly. He had a pencil stuck behind his ear; his spectacles looked as if someone had knocked them sideways and his mouth was smeared with chocolate.
‘I did drawing, Mummy. I did … ’ He stopped.
‘We got supper a bit later,’ the pretty Witch said. ‘Once we’ve cleaned up a bit, eh, Patrick?’
She wiped his chocolatey face with the hem of the cloak. Gayle touched her own white linen jacket and shuddered.
‘I think not,’ she said in her calm, deep voice, looking her up and down and down and up, until Patrick detached hishand from the material of the cloak and let it fall. ‘What on earth do you think you’re doing? They’re filthy. My child is filthy.’
And as happy as I have ever seen him.
‘I was wearing them out, I thought,’ Di said, cheerfully. ‘You can’t go yet. Come on in. We’ve had a lot of fun and your dad’s dying to see you.’
‘Dying? How sad.’ Beatrice murmured, not quite inaud -ibly, glancing across the room to the tent. ‘Look at what you’ve
That one’s better
, said the pretty little witch,
try that
, and he did. Then they sat with the King Frog, who still wore his fez and his green cloak, who told them stories and sang them songs until they were singing, too. They ate and sang and sang and ate, and did races round the room where everyone managed to win and saw themselves reflected in their finery in a mirror on the wall, and yelled and laughed and laughed. Then Grandad did his magic tricks, which made them quiet for a while, and then they played another game where they had to turn away and draw each others’ faces on paper the witch gave them, fold up the paper and put it in a pot, and each of them pull one out and guess whose face it was. And then the witch got them playing again. Then the Auntie of the three girls who was called Monica came to collect them, and she laughed, too, and took them home still in their adorning garments which they were told by the witch they must keep, and yet the Auntie lingered, watching the King Frog waving goodbye from his seat and telling them,
don’t ever be sad
and they said,
no, never
.
Then it crashed: the whole thing crashed.
Beatrice came back early to collect her sons, just as the little girls stumbled downstairs in assorted garments and pushed across her path on the stairs. She saw three
common
little girls pulling coats over petticoats, blowing bubbles andwaving feathers, drunk with fatigue, being led away by a woman who smelled of heavy perfume with a fierce face and overdone hair who was lighting a cigarette as she went. The woman nodded and smiled through crimson lips. Beatrice had an abhorrence of smoke and lipstick. When Beatrice entered the room, she saw a scene of depravity and reacted with horror. Not only were there scruffy little girls who had clearly undressed, there were her boys, flopped on the floor, wearing silly clothes, filthy and exhausted. They were playing dead. She pulled at them, hissed at them, come away, come away now and shouted for Gayle, who followed her. Gayle came in behind and saw an almighty mess, a scene of carnage, loud colours, fabric trampled into the floor, and a pretty girl dressed in a tattered cloak, who was breathless from running round and who bowed towards her. There was rouge on the girl’s cheeks and black lines round her mischievous eyes. She looked like a precocious and knowing child. Mess was anathema to Gayle: she hated mess: it was tantamount to losing control and Gayle never lost control.
‘’Allo,’ Di said. ‘You aren’t taking him away yet, are you? The others are playing at being dead.’
Patrick was clutching at her tattered cloak and looking at her adoringly. He had a pencil stuck behind his ear; his spectacles looked as if someone had knocked them sideways and his mouth was smeared with chocolate.
‘I did drawing, Mummy. I did … ’ He stopped.
‘We got supper a bit later,’ the pretty Witch said. ‘Once we’ve cleaned up a bit, eh, Patrick?’
She wiped his chocolatey face with the hem of the cloak. Gayle touched her own white linen jacket and shuddered.
‘I think not,’ she said in her calm, deep voice, looking her up and down and down and up, until Patrick detached hishand from the material of the cloak and let it fall. ‘What on earth do you think you’re doing? They’re filthy. My child is filthy.’
And as happy as I have ever seen him.
‘I was wearing them out, I thought,’ Di said, cheerfully. ‘You can’t go yet. Come on in. We’ve had a lot of fun and your dad’s dying to see you.’
‘Dying? How sad.’ Beatrice murmured, not quite inaud -ibly, glancing across the room to the tent. ‘Look at what you’ve
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