A Fairy Tale (5 page)

I
'
m drawing a dragon. I practice in the sketchbook before copying it out on a piece of cardboard. The dragon has snake eyes, its brows point downwards like a V, it's angry. Its tongue is forked and its teeth are very sharp.

I colour in the neck. I use greens and blues. The dragon should look as if it lives in a lake or a bog, perhaps. It has just poked its head out of the water because it can smell people or animals it can eat.

I've been drawing the dragon since I got up. I don't hear the sounds from the courtyard or the ticking of the clock. My only thought is to make the dragon as scary as possible. Right now it's harmless. Its head is bigger than its body. Its claws look small and ridiculous. The sun is high in the sky and I know that the boy's waiting for me downstairs. I've decided I don't want to see him again. I colour in the tail of the dragon. I wonder if the boy is busy feeding cheese to the rats in the courtyard. I pick up the dark green colouring pencil in order to draw the scales on the dragon's body. My pencil stops drawing.

The boy is grinning
as I step out of the main door. He looks as if he knew all along that I would come.

“You're the lookout today,” he says. “Just like when we smeared shit on the doorbells.”

He starts walking, knowing that I'll follow him.

“What are you doing?” I say to his back.

“We. What are
we
. . .” he replies, without turning around. I'm almost certain that he's smiling. “I could tell you, of course, but then it wouldn't be a surprise.”

We pass the outhouses; we pass the stand with the rusting bicycles.

“Surprises are always nice,” he says.

I nod, he's probably right. When I'm with him, I think more slowly.

“You're my friend,” he says.

By now we're standing in front of the door leading down to the caretaker's workshop. The boy points to a paving stone.

“Stand there and keep a lookout. If you hear the caretaker's keys then run down and knock three times.”

The boy quickly sneaks inside. I stand on the paving stone. I want to run away, but I stay where I am. I can hear the wind rustle the leaves in the trees; I can hear my own breathing, but no keys.

Then the door is flung open. The boy waves a key over his head like a prize he has just won in a competition. He grabs hold of my arm and drags me along.

“Just you wait until you see this,” he says.

We cross the courtyard, pass a bird bath, and arrive at a different basement door. The boy quickly pulls me down the steps. He inserts the key into the lock and opens it. The darkness inside is total.

“Hurry up,” he says. “Don't just stand there.”

The door closes behind us.

We walk down a short passage. There's a sharp smell: glue, possibly, but I'm not sure. I hear the boy fumble with something. The light in the ceiling flickers a couple of times before it comes on. We're surrounded by cats smoking pipes, by redheaded girls with bushy tails peeking out from under their dresses.

Along the walls there are work tables and piles of fabric in different colours and patterns. “Surprises are always nice,” says the boy again. We're in a doll workshop.

I know I ought to leave, but I can't take my eyes off an anteater with a top hat and a monkey with a walking stick and red shoes. I follow the work tables: more dolls, and giraffes with long ties that reach all the way down their necks. On a bulletin board is a photo of an old woman bent over a sewing machine. She's stitching ears onto a rabbit and sewing paws on a dog. In other photographs she sits surrounded by children who hold the dolls on their laps. The children are laughing and she smiles proudly at the photographer. In the last few pictures there's a little girl with no hair in a hospital bed. She's hugging a crocodile with glasses.

I hear a growl behind me like a dog with a bone. The boy is standing with a full-size male doll. At first it looks as if he's embracing it, then I see that he has sunk his teeth into its neck. The boy rips off half the head and yellow stuffing spills out. Our eyes meet and he throws down the doll. The boy takes a pair of scissors from one of the work tables and ignores me while he cuts the arms and legs off the dolls. I walk backwards out of the room. The boy cuts the ears off a zebra and the trunk off an elephant. I walk down the passage and emerge outside.

I stand on the basement steps while my eyes get used to the light. Then I hear a jingling. A large bunch of keys getting closer and closer.

