“Once upon a time there was...” I
began.
“A mean old witch,” Sophia
interjected. It was going to be one of those bedtime stories, the
audience dictating the course of the action and the author reduced to
fan service.
“Are you sure? Mean old witches can
be very scary.”
“I'm six now, I'm big and brave.”
“So you are.” And so she was.
Six, I mean, I still had to share my bed when she had bad dreams or
during thunderstorms. “And this witch lived in a spooky old
house.”
“Was it made of gingerbread?”
“Don't be silly, who'd build a house
out of gingerbread?” She looked a little crestfallen so I went on.
“It was made out of a huge hollowed out sponge cake.”
“With jam and cream?”
“That's right, she had problems
keeping the local cats away.”
“Did she have a broomstick?”
“Yes, she did, but she only used it
for sweeping.” I considered it good parenting not to rely on
tropes and clichés, the world would never be predictable. “She
had a jet-pack for flying about.” This was met with great
approval, the week before she had expressed an interest in becoming
an astronaut and meeting aliens.
“Whoosh!” Herbert, her teddy, flew
about a bit. “Where did she fly to?”
“She flew off into the big, dark
forest, to look for things to make a potion out of.”
“Was it a potion like Granny's?”
The doctor had put my mother on some noxious concoction for her
latest ailment, Sophia had been fascinated by it so I had warned her
it was only for Granny and anyone else who drank it would be turning
into a toad.
“It was, she needed it to cure her
horrible witch breath.” I breathed my horrible garlic breathe over
her and she shrank into the covers. I love garlic, but there would
be no kiss goodnight.
“What did she need to make the
potion?”
“Oh, toadstools and tree bark and the
eyes of a little girl!” I loomed over her and wriggled my fingers
menacingly, she gave a little shriek and a nervous giggle.
Downstairs my wife would be having that essential second glass of
wine, so I would escape the accusation that I was filling Sophia's
mind with horrible stuff.
“Did she find them?”
“Well, toadstools and tree bark are
easy to find in big, dark forests, but little girls stay away from
such places.” This received a frown, quite rightly, I supposed,
thinking it over. “”But there was this one little girl who loved
going into the big, dark forest.”
“What was her name?”
“Nibbles.”
“That's a silly name.”
“It wasn't her real name, but that's
what everyone called her because when she ate she would nibble on her
food until it was all gone, even the vegetables.” I suck at names,
but my job has made me great at excuses.
“What was she doing in the forest?”
“Talking to squirrels.”
“Squirrels can't talk,” she told
me with all the authority of a six year old.
“I didn't say they were talking back,
but they were listening. She was telling them about all the things
she had been learning at school and the squirrels were listening
because squirrels don't go to school.” Squirrels had been a firm
favourite story ingredient since one took up residence in the back
garden. “Suddenly all the squirrels ran away because the mean old
witch arrived.” I gave a witchly cackle and Sophia giggled.
“On her jet-pack.”
“On her jet-pack,” I agreed. “But
the little girl didn't run away.”
“Because she was six and not afraid
of mean old witches,” Sophia explained.
“Because she was six and not afraid
of mean old witches,” and was possibly a little too trusting around
strangers in this modern age. “The witch said 'Hello, little
girl, I've come to take your eyes for my potion'.” The witch
had a high-pitched voice that made her sound like a man pretending to
be a woman, unconvincingly.
“And she said 'No, you can't have
my eyes, I need them to see with!'”
“Quite right, what else would you say
if someone asked you for your eyes?” Nothing using words a six
year old should know. “And so the witch said 'But I need them
for my potion so I can cure my horrible witch breath'.”
“And she said 'No, you can't have
them, smelly witch, I will shoot you with my laser gun!'” This
was new, probably the product of playing with her older male cousins
the previous weekend. “Pew, pew, pew!”
“'No, no, don't shoot me with your
laser gun! I'm just a harmless old woman!'” With a man's
voice, maybe she had been a heavy smoker in her youth.
“And then she shot the witch into
little bits and took her jet-pack so she could fly home.”
“So, she did, but not before she gave
the squirrels jet-pack rides.”
“The end.”
“So it is, sleep tight.” I leaned over her.
“No smelly garlic kisses!”
Well, maybe mean old witches are
slightly scary, but I think we can all see who the real monster was
in this story. I certainly know who keeps me awake at night.
