Bella caught sight of herself in a shop window, at first not recognising the woman with the droopy drawers face which dangled slightly under the jaw, as if its knicker elastic had gone.  Life.  That's what's done it, she decided.  Life has twanged me so hard and so often that I don't snap back into shape any more.

So that Saturday, she went to a day's workshop at The Friends Centre.  TRULY AMAZING YOU! it was called.  She sat around with similarly tired and baffled looking women, as she confessed to the group how the workshop title very nearly put her off.  She didn't think she was amazing.  But she'd like to.  Could do with some cheering up.  So could her daughter Daisy, come to that.

Affirmations, they were told.  Affirmations can transform your life.  Make your life more positive so that you - in turn - will attract more positive responses from life.  'Expect happiness, and happiness is yours.  Expect success, and success is yours,' said the life coach.  I'll have some of that, she thought.  Then maybe Life will stop kicking me in the soft parts.

Back home, and feeling bold, she slipped off her nightdress to stand naked in front of her wardrobe mirror.

'You are truly amazing,' she told her cellulite.  'You are a beautiful woman.'  No you're no …

'Yes I am.'  She would take no rubbish from her reflection.  'I have power.  I have strength.  There is beauty in my wrinkles and sags.  I am a truly amazing woman.'  And her body grew taller like a nurtured plant.

'I love me,' she told her body as it tucked itself in and up a bit.  She felt so light-hearted she began to sing at the top of her voice.

'I'm Everywoman.  It's all in me  la la la la la la la …'

'Mu–u-u-um.  M-U-U-M!'

Bella plucked a towel from the linen basket.

'Mum!'  Daisy stood in front of her.  Hands on hips.

'I'm Everywoman,' Bella continued to sing.  She danced past her daughter, flicking her with the towel, then on into the bathroom.

'Mum!  Will you stop that!'

'Just singing, darling,' called Bella.

'Well, it's disgusting!' insisted Daisy through the closed door.  'Practically child abuse.  Dancing around naked in front of your kid.  I could call Child Line, you know.'

'Lighten up, darling.'  She turned on the water and continued her song.

'Do you have to?'  called Daisy, still outside the door.

'You don't have to listen if you don't want to,'  Bella called back.  She picked up the soap, and turned her face to the shower.  'I'm Every Woman.  It's all in me. Da da da da da da da da.  From Ay to Zee …'

Daisy stomped downstairs.  Why can't I have a normal Mum like everyone else?  One who makes cakes even.  Imogen's mum made her a cherry cake the other day.  And for no reason.

She entered the kitchen and switched on the kettle.  A bright yellow Post-It on the wall above announced: 'There are two days in the week you don't have to worry about.  One is Yesterday.  The other is Tomorrow.'

'All right for you,' she muttered. 'I have to worry about every bloody day.' She stomped over to the old pine dresser for a cereal bowl.  'You are TULY AMAZING' shouted another cheery Post-It from its place on the shelf.

'Gimme a break,' she said to the as yet un-messaged clock.  'Only a matter of time,' she warned it before giving a half-giggle.  'OK.  Very funny,' she sarcastically told herself off, because she knew life was too serious for frivolities.  People dying, bunnies having their eyes squirted with perfume, dogs being forced to chain smoke.

'Life,' she reminded herself, 'is no joke.'

On the table was a further message:  'Life's a bowl of cherries complete with pips.'  

'Bloody hell,' she muttered as she poured some muesli she'd mixed herself, and added organic goats milk.  'Mum's turning into Forest Gump.  Great.'  She regarded  the fruit bowl.  'And there's no bananas.  There's never any bananas.  Bet Imogen gets bananas.'  She sighed with the weight of it all: global warming, mothers singing Whitney Houston songs in the shower, lack of potassium because of no bananas in the whole house.  She plodded off to the downstairs cloakroom and shut the door.

'LIVE FOR THE DAY' shouted yet another Post-It, nearly making her jump.  Jeezus.  This is so too much.  She pulled the chain of the Victorian loo. 

'This is too much, Mum,' she shouted upstairs.  But her mother had launched into Dancing Queen.

I blame all that glam-rock she was brought up on.  She gazed gloomily at her breakfast bowl.  It's not fair.  Mums should worry about their kids – not the other way round.  The trouble with her generation is all that punk rock and anarchy.  No sense of responsibility, see?  All off their heads on speed and free love.  And now look at the mess they've left for us to clean up.  Chances are we'll be wearing protective suits in ten years' time because of great big holes in the ozone layer- and it'll be all their fault. 

She gazed out the window at the day.  The day smiled back.  A pale reflection of Post-It yellow.  Oh no, Daisy inwardly groaned.  It's sunny.

'Mu-u-um!' she yelled.  'Where's my factor 50 sunscreen?'           

It was Bella's day for the school run.

'Like your hat, Mrs. Atkins,' said Daisy's friend Imogen as she got into the car.

'Creep,' hissed Daisy.

Bella launched into 'Gonna be a bright bright sunshiny day.'  Fleetingly she felt the grey mist of Daisy's disapproval.  So she sang louder.  'I can see clearly now, the rain has gone …'  She loved reggae, had been to see UB40 at The Fridge in Brixton when she wasn't much older than Daisy.

'I am the one in ten …'  she sang.

'Mum,' protested Daisy.  Daisy her little raindrop.

'Here comes the sun, doo da doo da/ Here comes the sun/ And I say/ It's alright'

Groan from the backseat.  As she got out, Daisy glared at Bella, and Imogen snorted a not very expertly suppressed giggle before loping off in the direction of the school.  'Did you have to, Mum,' said Daisy.  'You are sooo embarrassing.'

'Lighten up darling,' Bella shone back at her daughter.

Groan

'Have a good day,' called Bella, as she pulled away from the kerb then stuck her head out the car window.  'Looks like it's going to be a good one.'

* * *

When Daisy got home some bloke was sat at their kitchen table.

'This is Will,' beamed Bella.

'What?'

'Will.  And Will, this is my little girl Daisy.'

Groan.

'OK.  Not so little then.'

'Hi.'  Will stretched out his hand.  Large and muscled.  Like a big fat paw, noticed Daisy.  She ignored his gesture and instead muttered Hullo as she walked past him to the kettle.

'LIVE IN THE NOW,' shrieked the new Post-It on the wall.  Not another one. 

'You know my art classes?  Well, Will's a sculptor,' Bella explained.  Daisy had her back turned to them. 

'Make us a drink too, will you Daise?' asked Bella.  'Would you like one?' she asked Will.

'Yes, thanks.  Thanks Daisy,' he said.

Daisy raised her eyes - Creep, she thought.

'Your mother's really very good,' he continued.  'Very inspiring.'

Daisy switched the kettle to 'on' then leant against the sink, facing her mother and Will.  He smiled at her.  Daisy wasn't impressed. 

'Your Mum has agreed to be my life model,' said Will.

'Right,' said Daisy, putting on her extra-bored voice even though inside she was thinking – What?  That's disgusting!  Her mother in the nude?  Again?  And in front of a man?

'Yeah.  She's got wonderful body lines.  A truly rounded woman.'

'S'pose you could say truly amazing, even,' muttered Daisy, her sarcasm clearly lost on them.  She rummaged in the cupboard for cups.

'Sorry, Daisy, what was that?'

'Nothing.'

'Make mine a coffee, darling, will you?' Bella was sat opposite Will, touching the hand he'd left resting on the table.

I'm going to be sick, thought Daisy as she caught the action then rolled her eyes.  'Coffee's bad for you,' she told her mother.

'Mm?' Bella moved her hand from Will's.  'Oh.  Yes darling.  Thanks.'

Will winked at Bella.  'I'll have some of that camomile tea thanks,' he said, turning his attention to Daisy.

What a complete twat, thought Daisy as she returned the business of busying herself with the drinks. And way too young for Mum.  Oh great.  My mum has found herself a toyboy.  Just great.  My own mother's a right perv.

'Fancy a roll-up, Will?'  Mum was saying. 

'Mum!  Have you not heard of passive smoking?  Charming.'

'Sorry darling.' 

Was that a giggle?  Did mum just giggle?  Oh God.  And now she's flirting with him.  How gross.

'We'll wait till you leave the room.  Is that alright Will?'

All right Will?  What about me?

'Is fine,' he said, leaning back in his chair and grinning.  He crossed his legs at the ankles.  Daisy noticed he was wearing Converse trainers.

Glad someone thinks smoking is funny – not.