I throw myself behind the bushes along the wall. Below the leaves I can make out the caretaker's trousers. He stops right outside the bush I'm lying behind. I press my eyes shut and hope that he can't see me.

He lingers for a while before he continues down the steps and opens the door to the doll workshop.

I'm in my bed,
I still can't sleep. My dad comes home from work late. He sits in the kitchen eating a rye bread sandwich he has just made.

I hear the sound of the bottle top when he opens a beer.

I hear my dad rinse his plate in the sink. Then he stands in the doorway; he asks me if he should continue with our fairy tale. The last couple of days the King and the Prince have been travelling through an enchanted forest. They're walking down a narrow path with carnivorous flowers on both sides. I ask my dad if we can wait with the fairy tale until tomorrow. Or will the flowers eat them? Of course we can wait, he says. The King and Prince will be all right. My dad kisses my forehead and leaves the door ajar. I hear the crackling of the thin paper when he rolls himself a cigarette; “rolling smokes,” as he calls it.

He flicks through a book and I hear the metallic squeak from the lamp when he adjusts it to get a better reading light.

I don't know if I did the right thing today. You shouldn't tell tales. But technically I didn't tell on anyone. My dad says bad choices are rare. The most important thing is to make a choice and stand by it. I turn my face to the wall.

W
hen Father Christmas stirs the porridge, he opens his mouth and closes his eyes. He looks as if he's laughing, but no sounds come out. His beard is white, his suit is red. My dad says there's a motor somewhere under his jacket. I stand in front of the shop window for a long time, looking at him.

At first I thought he was funny; now he just looks creepy.

We're the only people not laden down with shopping bags, the only ones not in a hurry. I've gorged myself on the small spiced Christmas biscuits which are set out in bowls in practically every shop. The mulled wine leaves a red stain on my dad's teeth. The snow in the city is only white when it has just fallen. Then it turns grey, before going black.

“You can come with
me to work today,” my dad says, as he sprinkles soft brown sugar on his porridge. “The boss has gone to Jutland.”

He takes a big mouthful, as much as he can pile on the spoon, and opens his mouth to let out the steam.

“He's clearing out a house after someone died.”

The boss is angry: I imagine him stomping through the front door of a small, yellow brick house. He heaves a cupboard outside while an old man sits on the sofa. Very still and very cold. The tip of his tongue sticks out of the corner of his mouth. The boss lifts the old man's feet to pull the rug free.

As soon as my
dad has let us in, I go to the door at the back of the workshop. The one that always has a padlock on it. The boss is bound to forget the padlock one day.

“Do you really not know what's behind it?” I ask my dad again as I pull at the padlock.

“It's none of our business,” he says as he gets out the tools.

“Don't you want to know?”

He shakes his head. “Everyone's entitled to their secrets.”

Today I'm allowed to help my dad varnish a table. He shows me how to make an even brush stroke, how you have to be careful not to leave edges.

“Wet on wet,” he says. “Always paint wet on wet.”

I want to show my dad that I can do it. The sound of cars in the street disappears. Even brush strokes. I keep my eyes on the wood all the time in case a single hair from the brush has come loose.

A couple of days
later we scrub the varnish with a steel brush.

“You're getting the hang of it,” my dad says. “I think you might be ready for something more difficult.”

He lifts me up on the table in the workshop so I can get a better look at the colour photographs on the wall: pictures of furniture with water damage or mould. Old English furniture with tea stains. French furniture with scratches from the tiny, tiny claws of noble ladies' lapdogs. You make those with a metal coat hanger, my dad explains.

Before I drill my first woodworm hole, I spend a long time studying the photographs. The distance between the holes must be just right. The drill needs to go in perfectly the first time or the edges will fray.

