I’ve always been very interested in fairies. I’m not talking about little-girly pink and pretty fairies prancing about on tiptoe – I mean strange, spooky weird creatures whirling though the air on gossamer wings. I love the Victorian fairy illustrations of Richard Dadd and John Anster Fitzgerald. I’ve got beautiful Edwardian picture books of Arthur Rackham’s sepia fairies and W. Heath Robinson’s goblins.
Violet in Midnight also love fairies. She’s obsessed with the fairy books of Casper Dream. Lots of children have written to me, asking if Casper Dream is a real artist. I’m afraid I made him up, but I wish he was real, too! Violet writes him a letter every day, though she doesn’t know where to send them.
She’s a strange, dreamy girl, one of my favourites out of my imaginary girls. Casper Dream describes his violet fairy as ‘A small, shy fairy, purplish-blue, easily trampled upon.’ Certainly Violet’s older brother Will walks all over her. Will teases and torments his sister, but he can invent magical games and Violet adores him. Will is very much a changeling child, in more ways than one. Casper Dream says ‘Fairies steal away beloved babies and leave a changeling child in their place. These elfin breeds are often evil, with difficult, demanding natures and enormous appetities.’
Both Violet and Will fall in love with Jasmine, an exotic, arty new girl at Violet’s school. She is like an enchantress, described by Casper Dream as ‘A sorceress; a woman versed in magical arts; a woman whose beauty exerts irresistible influence.’
I deliberately mirrored all my main characters with the fairy folk in the Casper Dream books. Nick Sharratt drew wonderful, detailed fairy illustrations to head each chapter. I think they’re his finest art work. It would be lovely to have a big format Midnight colouring book!
Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
Introduction
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
About the Author
About the Illustrator
Also by Jacqueline Wilson
Copyright
For Trish
Dear C.D.,
Mum and Dad are going out tonight to a big dinner and dance. I’ve never been to a dance unless you count school discos and they were awful. I thought Will might come and talk to me. I knew he wouldn’t dance with me, though we used to do all sorts of crazy dance routines at home. But Will acts like he doesn’t even know me at school. A lot of the time he acts like we’re strangers at home too. It’s ever since he found out. It’s changed everything.
I wonder if you ever go to dances? I always look in the papers and the party pages of Mum’s Hello! magazine just in case I might catch a glimpse of you. I did get hopeful when I read that Midnight won the Book of the Year Award at some glitzy publishing do. I went to WHSmith’s after school for a week, thumbing through everything, hoping there might be a photo of you. I saw a woman with long blonde hair holding a copy of Midnight and a big gold trophy in the shape of a pen nib. Is she your wife? Your girlfriend? She’s very pretty. And very lucky.
With love from
Violet
XXX
‘ARE YOU SURE you’re going to be all right?’ Mum asked.
‘They’ll be fine,’ said Dad. ‘Come on, or that mini-cab chap will start creating.’
‘You’ve got the number of the hotel just in case?’ said Mum. ‘It’s by the phone. Of course, in a real emergency you’d better call the police.’
‘There wouldn’t be much point. They’ll all be at your dance,’ I said.
Dad bared his teeth in a silly smile. He’d swapped his dark tunic and trousers and white working shirt for this equally naff evening uniform of satin-striped suit and frilly shirt. He wore a clip-on bow instead of his clip-on tie. And a clip-on face, pink, jovial, jowly, always Mr Plod the Policeman.
‘Come on, Iris, quit flapping.’
‘We should have driven them over to your mum’s—’ She stopped and drew in her breath. We all knew we couldn’t go back to Grandma’s.
‘We should have got a babysitter,’ Mum said lamely.
‘We’re not babies, Mum,’ I said.
She gave me a quick kiss. She smelled weirdly sultry after spraying herself liberally with last holiday’s duty-free Giorgio. Mum is so not a Giorgio girl, though she’d tried hard tonight, wearing a Wonderbra to give herself an impressive cleavage in her black clingy dress. It was a bit too clingy. You could see the outline of her knickers as she went to the living-room door. My mum would die rather than wear a thong.
Still, who am I to talk? I wear little-girly white cotton underwear and Mum would have me wearing little white socks too if she could have her way. She treats me like I’m three, not thirteen.
‘Will? Come downstairs, we’re going now,’ Mum called.
Will is fifteen, nearly sixteen. He’s my brother. He’s not just my brother. He’s always been my best friend too – and my worst enemy.
I gave him my first smile when I was six weeks old. When I was six months I’d hold out my arms to him, straining for him to pick me up. I can’t remember, of course. These are Mum’s little stories, but she always tells the truth. Well. That’s what we thought.