She finished pouring hot water into the cups.  'Do you need me anymore?' she said, voice heavy with what she hoped they'd notice was irony.  'Can I go now?  I can take a hint, right?'

'Don't be silly,' Bella said to her daughter's departing back.

'Kids, eh?' she could hear Will saying. 

Hmph, went Daisy.

'Just chill,' he was saying.  'She'll be fine.  My sister's kid is much worse.  Right little Catherine Tate.  Drives her Mum mad with all that am I bovvered? and innit stuff.'

Bella was enjoying having someone tell her it was ok to take time off from being a mother.  Right now she was feeling far from mumsy.  'More like a yummy-mummy, you are,' he said when she tried to explain.  She beamed at him.  Feeling very yummy and not at all mummy.

'Come over here,' he said.  'I need to feel those lovely curves.  Purely for research, you understand.'

She did like his grin.

'You do know I have wobbly bits?' she murmured, feeling coy.

 'Come here, sexy.  I love wobbly bits.'

Life is so unexpected, Bella thought, after Will had left.  It used to amble along like a fat lazy horse that wouldn't trot on, no matter how hard you kicked it.  Then one day you get thrown, and find you can run and jump faster on your own.  Well that's how it's been since Robert left.  She smiled to herself. Trust me to think of horses. 

She'd loved horses when she was a kid.  Would fall asleep hugging her jodhpurs just so she could inhale those pungent horsey smells which lingered.  If she was lucky, she'd dream of winning rosettes in gymkhanas.  Will's smell was delicious.   He smelt like toast.  She smiled as she picked his jumper off the floor.  He'd left it behind, and she could still smell him on it.  She inhaled - enjoying his male aroma.  She'd discovered boys later than her girlfriends.  Despite her seeming bravado, elaborate makeup, and dressing up like some Bananarama clone.  She felt like she never did get the hang of them.  Boys.  She sighed as she collected cups and placed them in the sink for washing later.

Apparently she'd had it all wrong.  She didn't have to figure men out.  Not if she didn't want to.  The secret, the life coach said, was to get to know yourself.  To be open to change.  That way, Life will open up to you.

This time it's going to be different, she promised herself.

*  *  *

Upstairs in her bedroom, Daisy had her Kings Of Leon cd on half volume.  Reading level.  She sobbed when she got to the bit in Tess of the d'Urbervilles where Angel Clare comes back to Tess.  But it's too late.  Idiot, she thought.  Men.  They always piss off when you need them.

*  *  *

A week later she met up with her Dad at a seafront café.

'We could have met somewhere nicer,' he said.

'It's alright here,' she said, gazing out to sea where scum frothed the tops of waves.  How disgusting, she noted.  God.  Look.  Some idiot is actually swimming out there.  She squinted harder.  Doesn't he know there's Hepatitis B and all sorts of viruses in the water?  Not to mention untreated sewage.

'Twat,' she muttered.  Luckily Dad didn't hear.  He would do his nut, she thought, looking directly at her father's girlfriend - Mel.  She gave her evil looks and decided Mel was clearly too thick to pick up on them.  She sighed.  Her sarcasm lost on the terminally stupid.

Daisy's father squeezed his girlfriend's unweathered and whitely smooth hand.  'Ooo, stop it, Rob,' she squealed.  Then he turned his attention to his daughter.  'So.  What is it, Daisy?  More pocket money?'

Daisy leant forwards, causing a pigeon about to alight on their table to change its mind and crashland near her left foot.  Ugh.  Spread disease they do. 

'Did you have to bring her?' she half-whispered, nodding her head in the direction of Mel.

Mel shifted on the hard plastic chair which Daisy had earlier spotted had a puddle of coffee on it.  She didn't let Melanie know this before she sat down.  Why should she?  Serve her right.  Daisy smiled inwardly, knowing that right now there was a huge coffee stain growing on Mel's short white skirt. 

I mean.  A white mini-skirt and white cowboy boots.  How very Jordan.  Some people have no class. 

'Well?' her Dad was saying.  'I'm waiting.  What's this all about?'

'I wanted to see you without Her,' she tried again, as he didn't appear to have heard the first time.  Going deaf in his old age.  I mean, really.  Is well disgusting – him and her.  She gave Mel another look.

'Daisy,' said Robert.  'There's no need to be rude about Mel.'

'What?' said Mel as she looked up from where she had been searching in her handbag.

'Never mind,' sighed Robert.

'Ah.  Found it,' smiled Mel, as she pulled out her cosmetic mirror and proceeded to apply some lip gloss.

'I don't want to say why I want to see you, in front of her,' insisted Daisy.

Mel pushed the lippy wand back into its stick.  'It's ok Rob.  Don't mind me.  Pretend I'm not here.  In fact, I'll go sit over at that table.  Then you two can talk away to your hearts content.'

Daisy tried not to smirk as she watched Mel walk away.  As yes, there was the coffee stain.  That's gonna be hard to get out.  She turned back to Robert, who'd already started.

'Really Daisy.  You should try and get on with Mel.'

She chose to rise above such things as getting on with Mel, and not answer. 

'Look Dad,' she confided instead.  'It's Mum.' 

He leaned closer.  'Yes?'

'I'm worried about her.'

'Worried?  Why?'

He frowned over at Mel who was making a bit of a fuss, flapping her purse at a sparrow hopping towards her plate. 

He turned back to his daughter.  'Why on earth are you worried about your mother?'

'She's gone sort of funny.'

'Funny?'

A pigeon sat on the rail, opened one set of toes wide, then walked a few steps along.

'Yeah.  You know.  She's not like a real mother any more.'

He sat back in his seat.  'Is this what this is all about?  You've had some sort of row?  Is that why you phoned me at work?  Said it was urgent?'

'No.  It's not that.'

The pigeon flew off.  Robert waved a waitress over to their table.  'One coffee, one cup of tea, and a rock cake, please.'

The girl left, and he turned his attention back to his daughter.

'Now,' he said, glancing at his watch.  'What's all this about your mother?'

'Well …,' Daisy peered about as if to check no-one was listening.  Three pigeons hopped nearer and the sun came out from behind a curtain of grey cloud to shine its spotlight right on her.  She smeared sunblock on her cheeks and nose and glared back at the sun. 

'C'mon Daisy.  I haven't got all day.'

'OK.  I'm worried because Mum's gone all … well, she's gone all … New-Agey.  That's what.'

'Is that all?' he said.

'No.  That's not all.  She's got a twenty-eight year old boyfriend.' 

Robert looked blank. 

'Mum's got a lover.  A toyboy.'

'What?'  He sat forward, placing his arms emphatically on the table and nearly sending a small box of sugars flying.  Mel, on the next table, could clearly hear their conversation, as she let out a half-snigger.

'Your mother has got herself a toyboy?  How could she?  And in front of my little girl, too.'

Daisy sat back in her chair.  'Bit late to pull the outraged father act now, Dad.'

'Don't you take that tone with me, young lady.'

She took a deep breath.  'It's OK Dad.  Just chillax, yeah?  Listen.  I'm like really worried about Mum, yeah?  She's gone all hippie.  And sort of happy.  Right?  I mean, for Chrissakes.  There's not much to be happy about is there?'

She pulled her chair closer until it was almost touching Robert's .

'It's as if …' and here, she touched one of his knees.  ' … It's as if she's having some sort of mental breakdown.'

'Oh my God,' he said, sitting up in his seat and shifting away from her.  'Has she gone mad?'

'No need to be extreme, Dad.  I'm just worried.  That's all.  I mean.  She's not like other Mums, is she?'

'You can say that again.'  They both snapped round to the source of the remark.  Mel.  'Sorry,' she said.  'All right.  All right.  I take it all back.'  She held up both hands as if trying to gather her wayward comment.  God, just look at her, thought Daisy.  She really is a cow.  

'Anyway, Dad,' she said, pointedly turning away from Mel.  'Mum's not … you know.  Worrying about me.  About herself.  About life.  Like mums should.  No.  She's smiling.  Singing, even.  And she chants these affirmations.  Has messages pinned up over all the walls.  And her boyfriend.  Will …'  Yes.  Will.  Dark poetic eyes.  He could easily be in an indie band, she suddenly thought.  Surprising herself.  She blinked hard.  'Yes.  Will.  Well, he's like… you know.  Young.  For her, anyway.  And they … well, you know.  It's gross.'

The waitress returned with their drinks and cake.  She placed them on the table and waited.  Robert fumbled for his wallet and paid.