My palms are sweaty as I press the drill against the wood and it almost slips out of my hand. When I've retracted it, I test with my finger. The hole hasn't frayed. It's quite small, and you have to bend down in order to spot it halfway down the chair leg. A proper woodworm hole. I'm proud, but I say nothing, I don't shout for joy. I don't want to get ahead of myself. With my fingers I measure the distance, just over half the length of the nail on my index finger. I make a mark with the pencil. That's where the next hole needs to be. I'd prefer to measure it with a ruler to get the perfect distance between each hole, but my dad says it doesn't work. That the holes become too regular. Woodworms don't use rulers, do they?

I
t's Christmas Eve and the streets are almost deserted. A few people are still driving around, some of them very fast; my dad says they're probably running late. Others slow right down and rub condensation off the windshield as they scout for house numbers.

“We're going to have duck,” my dad says. “The best duck in town. But first you're going to school.”

“To school?”

“Religious Studies.”

The church is squashed in between two other buildings. It looks as if they've built them as close to it as they could without knocking anything down. Warm, yellow light floods out the open door.

Inside people are smiling, making room for one another, speaking in whispered voices. The men have coats over their arms. The women wear shoes or boots with high heels.

We sit down on one of the wooden pews, which fill up quickly. I should've gone to the bathroom before we left home. My dad whispers to me that we should've brought popcorn.

I look around the church, trying to draw all of it inside my head in case my dad decides to test me later. I draw the large candlesticks with the wax candles and the pulpit with the wooden carvings. I draw Jesus on the cross. He hangs at the back of the church, thin and with nails through his hands and feet. He's bleeding, but his expression is serene.

Then the vicar appears and people fall silent. Everybody stands up, the vicar smiles; he seems pleased to see us. He lowers his hands and we're allowed to sit down again.

The organ plays and my dad points to a board on the wall that lists the numbers of the hymns. By the time I find the right place in the hymn book, everyone has already started singing. I try to join in by opening and closing my mouth at the same time as everyone else.

My dad looks up at the vicar while he sings; my dad's eyes are shining.

When the final notes from the organ have died out, the vicar mounts the pulpit. I see a flash of dark blue fabric and I'm almost certain that he's wearing jeans under his cassock. He looks down at his papers, straightening them a little. Then he looks out at us as if he'd like to make eye contact with everyone before he starts. He wipes his lips with his index finger and thumb.

“We've all done too much shopping,” he says. “Far too much.”

Again he looks around the church. “Does anyone here disagree with me?”

When there's no reply he nods, but continues to smile; he's still very pleased to see us.

“I'm no better myself, even vicars aren't holy. Not any more. And thank God for that.”

I hear scattered laughter. I didn't know people were allowed to laugh in a church; I'd have liked to join in myself, but the moment has passed.

The vicar's tone grows more serious: now he's talking about the poor.

“Those who have nothing,” he says. “We've all forgotten what the word ‘poor' means. People who are truly poor. Those you don't think about when you're looking for the last duck in the supermarket freezer.”

My dad leans close to me, whispers into my ear. “Take a look around, just look at them all. Tradition and faith are two completely separate things.”

The vicar reads from the Gospel according to Matthew. He talks about bread and fishes, about sharing.

“People confuse God with Jesus,” my dad says into my ear. “They like Jesus because Jesus cries.”

An elderly man in the pew in front of us turns around and holds a finger to his lips.

“They worship the son as if there was nothing else,” my dad says. He's talking more loudly now. “They forget that the father is a vengeful God. A cruel and jealous God. They forget what happened to Job's daughters and to all the people who didn't get to go on the ark.”

More people turn around and look in our direction.

“They really shouldn't step inside a church without a life jacket,” my dad says. His laughter sounds very loud in the church.

The vicar pauses in his sermon and looks around to discover who keeps interrupting him. I'm scared that he'll shout at us. Throw us out, possibly. My dad catches his eye and, for a brief moment, it looks as if the vicar recognizes him, but then he busies himself with his papers. The vicar is still smiling, but his voice is less certain when he talks about how seven loaves can feed a thousand people.

My dad leans back in the pew. He folds his hands across his stomach and lets the vicar finish his sermon without further interruption. People around us seemed relieved; they're no longer staring at us.

