‘Well…alright…’ I tried to force my mind away from ten glasses of pink lemonade sloshing away in my insides.
‘Phredde…what did Mrs Rabbit mean about taking care and things being dangerous?’
‘Oh, nothing,’ said Phredde.
‘But she must have…’
‘She was just fussing about,’ said Phredde. ‘You know what rabbits are like.’
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Rabbits live in cages like guinea pigs and eat lettuce leaves. They don’t cook four-layer cream cakes and give you pink lemonade.’
‘Well, we’re in Phaeryland now,’ said Phredde vaguely. ‘I wonder if Bruce is here yet?’
It sounded like she was changing the subject to me, but when Phredde doesn’t want to talk she won’t, so I just trotted along beside her as the forest of lollipop trees grew darker and darker.
In fact, it was growing really dark, despite the moon bobbing up behind us. If it hadn’t been for the yellow road sort of glowing under our feet we’d never have been able to follow it.
‘I wish we’d brought a torch,’ I said nervously.
‘We should be nearly there,’ said Phredde. She sounded a bit worried too. ‘Maybe we shouldn’t have stayed so long at Mrs Rabbit’s.’
‘I shouldn’t have had that sixth piece of cake,’ I agreed. ‘It’s ’cause there weren’t any windows. I couldn’t see how late it was getting.’ I glanced at my
watch again. ‘Mum’ll be furious if we’re late for dinner on our first night,’ I added. ‘You know how mums stress about things like that.’
‘Yeah,’ said Phredde. She sounded even more nervous than me, which was really odd, because it was okay for me to feel a bit scared—after all, this was strange country for me. But Phredde knew Phaeryland really well, and after all, as she said, there’s nothing to be scared of in Phaeryland. Except for dragons, and kidnapping butterflies…
‘Hey, look!’ I cried, relieved. ‘There are some lights! That must be the guesthouse!’
Phredde peered into the blackness. ‘It doesn’t look like the guesthouse to me. It’s the wrong shape…’
‘Welcome!’ cried a cheery old voice in the darkness.
‘Er, hi,’ I said. ‘Is this the Sweet Pea Guesthouse?’
‘No, dearie, this is my delicious gingerbread cottage!’ said the cheery old voice. ‘Why don’t you come in and have a nibble?’
‘No, thanks,’ I said politely. ‘I’m full of cream cake and lamingtons and pink lemonade and carrots.’
‘Carrots?’ asked the voice. It sounded a bit puzzled.
‘It was at a rabbit’s. But thank you all the same. Er…you don’t have a bathroom, do you?’
‘A bathroom? But of course…’ I could see a sweet, wrinkly smile now, and a hint of white hair in the darkness. ‘Would you like to use my bathroom?’
I suddenly realised I’d have to be a bit more specific. ‘I mean a…a…’ I frantically tried to think of the polite word for it, ‘a lavatory!’
‘Well, no, dear.’ The sweet little old voice sounded a bit puzzled now. ‘I don’t think I have one of those. Is it a type of biscuit?’
‘No. It’s a…a…Never mind,’ I said quickly.
‘But I do have lots of gingerbread! A whole house of gingerbread! Won’t you come and taste it?’
‘No thanks,’ I said. ‘We really have to be getting back.’
‘But it’s such delicious gingerbread, dearie!’ said the voice, a bit frantic now. ‘Such yummy, yummy gingerbread…’ The voice faded behind us as we hurried on.
‘You know,’ said Phredde thoughtfully, ‘I don’t remember a gingerbread cottage on this road.’
‘Me either,’ I said. ‘We must have been looking the other way. Anyway, I don’t like ginger much. Hey, look, there’s the guesthouse!’
It really was the guesthouse this time, all floodlit (pink) with a cheery elf orchestra perched on giant mushrooms all around the garden sawing away at this really old-fashioned music. (It sounded rather nice, actually, but if you say I said that to Phredde or Bruce I’ll spit.)
So we took off our joggers and waded through the stream and put them on again (even though my feet were still wet) and padded up the stairs into the guesthouse.
We were home.
Dinner was…interesting.
First of all, Bruce had arrived. Meals with Bruce are always interesting, ever since Bruce decided he’d rather be a frog than a phaery prince. This means that he eats mosquitoes and flies and little buzzing things, instead of normal food like pizza and spaghetti, which would be okay if he ate his mozzies with a knife and fork like everyone else. But Bruce eats frog fashion—he darts his long tongue out and goes
glop
—which believe me doesn’t really give you an appetite for roast gryphon, which was on the menu at the Sweet Pea Guesthouse that night.
So there we were at this long table—Phredde and I back in our ball dresses and tiaras, and Mum and Phredde’s mum and Bruce’s mum all in lace and
diamonds too, and the dads in their tights and feathers trying not to look embarrassed.
And
Bruce was the same size as me now he was in Phaeryland (he was the same size as Phredde back home), all brown and damp and pulsating, but with a velvet hat with a feather in it on top of his froggy head, because even Bruce has to dress for dinner in Phaeryland.