'This is terrible,' he said, flicking a packet of brown sugar.  'Why didn't you tell me all this before?'  He ripped open the packet and poured its contents into his cup.

'It's disgusting,' he continued, peeling back the foil on his carton of UHT cream.  'She must be all of forty-two.'

'Forty, Dad.  She was forty last birthday.'

'She ought to know better,' piped up Mel.  Daisy glared at her.

'Yes, well,' said Daisy, trying again.  'It's not that, Dad.  It's about her being … strange.'

'What sort of strange?'

'You know,' and she looked around again.  The pigeon standing to her left looked over its shoulder and lifted one leg.  'Strange.'

'Don't you worry, darling,' said her father. 

Daisy patted her pale freckled knee and groaned inside.  Aren't freckles – well, aren't they moles really?  Yes.  Moles.  And they're the first sign of skin cancer, right?  She moaned and rubbed sunblock on her knee.

'Don't moan, darling.  It'll be all right.'

'No, you don't understand.'

'I perfectly understand.  It's an act, of course.  This pretending to be happy.  I knew she'd fall apart without me.'

Mel moved her chair over to join them.  'I know I would,' she said.  He squeezed her hand and gazed thankfully at her.

I'm going to vomit, thought Daisy.

'Anyway,' and he gave a little cough.  'These goings-on.  They'll have to stop.  It's ridiculous.  Woman of her age taking up with a man young enough to be her son.'

'Bit of an exaggeration, Dad.'  Daisy shifted uncomfortably in her seat.  The pigeon turned and walked away.

'Just look at what the upset is doing to my little girl,' he said, putting his arm about her shoulder.

'Gerroff Dad,' she said, shrugging him off.

'I see it all now,' as he continued to expound on his theory.  'Obviously some sort of mid-life crisis.  Your mother acting irresponsibly.  Taking up with a younger man.  Abandoning you.'

'Look who's talking,' Daisy muttered into her rock cake.

'What?'

'I said,' said Daisy, waving the cake at her Dad, and scattering crumbs which brought back the sparrows and pigeons.  'It was you who abandoned me.'

'Well, I …'

'And as for her taking up with a young man.  At least Will's not some chav twenty-year old.'

'A chav?  I'm not a chav!  Rob, say something.'

'I will not have you speak to Mel like that.'

'Why not?  Why isn't it disgusting what you two are doing?  You're forty-five …'

'Robs, I thought you were thirty-eight.'

'Ha!  More lies,' said Daisy.  'Yes.  He's forty-five.  And you're what?  Twenty?'

'Twenty-two actually.'

Daisy's Dad collected up his wallet, keys, and mobile phone.  'You always were a difficult child, Daisy.'

'That why you left is it?  Couldn't hack it?'

'Come on Mel.  We'd better get back to work.'

'At least Mum thinks I'm wonderful.  Truly amazing even.  And you …' she shouted after them.  'You're a bloody hypocrite!'

The assembled crowd of birds took off, flapping their wings as if in applause.  One swooped at Mel's head.  Somehow she'd managed to get crumbs tangled in her hairspray.  She ducked, too late.  A large dollop of white plopped onto her left shoulder.

'Robert!' Daisy heard her shriek.

Maybe pigeons aren't so smelly after all, thought Daisy, as she plodded down the prom. A roller blader glided past.  He had Surfers Against Sewage printed on his t-shirt.  Yeah, well, there's enough shit in my life already, she thought.  A little rain cloud followed her all the way to Imogen's.

*  *  *

'Your Mum's dead cool.'

'You what?'

'Yeah.  Sort of boho and hippie an' that.  Is great.  And she talks to you.  Wish my mum was interesting like yours.  Mine's dead boring.'

'I'd have boring.'

'No you wouldn't.  My Mum's always bossin' me about.  You know.  Don't do this, do that.  Do what I say.'

'Yeah, well,' said Daisy, lying on her stomach on Imogen's bed, knees bent so she could wave her feet about.  'It's embarrassing.  He stays over. You know.'

'What?  You mean they …?'

'Yeah.'

'Whoah.  That's well weird.  Knowing your Mum has - sex.'

Daisy raised her eyes to the ceiling where she could see a spider edging its way towards the left hand corner.  She wondered if she ought to tell Imogen, but decided she would only start squealing or something or want to squash it or do something equally as disgusting.

'Anyway,' Imogen was saying.  'I wish my mum talked to me like yours does.  Y'know.  She's more like a friend than a mum, isn't she?'

'I don't want her as a friend, do I?  Don't want her to be on this journey of self-discovery, as she calls it.  She'll be dragging me off to India next.

'Wish I could go to India.'

'She should be worried about me.  She should care about me.'

'Do any of them?' said Imogen.  'My mum takes no notice of me.  Just shouts an' all.  Reckon that's why she had me.  For someone to shout at.'

Daisy rolled over onto her back.  'It was different when Dad was at home.'

'Oh yeah?'  Imogen offered her a Rolo from her half-consumed packet.  'I remember how you were always moaning about how much they argued.  Said it made you sick.'

'Yeah, well.'

The spider was still.  Crouched down as if trying to make itself invisible.  Daisy decided to ignore it.

'At least your Mum's not doing drugs.'

'What?  Your Mum does drugs?' said Imogen, sitting bolt upright.  'That's so cool.'

'Don't be such an idiot Imogen.  Is only spliffs.'  Imogen looked baffled.  'You know?  Joints?  Weed?  CANNABIS?'

'Ssh.  Keep it down.'  Imogen glanced nervously at her bedroom door.  'Mum searches my room as it is.  If she hears you she'll be even worse.  She's already convinced I'm on the brink of becoming a crackhead.'

'What?  She searches your room?'

'Yeah.  Anyway, how do you know your mum smokes joints?'

'Easy,' said Daisy.  'Burns loads of incense.'

'So?'

'So?'  She sighed.  Sometimes being a super brain was a bit of a liability.  'She burns incense to cover the smell of dope.  They all do it.  Known Fact.  And she's got those jumbo size Rizla papers.'

'What're they for then?  These Rizla papers?'

'For rolling joints, idiot.  Don't you know anything?'

'Wow.  That's cool.  Your mum is so cool.'

'Cool?  It's not cool to smoke drugs.  To put any kind of poison in your body.  Our bodies are temples.'

The bedroom door opened.  'Imogen?'  Both girls started at the sound of her voice.

'Yes Mum, what is it?'

'Hello Daisy,' said Imogen's mum.  'How's your mother, dear?  Still bearing up after the divorce is she?  Good.  Good.  Only, thought she was looking rather peaky the other day.'

At least she doesn't look like a depressed kipper, thought Daisy.

'M-u-m.  We're supposed to be doing our homework,' whined Imogen.

'Don't forget you promised to do the washing up.'

'Later.  OK?'

'You make sure you do.  There'll be no pocket money if you don't.'

'Alright.  I promise.  OK?'

Imogen's mum turned to Daisy.  'Do give my best wishes to your mother, there's a good girl.'  She bent to collect a dirty cup, then straightened up.  'I don't know.  Tut tut.  Right then.  I suppose I'd better leave you two brain boxes to it?'  She left, closing the door behind her.

'See what I mean?'

Daisy shrugged.  She was getting bored.  Above them, the spider felt safe enough to make a run for the ceiling rose.

'Let's get on with our homework,' said Imogen.

'OK,' replied Daisy.  'So what do you want me to help you with?'

Daisy trudged home from her friend's house, in the dark.  A little twinkle star played peek-a-boo as she walked past the trees lining her street.  It needn't have bothered, as she wasn't interested in her surroundings.  She was too busy thinking about what Imogen had said.

Maybe she's right.  Maybe Mum isn't so bad after all.

Bella stood in front of the kitchen window as she did the washing up.  She paused to stare out at the looming shapes of trees at the bottom of the garden as they moved about in slow tree-like ways.  The yellow almost mustard glow of the kitchen light spread its warmth over and about her shoulders. 

She never found staring into the thick dark of her garden at night at all scary.  Only strangely comforting.  As if it added to the cosy feel of burnished stripped wood, pots, and something cooking in the stove.

She rinsed a plate under the tap as she resolved to tell Will she couldn't see him for a while.  That she wanted to spend more time with Daisy.  She sighed, checked the clock, and wiped her hands on the front of her apron.  Cake must be nearly done.  I do hope Daisy will like it.