The vicar gathers up his papers. The organ plays as he steps down from the pulpit. He stands in the middle of the floor.

“Let us pray,” he says, and folds his hands.

“We're leaving,” my dad says. “God's not here.”

People have to stand up so we can get past; an old lady asks if the sermon is finished already. While we walk down the centre aisle, the vicar tries to continue; the last words I hear him say are “deliver us from evil.” Then the door slams shut behind us.

Outside it has grown
colder. The sidewalk is slippery and I have to watch my step. I liked the people in the church. They wore nice clothes and they smiled. They held hands and they smiled at me, too, even though I didn't know them. I liked the warm glow from the candles. I don't tell my dad this; he's marching on ahead and I try to keep up with him. I jump over snowdrifts and puddles of slush and I leap aside to avoid getting sprayed when cars pass. The wind makes my eyes water.

“So we don't have to believe in him?” I ask my dad.

“Who?”

“God.”

“Oh, right. Him.”

“Don't we have to believe in him?”

My dad rummages around his pocket for a cigarette.

“Maybe that's not the question.” He holds out his jacket as a screen against the wind while he lights the cigarette, then he takes my hand.

“Let's go get ourselves some duck,” he says.

We walk past restaurants. Through the windows I can see people sitting around white tablecloths.

“Are we going to eat in there?” I ask.

“No. We're going to get the best duck this city has to offer.”

We carry on walking. Past more restaurants, down many streets, many more snowdrifts. We reach the street with the girls in high heels; today they wear short quilted jackets that fall just above their hips. We walk past the old warehouses and places that could be small factories. A couple of the streetlights have gone out, others blink.

“Here we are,” my dad says. “Best place in town.”

Across the street lies a small, square wooden house with red and yellow signs on its roof. Two taxis are parked outside the entrance. I kick the snow off my shoes before we go inside.

People are sitting alone, one to each little table. They look down at their food. Two climbing elves have been stuck to the window with tape; golden glitter from them has scattered down onto the windowsill.

My dad finds a table for two in the corner. He goes up to the counter and returns with two plates of duck and gravy. One plate of roast pork. The fluorescent tubes above us are so bright they make the food shine.

“You prefer breast, don't you?” My dad swaps with a thigh on my plate.

The jukebox in the corner makes a loud ping.

“I remember a Christmas with Mum,” I say. “It was in a house. Have we ever lived in a house?”

“We have. And your mum roasted the duck and I made the gravy. She cooked a great duck.”

“Better than this one?”

“Yes. But only slightly.”

He breaks off a piece of pork crackling, pops it into his mouth.

“I'm glad you remember. You look like her. More and more with each day.”

A man at
one
of the other tables gets up and stubs out his cigarette on his plate; he drains his coffee cup and leaves. Shortly afterwards the headlights on one of the taxis come on. I follow the red rear lights with my eyes as the car drives off.

“Why is everyone sitting alone?”

My dad puts a couple of slices of roast pork on my plate and a spoonful of redcurrant jelly.

“Not everyone has someone to celebrate Christmas with,” he says.

“Like us?”

He looks up from his food.

“No, not at all like us. We've got each other. There's a very big difference.”

For dessert we have cold rice pudding with vanilla, almonds, and a warm cherry sauce. My dad drinks coffee. When we leave, I'm so full that my tummy hurts.

“You haven't asked about
your present yet,” my dad says as we walk up the stairs.

I wait in the kitchen while he goes to the basement to fetch it. He struggles to get the present through the narrow kitchen door; it's enormous and wrapped in red paper.

At first I try to unwrap it slowly, but then I can't bear it any longer and I tear off the paper. Pale wood appears.

“An easel,” my dad says. “For painting.”

I know what it is. I've seen easels in shops where my dad buys paints and colouring pencils for me without spending any money. But this one is different. Every edge has been sanded down and the wood is varnished. It looks more like a musical instrument than something you would splatter paint all over. He must have made it in the workshop, spent hours on it on the days when I didn't come along.