And down the other end of the table were assorted phaeries and gnomes—oh, and a handsome prince (a real one, not one that had been turned into a frog) and…and…
‘Hey, Dad,’ I whispered, ‘what are those things?’
‘I think they’re the three little pigs,’ Dad whispered back. ‘Like in the story book.’
‘But they’re not little at all!’ I protested. ‘They’re great fat porkers!’
In fact they were the biggest, fattest hogs I’d ever seen, and they were sitting right at the table with us. I mean, I’m not prejudiced or anything—some of my best friends are phaeries, and I don’t even mind werewolves as long as they don’t lift their leg on my bedroom door like one of Mark’s so-called best friends did last…but that’s another story.
But even if these pigs were wearing tight checked trousers and even tighter velvet shirts they were still pigs. I mean, I’d never eaten at a table with pigs before, not unless they’d been turned into sausages first.
One of the great fat pigs reached over for a whole roast gryphon leg (I reckon a gryphon must be about the size of an emu), and poured a litre or two of gravy over it. The other two were helping themselves to the roast potatoes—again—and the corn on the cob and the roast pumpkin and the beans and the gravy…
‘I suppose the three little pigs grew up,’ said Dad vaguely.
‘You do anything interesting this afternoon?’ Bruce asked.
‘Nah,’ I said, watching the pigs shovel peas and gravy and coleslaw into their mouths. ‘Just met a rabbit.’ I didn’t mention sitting in the lollipop tree because we thought we’d seen a dragon. ‘How about you?’
‘Nothing much,’ said Bruce.
‘I don’t suppose there is much to do in Phaeryland,’ I sighed. ‘It’s all so safe, isn’t it? Nothing really exciting can happen in Phaeryland?’
Bruce looked at me a bit oddly. ‘Er…no. That’s right,’ he said.
Gnomes in cute red suits were removing the roast gryphon and vegies now, and replacing them with steamed date pudding and ice cream. I took a small slice and watched the three little pigs take a whole pudding each and cover it with cream and ice cream and custard and chopped bananas and hundreds and thousands.
‘You’re hardly eating anything!’ said Mum from down the table.
‘I’m not very hungry,’ I admitted. ‘We had this great big afternoon tea at Mrs Rabbit’s…’
‘You let a strange rabbit give you afternoon tea…’ began Mum. Then she gave a little laugh. ‘But I’m forgetting. This is Phaeryland! Nothing bad can ever happen in Phaeryland!’
Phredde’s mum and dad exchanged looks with Bruce’s mum and dad across the table, just as the three ‘little’ pigs called for another vat of ice cream and six more date puddings.
Then it was time for bed…
‘Phredde?’
‘Yeff,’ said Phredde, brushing her teeth next to the tinkling brook in the corner of our bedroom.
‘You know how you said no one needs a toilet in Phaeryland?’
‘Yeff,’ said Phredde over her toothbrush.
‘Well, I do.’
‘Bub doo cabn’t,’ said Phredde, her mouth still full of toothpaste.
‘Well I do! I
really
do! Maybe phaeries don’t, but girls do!’
‘Oh,’ said Phredde. She rinsed her mouth out (the foam floated away down a hole in the bedroom wall) and thought about it.
‘Can’t you hold on till tomorrow, and then go out in the forest?’
‘No,’ I said.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes,’ I said, uncrossing my legs then crossing them again.
‘Oh,’ said Phredde. Then she said, ‘How about we ring the manager and see if he can suggest anything?’
‘You ring,’ I told her. ‘I’m…er…occupied.’
Phredde pulled the golden rope by the bedroom door and in about two minutes—two really long minutes—I heard a pitter patter in the corridor outside, and someone knocked on the door.
‘Come in!’ said Phredde.
This red-cheeked, round gnome face peered round the door. ‘Can I help you, madam?’ he enquired.
‘Yeah,’ said Phredde. ‘My friend here needs a…a…’ she bent down and whispered discreetly, ‘a toilet!’
The tiny face looked puzzled. ‘A what?’
‘A toilet!’ said Phredde more loudly.
‘You don’t have to shout it all over the place!’ I hissed.
‘Well, you’re the one who…’ began Phredde.
The gnome coughed politely. ‘I’m afraid the Sweet Pea Guesthouse doesn’t…er…have such a facility.’
‘Oh, great!’ I said.
‘But if I may suggest…’ The face disappeared, then reappeared ten seconds later with this giant sort of fruit bowl in his hand. He passed it in to Phredde.
‘What’s that?’ I demanded.
‘It’s a chamber pot,’ said the gnome helpfully. ‘When madam has used it perhaps madam will place it under her bed in case she…er…needs to use it again in the morning. Then while you are having breakfast the…ah…staff will…er…attend to it.’
I gazed at the chamber pot dubiously. ‘Er…thanks,’ I said.
‘It is my pleasure,’ said the gnome. ‘Anything else madam requires, she has only to ask.’