Outside, stars dimpled the sky.  One or two winked at her as the ghostly shape of a cloud dragon drifted across the moon.  Bella and Daisy had liked to make out the shape of clouds sailing by at night, when Daisy was younger.  It was a favourite game of theirs.  Bella would tell nice stories about the bears and ogres Daisy saw, to stop her being frightened, and would then point out the fairies and friendly monsters in the sky which were setting off to visit children's dreams, and to kiss them goodnight.

Gosh, I'd forgotten all that.  She turned as she heard the back door open.

'Hi Mum.'

'Hello darling.'   She gave Daisy a hug, and kissed her on the cheek.  For once her daughter didn't pull away, but hugged her back.

'Great smell,' said Daisy, sitting down at the table.  'Mmm.  What is it?'

'Cherry cake.'

'Wow!  Truly amazing, Mum.'

©Rosemary Dun 2009

'Psst.  Don't look now.  But I don't half fancy that nun over there.'

'Where?'

'Next to the brown paper package.'

Amy craned her neck – trying to look without being spotted - and sure enough, there was the brown paper package complete with string.  He winked at her.  She blushed and sat back, but not before clocking the nun in question.

'Climb every mountain,' sang the Contessa - badly.  Amy winced as the combined Sing-along-a-Sound-of-Music audience tried, but failed to reach the top note.

'Christ Almighty,' whispered the Contessa as she smoothed her emerald encrusted dress.  'That was high.  Nearly did myself an injury!'

'Ssh,' scolded Amy, wishing she’d come in lederhosen or something sexy.  Instead, Fiona - the Contessa - had insisted Amy don full Julie Andrews attire.  And what could she do?  Fiona was paying for it.

'My treat,' she’d said last month after talking Amy into accompanying her to the Singalong at Brighton’s Theatre Royal. 

'How come you get to be the Contessa?'

'Dahlink, to sink I could be anybody else.'

And it was true.  There was an impervious air about tall, dark, Fiona which made her formidable at meetings, yet had young men slobbering over her whenever she went on the prowl along Brighton’s beachside clubs and bars.

They'd met at work, in London, when they were both in their early twenties.  Early on, they’d discovered a shared trait.

'Blimey, my knees are burning.  I must be pisshed.  I get hot knees when I’m pisshed.'

'No!  Me too!'

And the bond was formed.  An appropriate one too, as they'd sealed their friendship around drinking, parties, meals out.  It was Amy who had first moved to Brighton - her friend following a couple of years later.

During the show’s interval, Fiona wasted no time in making further contact with the 'man with the habit' – as Amy now referred to him in her head.  The theatre bar thronged with an assortment of Nazis, Austrian counts and contessas, nuns, Von Trapps, raindrops on roses – you get the picture.

'So, are you a flibberty jibbet?'

'A willow the wisp?'

'A clown?  Honk honk!'

Demanded three snowflakes, as they fluttered about Amy.

'Push off,' snarled a kitten, all curves in black PVC catsuit.  'Hey babe,' she purred, as the three snowflakes flounced off.  'Mm.  Haven’t I seen you in Pussy Galore?'

The kitty was definitely coming on to Amy, so she sidled over to stand by Fiona, hoping that would field any messy need for a brush off.

Fiona merely said 'Oh,' then 'Hi,' rather begrudgingly as Amy joined her and her nun.  Fiona did not appear best pleased.  Her nun had his headdress wimple thing off and now Amy could see he was the waiter from last night’s pizzeria.  Fiona had her arm draped over his shoulder.  She smiled pointedly at Amy, who didn’t need Mystic Meg to tell her that she’d be getting a taxi home on her own tonight - again.

Three bells sounded their call for the start of the second half.  She turned to Fiona:  'You coming?'

'Yeah, yeah.  In a minute.  You go on ahead.'

Amy gave her a look.

'I’ll be there, I promise.  I haven't forgotten.'

Because the last time Fiona had done this Amy told her how pissed off it made her - being stranded the moment some likely man came along.  'Your friends should mean more to you than that,' she’d told Fiona.  Ah, what’s the use, she thought, as she returned, alone, to her theatre seat. 

Half an hour later, Julie Andrews was skipping through alpine meadows with the Von Trapp children, all clad in clothes made from curtains.  As they began their Do Ray Mi song, Amy was all too aware of the empty seat next to her, and of Fiona’s broken promise.

'Meow,' tantalized the kitten who was sat behind, from where she  proceeded to try and stroke Amy’s wavy hair with her long fake fur tail.

'Gerroff!'

That's it, she thought.  I've had enough.  She got up and walked out, muttering Bloody Fiona, under her breath.  Outside, she breathed in the night air, sharp as a chilled glass of water, then headed for the taxi rank.  And, with no particular thought or purpose in mind, happened to glance sideways down the alley next to the theatre where she could see, just out of range of the street light, a billowing and a flapping of voluminous black nun skirt and sparkly green ball gown.  The nun was clearly breaking his vow of celibacy up against the wall with a dishevelled Contessa.  They didn’t spot Amy.

 'Don’t mind me,' she muttered loud enough for them to hear.  But they didn’t.  Overhead, a pigeon who’d been trying to get some kip, huffed out its feathers and gazed down at her.  She almost said, 'sorry,' to the bird, but instead collided with a roller blader. 

'Ooof!'

The man was on his feet first. Looks too ancient to be roller blading, thought Amy, who had banged her head.

'Here, let me help you up,' said the elderly man giving her the benefit of his warm and sparkly smile.  It was particularly sparkly as he was wearing a pink tutu complete with tiara and wand.

'Thanks.'  She dusted down her Julie Andrews/ Maria type skirt, then peered at him. 'Are you supposed to be a snowflake?'

He didn’t answer, but instead sprinkled her with fairy dust.  Which is definitely surreal, thought Amy.  She wondered if she was having an Ally McBeal moment and whether or not that meant she could expect Al Green or Gladys Knight and The Pips to suddenly appear and burst into song.  She stood still, and listened.  Don’t be silly.  This is a Sound of Music Night, not Soul Train.

She touched her forehead, and suspected that tomorrow her sore patch would transform into a sizeable lump.           

The fairy godfather, guardian angel, or whoever he was, said:  'You know, we only make friends with people who can teach us a lesson.'  He waved some more fairy dust.  'One can’t help observing that a true friend wouldn’t have deserted you like that.'  A posh fairy, then, thought Amy.

'Oh, that’s just Fiona.  I’m used to her going off with some bloke,' she said, clearly not.  'Anyway, a friend in need is a pain in the neck, is what Fiona says.'

He merely smiled his twinkly smile at her. 

'Just a minute.'  She peered harder at the man.  'How do you know all this anyway?  You some kind of stalker?'

He tapped his nose - 'Raindrops on roses and bright woollen mittens …' - he sang; and was off.  What’s more, she thought, he appears to have vanished into thin air.  She rubbed her head.  Either that, or I've got concussion.

Two flights up on its stone window ledge, the pigeon moved its wings in a gesture which very closely resembled a shrug; then turned its back.

Next morning, Amy was sat outdoors, at her favourite café on the seaside prom, from where she was enjoying a large mug of tea, a rock cake, and a toasted bacon sandwich.  Even though she didn’t have the hangover she’d planned to have – due to her abandonment by Fiona – she was blowed if she wasn’t going to have her hangover cure anyway.  It might help her aching head from the bang it got last night.

She breathed deep of the salt air.  Brighton, she loved it.  She loved to sit here and watch the unmarried mums parading love bites as they pushed buggies full to bursting with screaming kids garbed in Osh Gosh dungarees.  They mingled along the prom with celebrities and new Regency fops dressed in their chi chi finery.  These were the beacherati, as she liked to call them, who flocked to see and be seen every sunny weekend, as Brighton did its Sunday promenade.  Never mind London by the Sea, she thought, its getting more and more like Sex And The City by the Sea. 

Even so, she thought - sitting sat back in her chair and taking another deep and restorative breath of sea air – I do love it.  And I love the way that on days like this, it isn’t in the least bit unusual to see a pensioner gliding along on a silver micro scooter.  Just like this one.   Dressed in his pink fairy tutu and a matching fluffy pink cardigan … She sat up.  What the …?

'Did you find your friend?' he called out, as he glided past.

'No, I …' and he was off.  Again. 

Amy stared after him as he disappeared down the walkway.  He was starting to get on her nerves, she decided, rubbing her throbbing temple.  Because, ok, she knew Brighton was a small town where anything could and probably would happen - and quite frankly you have to expect the unexpected - but really … She did hope his fairy interruptions were a passing phase.  I mean, pink angels, fairy godfathers, or whatevers, are pretty unsettling at night.  Let alone during the day.

'Hi honey!' helloed Fiona as she spotted her friend then headed down to the café; her long strides taking her past the stone angel statue which guards the spot where Brighton ends and Hove begins.  The place where The Meeting Place café sits, bordering Brighton and Hove's shingle beach.

'Thought I’d find you here.'

'Yes, here I am,' said Amy, rather grumpily.  She wasn't sure she was in the mood for Fiona.

Fiona plonked a kiss on her cheek then flopped in the seat opposite.  As if last night never happened, noticed Amy, who remained out of sorts.  Her headache not helping.

'Who was that old geezer?  He your sugar daddy?'

'More like my sugar plum fairy,' murmured Amy, then smiled as she thought: That's good, that is.  Sugar plum fairy. 

'What?  What are you smiling at?'

'Oh nothing, really.'   Amy was not yet ready to be drawn into a relaxed conversation with Fiona.  She wasn't going to let her off the hook that easily.

But her friend was smiling at her, and she couldn't help smiling back.  'Thought he might have been my guardian angel or something for a moment there.'

'You what?'

'Exactly.  Must have been having a mystical moment, I guess –

if that makes sense,' she glanced at her blank face, '… apparently not.'

'That's Brighton for you,' said Fiona, all bright and breezy.  'You're so funny, babe.  Look, I fancy a cuppa.  You want anything?' she asked, beginning to get up.  'Although,' as she surveyed the debris of cake, bacon butty and tea in front of Amy, 'seems like you've had yours.'

She hadn't even noticed that I was cheesed off with her.  Water off, as usual.  'Go on then, I'll have another cup of tea,' she said.

Fiona strode off to the counter, collecting several admiring glances from various men sat with their late breakfast pick-me-ups on the tables in front of them.  Amy watched her go.  She had to admit, that even the morning after, Fiona looked magnificent.  She was wearing one of those ethnic dresses from their favourite shop in North Laine.  Her elegant legs glimpsed more fully as the opening, afforded by its cross-over tie front, flapped in the breeze.  Amy could see the attraction.  If she was a bloke she'd fancy Fiona herself.

Fiona returned, placed the cups on the round metal café table, then pulled out a large pair of white framed sunglasses.  She gave Amy a broad beam.

'Sorry about last night,' she said.  'But he was well fit.'

'OK.  So how did it go with pizza man?'

'The wimple with the pimples?' She stretched out her legs in front of her, crossing them at the ankles.

'Yeah, well.  He was a bit young - even for you,' said Amy, finishing the remains of her bacon butty.

'Oooo.  I’ll ignore that. But I will say this for him, he certainly kept to Perfect Pizza’s promise of delivery within half an hour.'

Amy chortled.  'You old slapper!'  She couldn’t deny Fiona was a laugh.

A pigeon, about to alight on their table, changed its mind and crashlanded near her foot, from where it proceeded to pretend that was what it meant to do all along.

'Dahlink, an old slapper is just about what he called me. The nerve.'

'No!'

'Yep,' she reached forward to pinch a piece of rock cake which Amy had been saving to have with her tea.  "And after I’d given him the benefit of my contessa-charms,' added Fiona, licking her fingertips.  'Afraid he had to go.'

The pigeon edged nearer.

'Go?'

'Of course.  Cheeky begger.  Oh, and speaking of going,' she added.

'Where on earth did you disappear to?'  She gave her friend a conciliatory smile.  'I'm a cow, I know.  And I really am sorry, babe.  I did come back for you, honest.  And I couldn't have been gone for ever so long.  But, when I returned, you'd already left - without me.'

'Yeah, well.'

'Oh God,' and her she leant forwards to touch Amy's hand.  'I didn't tell you, did I?'

'What?'

She laughed.  'You’ll never guess what happened after I’d had my portion of pepperoni.'

'Puh-lease!'

'No, no, you'll love this!  I ended up having to floor a rather persistent pvc-clad kitty kat.  Fur flying – the whole lot.'  Amy and the pigeon gave her a look.  'Talk about not taking no for an answer!'

Amy chuckled, remembering her own run in with the kat in the back. 

Fiona moved her feet, causing the pigeon, who was about to spear a crumb with its tattered beak, to creakily unfurl its scruffy feathers and fly off.  Amy rubbed the bump on her head.  She could have sworn that pigeon winked at her.

'By the way,' added Fiona.  'Remind me never to set foot in Pussy Galore again.'

Amy was now wholeheartedly laughing at the spectacle she’d missed as Fiona gave her a blow-by-blow account.  Fiona and kitty kat, fighting.  Hilarious.

'What are you like?' she said to her friend.

Fiona leant over and gave her a hug.  'Forgive me,' she pleaded.  'Go on.  You know you want to.  Please.  Pretty please.  I have improved – this time I didn't totally leave you, now did I?  Eh?' 

Amy sat back in her plastic chair, mulling over last night and Fiona's escapades.  OK, Fiona can be a pain, but, you know what? she thought, smiling to herself.  Never mind raindrops on roses.  Fiona is one of my favourite things.

'What?' said Fiona.  'What you smiling at now?

But Amy was up on her feet, pulling her friend out of her chair.  'Come on,' she laughed.  'Race you to the sea!  Last one there buys lunch!'

And as they ran, the wind rushing past her ears sounded very much to Amy like The Sound of Music.

Up ahead, one, two, three, dragonflies flitted by like woodland fairies.  She could easily imagine them as fairies in diaphanous gowns, wearing acorns on their pretty heads as they stopped to alight on a leaf here, spring across to a trunk, there.  Alert and mischievous.  They watched her pass, up the part-gravelled track which led though the woods. 

When she was a child she used to play in these woods.  Head filled with stories of maidens trapped in towers, dragon slayers on white steeds, fairies, goblins and elves.  She bought The Observer Book of Birds with her pocket money, kept a page torn out from her Look And Learn comic on animal tracks, and stuffed her pockets with string as she set off on expeditions deep into the woods, where she hunted for badger tracks, crept up on a nuthatch nest concealed in a hole in a tree – careful not to disturb the eggs, nor touch anywhere for fear she’d leave behind her human smell and cause the birds to abandon their brood of eggs.

She would take the string from her pocket, tie together two sticks to fashion a sword, then call for her pony Caramel.  In one swing, she would mount her steed, as off they galloped through the woodland, on the lookout for challenges to rise to, rescues to be made, fights to be fought.  Even though her pony was imaginary, she was very real to Wendy.  She'd long given up on her parents’ promise of a real pony the moment they moved to the country, as it looked like they'd never move from their council house in the city. 

She wished she could win a pretty New Forest pony in some local lottery, then go on to win The Grand National, just like Velvet Brown in National Velvet.  'Never mind,' she whispered into the neck of Caramel.  'I love you as much as any real pony.'  She would set up jumps in her back garden made from old paint tins her dad kept in the shed, with poles across fashioned from a broom, a mop, a branch she’d lugged home from the woods.  Then, Up!  She’d clamber onto Caramel, as they became one.  Like some fabulous beast.  More fabulous even than a unicorn.  Part girl, part Palamino pony, as she pawed the ground, whinnied and clicked her tongue.  'C’mon Caramel’.  And they were off, parading around the arena much like the horses and riders in The Horse Of The Year Show on telly.  The bell would go, she’d kick Caramel on, as one by one they took the fences until they cantered round to the last - a tricky combination of two paint tins stacked one on top of the other to make a high jump with a flower border right behind it.  She needed a clean jump for a clear round.  She turned Caramel towards the hurdle; neck arched, mane knotted into little plaits and ribbons, ears alert and pricked forwards.  She urged her onwards: ‘Go on’.  As they gathered speed, headed for the jump.  ‘Steady, steady,’ she murmured, lining them up squarely, then on and ‘UP!’ - they took off in one long high leap, clearing it by miles.  'Yay!'  The crowd erupted with applause as Wendy and Caramel did their lap of honour.  Her mother appeared at the back door, wiping flour-covered hands on a flowered pinny.

‘What on earth is all that racket?’ she called.  ‘Come on in for your tea.’

She slowed Caramel, still prancing from all the excitement, then hopped off, patted her pony's neck, threw both arms about her neck then buried her head in her muscled frame.  ‘You were brilliant,’ she murmured.  ‘I love you.’  Her mother went in, shaking her head.