What madam really wanted was an en suite bathroom, with at least one piece of furniture that flushed. But it looked like the chamber pot was all I was going to get.
‘Turn your back, Phredde,’ I said, as the door shut behind the manager.
‘Why?’ demanded Phredde.
‘Because madam is going to use the chamber pot,’ I said. ‘And madam would like a bit of privacy.’
‘Alright,’ said Phredde agreeably.
Well, anyway, madam did use the chamber pot, then madam shoved it right under madam’s bed so madam didn’t get her foot stuck in it when she got out of bed next morning, then madam got undressed and into her pyjamas, which someone had placed under her pillow.
Madam was glad that pyjamas were much the same in Phaeryland, except these had little lambs on them instead of my red-back spider ones.
‘Night, Phredde,’ I said.
‘Night, Pru,’ said Phredde from the other bed, just as the lights helpfully turned themselves off.
I shut my eyes.
Ten minutes later I opened them again.
I suppose it’s hard to sleep the first night in any strange bed, even if that bed is in a really safe,
nice
place like Phaeryland. It was a comfortable bed and all that, but long after Phredde had drifted off I lay punching my pillow and listening to the noises outside.
The elf orchestra was silent now. All I could hear was the distant
plop, plop, plop
of lollipops falling off the trees, which was sort of peaceful as long as you didn’t think about visits to the dentist later.
In fact my eyelids had just slipped shut when suddenly this great noise boomed outside the window.
‘Little pigs, little pigs, let me come in!’
I sat up in bed. ‘What the fruitcakes is going on?!’ (Like I said, you can’t say any rude words in Phaeryland.)
‘What’s happening?’ demanded Phredde sleepily from the other bed.
‘Dunno,’ I said. ‘It sounded like…’ Then the noise came again.
‘Little pigs, little pigs, let me come in!’
‘It’s the big bad wolf!’ I cried. ‘You know, from the fairy story!’
Phredde shook her head. Phaeries never read fairy stories. ‘Never heard of him,’ she said.
‘Well, he blows down the first two pigs’ houses, then the third pig in the brick house traps him when he comes down the fireplace and boils him in the cooking pot.’
Phredde stared at me in the darkness. ‘But that’s horrible!’
‘Well, I didn’t write the story!’ I said.
‘How could they do such a thing to a poor little wolf!’ demanded Phredde.
‘Well…’ To be honest I’d never really thought of it that way before. Actually it was pretty disgusting when you came to think of it, boiling someone alive, fur and all.
‘Wolves are an endangered species!’ exclaimed Phredde indignantly. We’d done all about endangered species like hairy-nosed wombats last term.
‘Well, the wolf
was
trying to eat the little pigs,’ I pointed out.
Phredde snorted. ‘If he tries to eat those pigs he’s going to have a cholesterol problem. Anyway, you eat pork and bacon.’
‘Yeah, but not if it wears shirts and trousers! Oh, alright,’ I sighed. ‘Let’s see if we can just get him to go away again.’
I leant out the window, just as the big bad wolf began to bellow again. ‘Little pigs, little pigs, let me come in!’
‘Look, mate,’ I yelled, ‘if you go on like this the pigs are just going to boil you in the cooking pot, without even taking your fur coat off, and anyway, some people are trying to sleep in here!’
The wolf gazed up at me, all long nose and furry tail in the moonlight. He looked just like the illustration in our endangered species textbook, except he was standing on his hind legs. Oh, and his checked trousers and sports shirt were a bit different too.
‘Um, little pigs, little pigs…’ he began.
I sighed. Just my luck to get a really dumb, big bad wolf.
‘Helllooo? Look, buster,’ I said. ‘I am
not
a little pig. See? No chubby cheeks! No little squiggly tail! No porky chops with apple sauce! The real little pigs are probably fast asleep on the other side of the guesthouse, and besides, they’re great big hogs and you wouldn’t want to eat them anyway. Too much fat. You’d have a heart attack—you know, blocked arteries and all that! Why don’t you go and fix yourself a nice salad sandwich? You know, yummy lettuce and tomato. It’s much better for you.’
The wolf stared at me. ‘Lettuce and tomato?’ he growled, sort of confused.
‘Yeah. You know—all green and red? Or how about you call up for a takeaway sausage and pineapple pizza?’
The wolf shook his head in confusion. ‘Little pigs, little pigs…’ he began again.
There was nothing else for it. I reached under my
bed and pulled out the chamber pot. ‘A final warning, wolf!’ I called. ‘Get lost!’
The wolf ignored me.
‘You’ll be soooorryy!’ I sang.
‘Little pigs, litt…’
So I lifted up the chamber pot and…
Well, you don’t really want to know what happened next. Let’s just say that three minutes later the wolf was yelping his way back down the yellow brick road, and he wasn’t going to feel like eating
anything
for quite a long time (he’d had his mouth open mid ‘little pig’ just at the critical moment).
And Phredde and I were back in bed and the chamber pot was back where it should be, and I reflected happily that now it would be quite empty when madam wanted to use it in the morning.
Then I did go to sleep.