Wendy’s favourite place wasn’t her bedroom which was small and next to the bathroom from where she could hear her father’s grunting noises and smell his revolting smells.  No.  Her top most favourite place of all was under the stairs where she had cleared sufficient room, behind where the Hoover was kept, to form a den.  Discovering a couple of blankets and cushions in Mum’s old wardrobe, she secreted them downstairs and into her new hidey-hole. 

She wrote a sign.  KEEP OUT!!  Which she stuck on the door with drawing pins.  Then she switched the light on and clambered in, shutting the door behind her.  All lovely and cosy.  She got together a collection of library books from her room so she could read in peace.  Snug-as-a-bug.  More often than not she'd drop off to sleep with thoughts of Just William running around her head.  In her dreams she was one of William's Outlaws, and a boy instead of a soppy girl.  She’d have sharp boys’ knees, get into scrapes, yet narrowly avoid trouble.  Her and the gang of Outlaws.

Mum objected to the Keep Out sign – she said it made pin holes.

‘Never mind, Jean,’ said Dad.  ‘I’ll make her one she can hang on the doorknob.’  And he did.  More often than not, they’d leave her alone in there with her books – 'What harm can it do?'  Other times her Mum would send her out to play until teatime.

Wendy was amassing a fair collection in her Den.  As well as her books and half-eaten packets of biscuits, there was Caramel’s tack (which naturally didn’t take up much space – being imaginary), plus a shoe box full of treasures: a peacock’s feather from a trip to the zoo; a speckled blackbird’s egg (identified from The Observer Book of Birds Eggs) which she found on the floor of the woods, pierced both ends with a pin then blew out the contents; a wren’s nest found abandoned; and the tiny skull of a shrew.  On a shelf sat a large glass jar – which she’d rescued from Dad's shed – into which she poured the contents of jamjar and fishing net hunts of the local pond: weed, water, sticklebacks.  There had been frogspawn, but they’d grown into tadpoles and then small black frogs which had hopped from her den into the kitchen.

‘Get those disgusting frogs out of here,’ her mum had yelled, and much merriment ensued – as she later told Caramel who was stabled in the garage – as Wendy and her Mum tried to catch and scoop up the small amphibians before they were squashed underfoot or snaffled up by the cat.  Wendy wasn’t over keen on the cat, and Tiddles certainly preferred Mum to her. She considered Tiddles to be a merciless killing machine.  He'd bring trophies of disembowelled mice, headless moles, or wounded fat toads into the house to deposit at her mother’s feet.  ‘Get out you mangy beast,’ Mum would berate it.  More often than not the cat managed to run off to devour its maimed captives with much crunching of bones.  Other times mother had to wrap the cat’s leavings in newspaper and deposit them in the bin with much shaking of the head and murmurings of ‘Bad Cat.’

Fairies lived under the stairs.  Wendy decided not to tell anyone at school about the fairies.  It was bad enough when Angela’s gang spotted her cantering Caramel down the street.

‘Whatchoo doing, weirdo?’

‘Nuffin.’

‘You’re pretending you’re on a horse, aintcha?’

‘No.  No I never,’ and she ran back up the road towards her house, with the girls shouting and jeering after her.  At school, for the rest of that term they called her Horsey.  ‘Here comes Horsey.’  ‘Oi Horsey!  Why the long face?’  ‘Ah ha ha ha.’  ‘Oi, wanna carrot?’  ‘Gee up!’  Until they got bored and moved on to taunting the new ginger girl.

In the middle of the woods was a clearing she'd suddenly come across.  Full of magic.  She stumbled upon it one day.  That was when she first saw the fairies.  There was a pond in the middle.  This was clearly where fairies liked to come,  to dip down to drink or skim along the water, or crawl out newly-formed to dry their wings, then hop skip and jump off and up into the air.  She knew this because the fairies told her.  Later.  They whispered their secrets and fairy spells at dusk as she was nodding off in the cupboard, after tea, while her parents watched The News.  She’d close her eyes and immerse herself in their fairy magic. 

The first night she sprouted her very own magic fairy wings and flew off to fairy land where she was the fairy princess and everything was sparkly and tinkly and water fizzed like lemonade and feasts were spread out on leaves in clearings

in woods.  Her Mum woke her rudely by banging on the door.  ‘Come on, young lady.  Time for bed.’  Sometimes if she was too sleepy her Dad would scoop her up in his arms and carry her 'up the wooden hill'.

On sunny days she liked to run to the magic pond in the woods.  Maybe take a book, or merely lie on the ground as she and planet Earth spun through space while busy insects and fairies buzzed above and around her head.  Then one day she saw something dark floundering at the edge of the water.  It was too big for a fairy and for one horrible moment she thought it might be a hobgoblin.  A hobgoblin come to steal her away.  Instead, when she stepped closer, she saw it was a young blackbird, which for some reason was half drowned.  Part in and part out of the water.  She reached to rescue it from its watery demise.  But the bird didn’t understand, and as her hands closed around its body - careful to ensure the wings were tucked in neatly to avoid any damage – it feebly turned its head round to try and peck her hand.  But the fledgling couldn’t reach, and soon gave up, exhausted.

She collected her cardigan from where she'd left on the ground, then carefully wrapped it around the bird to keep it warm and to absorb some of the wet.  She could feel its little heart flutter between her hands.  She remembered from Blue Peter that birds can die of fright.  The best thing was to get it home as quickly as she could, and with as minimum fuss as possible.  At home she could place it in a dry cardboard box under the stairs.  That way it stood a chance of recovering.

But she had to be quick.  She set off at a run, then realised this was jarring the bird cradled in her arms, so she slowed down and walked as fast as she could, every now and then checking on the bird.  Its beak was open, its little tongue poked out, as it panted in fright.  She remembered from some book or other, that if an animal is scared, it's best to cover its head.  So she pulled her cardigan fully over the bird then carried on home. 

Her Dad was in the kitchen when she arrived, out of breath.  ‘What’s that you've got there, Wendy?’

‘A blackbird, Dad.  It’s ill.’

‘Give it here.’  Carefully he placed the bird and cardigan on the kitchen table then helped her locate a shoebox.  They lined it with straw, placed a jamjar lid full of water in the bottom, then placed the bird in the box and closed the lid.  As if carrying a precious gift, Wendy carried the box and set it down inside the dark and quiet of the cupboard, then quietly shut the door.

‘Best leave it till morning,’ said Dad.

‘Will the fairies make the blackbird all better?’ she asked, face tilted up towards him.  He knew all about Wendy's make-believe fairies.  He ruffled her hair.

‘Yes.  I expect they will.’  And off she went to bed, relieved.

During the night she dreamt she awoke, went to her window, and saw Dad outside digging in the garden.  The next morning she ran downstairs, gingerly opened the cupboard door - but the blackbird was gone.  The box with the straw was there, but the bird was gone.  The fairies must have fixed it, she thought, and ran to the backdoor.  In the garden a blackbird was singing its heart out up a tree.  Her mum and dad entered the kitchen behind her.

‘Look Dad.  There’s the blackbird.  The fairies must have fixed it.’

Her father looked at her mother who shrugged, then moved to put the kettle on.

‘I expect so,’ he said.  ‘Now, who’s for Weetabix?’

Much later she stopped believing in fairies and swapped imaginary ponies for nights out at discos, parties and boys.  Then she met Kevin.  Oh, she knew that Kevin wasn’t an exciting or heroic name.  But Kevin had somehow risen above the bad magic of his name and was handsome and funny, and didn’t turn a hair at her ‘fancifuls’ as her mother called them.  He thought it sweet that she used to believe in fairies, and had owned an imaginary pony.  He told her how he'd had a spider friend called Boris who got squashed one day by his brother Steven.

He encouraged her in her affection for all things fairy.  He liked to buy her fairy ornaments with which to adorn their bedroom – brought back from trips to hippie shops in Glastonbury.  She painted pictures with fairies and palamino unicorns in enchanted woods, or by magical ponds.  He called her his Wendy and tried to encourage her to call him her Peter Pan.  Although he wasn’t much like Peter as he looked after her rather than the other way around.  Anyhow, she didn't much like the story, or the spiteful fairy Tinker Bell.  Instead of Peter Pan,

he reminded her of a prince on a white charger come to do battle for her hand.  But she didn’t tell him all that as these were modern times and knights in shining armour were frowned upon.

Still, their romance was much like a fairy tale.  She felt enchanted, as if together they were invincible.  Surrounded by a magical shield of love.  It seemed natural to go for the whole white fairytale wedding, with him tall and handsome in grey and white morning dress, and her driving up to the pretty church in a carriage pulled by two palamino ponies.  ‘How on earth did you find those?’ she laughed.

‘My little secret,’ he said.  ‘The fairies told me.’  And he winked at her.

Later they laughed, and made love, and their own little fairy princess was conceived that very night.  The night of their wedding.  ‘Oh,' she said.  Delighted when she found out.  ‘How perfect.’

‘I’m so happy,’ he said.  ‘I’m the luckiest man alive.’

And so saying, he uttered the words which had him cursed.  Those words which should never be said.  Not when fairies are about, thought Wendy now, as she remembered, but kept on walking up up the path through the woods.

‘Ssh,’ she said to the bundle she carried, wrapped tight as a half-drowned blackbird in a cardigan.  ‘Ssh.’

Wendy and Kevin had been allowed six months.  Six beautiful months full of laughter, of late night chasings around the bedroom to much squealing followed by sweaty love making; of daytimes full of picnics in the park, lying side by side companionably, stroking her tummy as their baby grew inside.

‘We should get a cat,’ he said.

‘I hate cats,’ she said, surprising him.  ‘They have killer eyes and they sleep on babies faces.  Smothering them.’

He looked at her.  ‘OK.  No cat.’

She felt safe.  Even though her mother’s instinct - on full alert – had registered a growing sense of forboding.  She shrugged it off.  Told herself that she was being silly.  She put her irrational worries down to hormones swirling about, swooshing around like water in a storm-tossed river.

It was raining the night the police came knocking on her door.  She was already frantic as Kevin hadn’t returned home.  Home from a day out providing for his new family.  She loved it when he came in, hollering:  ‘Hello?  Hello honey? I’m home!’  Much like those American sitcoms her mother loved to watch.  And now she, Wendy, was starring in her own idyllic sitcom.  With a husband, a nice home, and a baby on the way.  She fully expected to see Kevin when she threw open the door.  Kevin looking apologetic because he’d forgotten his key.  Kevin soaked through, hair plastered to his head as the car had broken down and he’d abandoned it to walk all the way home.  To his family.  Because nothing was going to stop him from coming home.  Instead it was a policeman and a policewoman in uniform.

She kept looking behind them to see where Kevin must be standing.  Right behind them.  They must have seen him walking down the road in the pouring rain and stopped to give him a lift.  Yes, that was it.  She began to smile at them, to say thank you for bringing Kevin back home, but he wasn’t there.  Even though she was willing him to be there with all her might.  Willing him there and willing the policeman not to say those words.  Surely she could stop time, rewind, and get him to not say those words.  If she concentrated hard enough she could, she had to, make time go backwards like Superman had when he flew round and round the world backwards so that what happened to his love – to his Lois – would not have happened and they could start all over again.  If she could stop those words coming out, stop time, and will it backwards, then she could stop Kevin going out the door.  Stop him, stop him …

As she began to faint, she heard the words.  ‘There's been an accident, Mrs. … oh, quick, catch her.’

Down down down as if she’d plunged into the magic pool where the fairies are formed before they climb out to dry their wings on land.

She woke up in hospital.

‘Have they informed her about her husband?’ she heard a nurse whisper.

‘I’m not sure,’ said another.

‘Terrible.  And now the baby ...’

‘Ssh.  I think she’s waking.’

Wendy kept her eyes resolutely shut, wishing them away with all her might.

When she woke later, her Mum was there, shaking her head.  Which was weird, because Mum had died shortly before she met Kevin.  And her dad had followed soon after.  Of a broken heart she’d heard Auntie Gwen say.  She stayed at her Auntie’s until Kevin came to rescue her. 

Wendy groaned and turned her face to the wall.  She didn't want to be in hospital.  Where was Kevin?

‘Poor thing,’ one of the women in the ward was saying.  ‘To lose a husband and a baby all on the same night.’

‘And then to put her on a maternity ward.  It’s not right, is it?’

‘Hello, Wendy,’ said one of the nurses who came round to bend down and speak to her.  ‘You’ll be able to go home later today.  One of the doctors will come and speak to you.  And then you can go.’

The woman in the bed opposite glared at the nurse, but looked away when Wendy turned over and glanced her way.  The woman seemed to Wendy to be holding onto her baby rather too tightly. 

‘Hello there,’ said a policewoman materialising at the foot of her bed.  ‘We’ll come and talk to you more about the accident when you get home.’

‘Accident?’ said Wendy.  The nurse scowled at the policewoman.

‘Yes, Mrs. Tanner,’ said the policewoman as she pulled up a chair.  ‘Has no-one told you?’

Wendy looked blank.

‘I’m sorry to have to tell you this,’ she looked up at the nurse.  ‘Can we draw the curtains?’  She waited until that was done before continuing.  ‘I’m afraid your husband was in an accident.  His car skidded in the rain.  We’re not sure quite what happened yet.  Most likely hit an oil patch then straight into the Docks.  I’m so sorry.’

Down down down into the water.  Struggling at the doors, at the windows.  Desperately trying to get out.  Trying to get home to her.  And the baby.  Wendy groaned and clutched her stomach.

‘The baby?’ she said so quietly it was barely above a whisper.

‘We’re sorry, love,’ said the nurse who had rejoined them.  ‘The baby came last night.  Don’t you remember?  It was premature.  Its lungs wouldn’t

inflate properly …’

Drowning drowing, her baby drowning in air.  Rudely ejected into the open.  Baby out of water, Daddy into water.  Both drowned.  Both.  How bizarre is that?  That's ridiculous.  This must be some horrible joke.  It can’t be true.  She stared from one face to the other.  It can’t.  No.  Dear God, no.

‘My baby?’ she uttered with a defeated voice.  ‘Boy or a girl?’

‘I don’t think …’

‘I need to know.  Boy or girl?’

‘A girl.  You can see her later.’

Wendy once more turned her face to the wall.  She didn’t want to see later.  It couldn’t be true.  It wouldn’t be true.

She picked up her baby from the small cot, much like a box – but a plastic not a cardboard one – which was parked at the side of the next bed.  She’d recognise her baby anywhere.  That sweet face.  So like Kevin’s.  If she could get her home, then Kevin would be waiting for them.

Oh she knew all about fairy tricks.  How they like to make mischief by

stealing babies and substituting a changeling in its place.  It had taken her a

while to work that out, but when she heard her own little fairy princess crying she knew what had taken place  She waited until the mother was asleep then quickly dressed, reclaimed her tiny birdlike baby, wrapped her up in her cardigan – like a  

There were police cars outside her house as the taxi drew up, so she told the

cab driver to take her to the woods.

‘You live near them do you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Spect you’ll be glad to get that little mite home, eh?’

‘Yes.’  He dropped her off by a house on the edge of the trees.  Better not alert him, she thought, so she waited and watched him disappear in his car before setting off up the woodland trail.

It was along the way, while she was trying to work out what to do next, that she spotted something amiss.  She saw how, when the baby cried, it had a nasty shrivelled up face.  She realised the fairies had really tricked her this time.  This wasn’t her baby at all.  No.  It was an ugly changeling.  One they’d substituted for hers.  She still had to find her baby – and Kevin.  Up ahead were dragon flies.  One, two, three.  They flitted by: in and out, between and about the trees.  She placed the squalling changeling baby near a bench where it would easily be found, then followed the fairy dragonflies up, up to the lip of the gorge.

She stood on the edge.  Down below was where Kevin’s car had gone off

the road.  Down below was where the water gave up its dead.  Her shoulder blades twitched as if for one last time she was sprouting her very own iridescent   

fairy wings.

And there she was, flying.  Strangely calm.  Not panicked, but calm and stopped.  Like a high diving bird nanoseconds before it drops into its dive.  Stopped and calm, while the rest of the world rushed by so fast it made a whooshing sound in her ears.

Because of course, Heather had dreamt of flying.  As a child.  When all things seemed possible.  When leaping in a single bound from one side of The Avon Gorge to the other was a mere hop, skip and jump away - if she had on ten-league giant boots.  Back then it seemed eminently possible to hold out your hand, touch the wind, and trust those wings would be there.  When needed - half-expecting that to be true, and not fanciful. 

She also liked to lie on her back.  Flat against the earth.  She'd lie on the grass perfectly still, facing upwards and outwards as Planet Earth held on tight, while it spun impossibly fast through space.  Holding her down by centrifugal forces.  She knew this as they'd done centrifugal forces at school.  Afterwards, she rushed home, grabbed hold of a bucket full of water, then whizzed her arm round and round, faster and faster, as the water stayed put.  Until, that is, her arm got tired and she had to stop, and the water shot out, soaking her dress.

'What've you done to your dress?' her mother said.

She ran out to the fields, just like most Saturdays.  To get away.  To run far away from the shouting which began after Dad had been to the pub.  She'd run and run, then throw herself down on the ground, where she tumbled through the universe.  Her and Planet Earth.  She knew that if the Earth got tired she'd go shooting off.  Out into space: catapulted to the stars.  But at least, then, she'd be flying.

At home, in her small bedroom in their small Bristol house, she'd dream of flying.  In her dreams she knew exactly how to fly.  It was easy.  Easy peasy.  You just lifted off at a kind of angle, caught the up draughts, rode the wind, and went wherever you willed yourself to go.  The trick was to just think yourself flying.  Out over the landscape, skimming that tree, hovering to enjoy the scenery, or alongside an albatross setting out to visit far off oceans.  When she awoke, in that place between sleeping and not, it seemed to her as if she'd be able to take off right then.

'C'mon, you'll be late for school,' Mum would call, and she'd go down to Cornflakes and accusations.

'Where were you last night?' her mother demanded of Heather's older brother Nick, who was tanned the colour of a lion from working on building sites.

'Mind your own,' he said, as he ate his toast.

'I'll give you mind your own.'  Her mother raised her arm, then thought better of it.  He was too big for her to strike.

'Fuck off' he shouted.

'You get out of my house!'

'With pleasure!'  He slammed his toast down on his plate, then slammed the backdoor so hard behind him, the washing up in the sink rattled.

'What have I ever done to deserve a son like that?' her mother sobbed, as she wiped her eyes on her apron.  Heather collected her swimming kit, and dashed out of the house for early diving practice before school.

She loved to dive.  It was the closest she could get to flying.  She was the junior Bristol diving champion.  The star of the school swimming team.  She loved going to the pool before the arrival of office workers putting in their laps as they ploughed up and down.  Leaving furrows and ripples in their wake.  The pool was opened early just for her and her coach.  Mr. Simons.

She would stand on the high board, toes curled over the edge; and wait.  Tall and straight she'd look out over the pool's blue and perfect surface.  She wait until she was balanced just right, on the balls of her feet.  Once she heard the coach's whistle she'd launch herself up into the air.  Arms straight out at her side like wings, she'd soar up, to hover for a split second before doing a tuck, a turn, then a straighten to enter the water with as little a splash as a seabird throwing itself, dart-like, into the sea.

'And again,' Mr. Simons would say.  Never good.  Only ever do it again.  She'd pull herself from the soft grasp of the pool's surface.  Dripping wet she'd climb back up the steps to the top.  Until - 'OK.  You can finish now.  Off to school, or you'll be late.'

Heather hated every single moment of school.  She had no friends.  Occasionally she was allowed to join the group of losers in her year.  Saddos, the other kids called them.  Heather had bright orange hair and deep freckles.  This caused the familiar jibes of Carrot Top, Duracel, Ginger Nut, and others.  Two girls, Sandy and Lucy, would hang around in corridors, waiting for her to pass.  Her heart sank whenever she saw them as she knew the drill by now.  One of them would trip her as she walked past, or give her a shove while the other shouted:  'Freak' at her retreating back, hunched over the books she was carrying in her arms as if she could retreat into them.

They even took to waiting for her outside the school gates.  'Here she is.  The gingha minger.'  'Ugh, what's that horrible smell.'  'It's coming from her ginger minge!'  And the like. 

So Heather was often alone.  She preferred it that way.  She'd find a corner in the school playground where she could hide until it was time to go in for lessons.  Sometimes they'd find her, but often not.  And at home she had her books, her room, and the fields.  It was safer that way.

Her body began to change.  She grew tall and willowy.  Her hair turned strawberry blonde and she developed large round breasts.  She began to feel self-conscious in the swimming baths, and embarrassed by how Mr. Simons looked at her longer and in an altogether different way. 

She gave up diving competitions when, at fifteen, she discovered boys.  And sex.  Suddenly she was popular with the boys in school and the bully girls moved on to someone else.  Heather was all awash with hormones, and attracting the boys' attention.  She discovered that sex was like flying too.  She'd lay down on the earth with boys who left their grass-smelling semen trickling down her legs.

Her mother tried to ground her.  'You're grounded,' she said on hearing the rumours about her daughter and the local lads.  She left an angry looking slap mark across Heather's face.

'What have I ever done to deserve a daughter like you?'

Heather stayed in her room where she gazed at travel pictures of Acapulco where they held high-diving competitions off rugged cliffs, and she wished she hadn't been so hasty in giving it all up.  'You're a fool,' her coach had said.

'You're a slut!' her mother said when she came downstairs for tea.  'You speak to her, Mike,' she pleaded to her husband.  But he didn't move.  Just carried on watching a game show on television and swigging from his can of beer.

'Do I have to do everything?' began her mother.

Her father got up out of his chair, gave her mother a look, grabbed his jacket, and slammed the front door as he left.  Heather scooted off to her room without eating.

She finished school and moved to Cornwall where she took various jobs waitressing or working in bars.  Port Isaac suited her.  There were plenty of boys on holiday for her to smuggle back to her room.  But sex no longer gave her that sensation of flying.  Instead she felt pinned to the ground.  As if, with their inexpert love-making, they were tethering her; knocking their penises into her body as if driving in tent pegs to stop her from blowing away.

Then came that awful night when one of the lads jumped her on the way home.  She hadn't much liked the look of him in the restaurant.  His eyes reminded her of a carrion crow's.  She remembered how he was not best pleased when she turned down his offer of a date.  She heard him mutter 'Slut!' as she walked away from his table.

He was waiting for her outside.  Usually she'd exit the hotel via the rear entrance with the other girls, but that night she was late setting off.  Down the alleyway where the large waste bins were kept.  And that was where he'd stepped out.  Purposefully, and with a knife.  She cast about for someplace to hide, somewhere to run to, but there was nowhere.  Quickly he was upon her, hissing:  'Don't scream or I'll slice your tits off.'  So she hadn't.   The stench of his bad breath like rotting flesh.  She tried to turn her head, but the knife was at her throat.  He kissed her until she felt she was going to be sick.  She was tempted to bite down hard on his tongue but was reminded of the unrelenting coldness of the blade on her neck.  She let him get on with it.  She tried to blank out the fumbling with his fly, the rough parting of her legs, and the way his cock was horribly soft and limp so that he had to work on it first, panting horribly in her face.  Panting his horrible stinking breath.  When he'd finished with her he punched her in the mouth: 'You better not go to the police.  Everyone knows you're a slapper.'  

That night she scrubbed herself raw with a hard brush, in the shower, then went for a swim in the sea.  Later, when she discovered she was pregnant she booked herself in for an abortion as soon as she could.

'Are you sure you don't want counselling?' the doctor asked.

'No.'

'What about the father?'

'I was raped.'

'I'll book you in straight away.'

At the time her only thought had been of excising something bad from her womb.  Some bad seed planted there.  'Nothing more than you deserve,' she could just imagine her mother saying, even though she hadn't talked to her in years. 

After, there had been the unintentionally cruel words from the doctor with the kind face:  'I'm sorry … complications …would you like counselling?'  And she'd walked out.  Back to her one-bedroom flat.

What she hadn't accounted for was the sadness.  And the gnawing feeling of loss; of absence.  A wondering whether she'd let down some poor creature which had a right to live.  A small mermaid she might have come to love.  At night she had nightmares of a deformed thing being cut from her pregnant belly, and waters gushing forth.

Most days she walked the cliff paths where on windy days the spray reached up and splashed her face clear of thoughts.  Clear of memories.  Up there, it was quiet, with no shouting.  She knew to be near the sea and the cliffs.  She decided she would have had a daughter, and couldn't get her blonde smiling face out of her mind.  She imagined throwing her up in the air to catch her before she fell.  Teaching her how to swim underwater, how to hold her breath, and how to dive like a bird.  All gone.  Now.

Heather supposed she'd known that one day she'd be standing here.  Barefoot.  Her toes curled over the edge of the cliff as she looked out over the sea's blue and perfect surface.  Balanced just right on the balls of her feet.