I can remember way back though, when I was still in my buggy. Will would kneel in front of me and give me my own private puppet show. A fairy story. I was Goldilocks, even though my hair was black, and there were just two bears, not three. Big Growl, Will’s bear, and Little Growl, my bear.
Will wasn’t even at school yet but he made up plays that lasted for hours. No, not hours – and they can’t have been real plays. He just made Big and Little Growl dance about in front of me, one of them booming in a glorious great growl, one of them squeaking in a winsome weeny growl. I know that’s all it can have been, and yet the carpet around me sprouted forests and Big Growl and Little Growl padded about me on real paws. I reached out and patted their furry bodies and smelled the honey on their breath.
When Will started school Mum tried to play Teddies with me, a trite game of ‘This is Big Growl and this is Little Growl’. They stayed shabby toys, their glass eyes glazed, their mouths stitched. But the moment Will was back they would lift their snouts in the air and growl a welcome. It was obvious. Will was magic.
He could work black as well as white magic even when we were both very young.
‘You wait, Vi,’ he’d say, if he thought I’d pinched the biggest cake at tea time or had one turn too many on our shared swing.
The waiting was the worst. He always knew how to bide his time. He’d generally wait until we’d both been put to bed. Then he’d creep into my room.
‘Big Growl’s very angry with you,’ he’d whisper in my ear. ‘He’s going to bite your nose right off.’ Will would pinch my nose hard. ‘He’s going to rip you into ribbons with his claws.’ Will would scratch down my arms, his nails digging right in. ‘He’s going to smother you with his great big bum.’ Will would shove Big Growl onto my face, pressing harder and harder.
I got my head free and screamed once. Mum came running into my room.
‘Oh, poor Violet’s having a nightmare. I’ve given her Big Growl to cuddle,’ said Will, without missing a beat.
I could have shown Mum my scarlet nose or my scratches but I didn’t dare. She never suspected a thing.
Dad often looked at Will sideways, but then it was his job to be suspicious. And he didn’t like Will even then. We all knew that for a fact, though no one said a word about it.
We don’t talk about a lot of things.
Will barely talked to any of us now. He came home from school, fixed himself a gigantic sandwich and then sloped up the stairs to his bedroom. And stayed there. All evening. Mum used to take his supper on a tray but Dad said why should she act like a servant to her son? He expects her to act like a servant to him, but that’s a different story. So now Will waits until he knows they’re watching News at Ten and then sneaks down to the kitchen and heats himself a family-sized pizza or a whole pack of oven chips.
I’ve tried hanging out with him in the kitchen but he won’t talk to me either. He’ll grunt yes or no to any question but now he’ll never initiate any conversation.
I can’t bear it. I tried reaching out and taking his hand one time. He didn’t snatch it away. He just looked down at our clasped hands as if they didn’t belong to us. My hand went limp like a dead fish and I slithered it out of his grasp.
‘Will!’ Mum shouted now. ‘Will, please come downstairs.’ She was almost begging.
I thought he’d stay up in his room but his footsteps sounded on the stairs. Slowly, taking his time. But he came right down into the hall, through into the living room.
‘Ah, there you are,’ said Mum brightly. ‘Now, you will look after your sister, won’t you?’
Will stared at her silently. He’d changed out of his school uniform into a big grey shirt, soft black waistcoat, jeans and bare feet. He wore a string of little silver beads around his neck. His black hair stuck out oddly, as if he’d been running his hands through it. He looked even paler than usual, an almost greenish tinge to his white skin.
Half the girls at school are in love with Will. And some of the boys.
‘Oh, we’re going in for necklaces now, are we?’ said Dad.
Will didn’t blink. He went on looking at Mum.
‘They’re all the fashion for boys now,’ she said quickly. ‘Will? You’re the man of the house tonight, all right? You’re in charge.’
‘OK,’ said Will.
Mum’s hitched-up chest heaved with relief. She smiled at Will. ‘You’ll look after Violet?’
‘Sure,’ said Will. ‘Don’t you worry, we’ll be fine.’
‘That’s my boy,’ said Mum.
She used to say that all the time to Will. She hadn’t said it for ages now. Will waited until Mum and Dad were at the front door.
‘I’m not your boy,’ he said.
He spoke quietly but I know she heard. There was a long pause. Then Mum called another goodbye, sounding so forlorn.
‘Goodbye, Mum,’ I called, feeling sorry for her.
‘Goodbye, Violet. Goodbye, Will. Goodbye, darlings.’
‘For God’s sake, you’re starting to sound like the Walton family,’ said Dad. ‘Bye kids. Get to bed at a reasonable time. No larking about and staying up till midnight. We won’t be back till very late. The dance doesn’t end till one and then I expect there’ll be a bit of faffing about chatting.’
‘Yeah, you and your mates cracking open yet another bottle or two of whisky,’ Will said softly.
They were out of the door by this time. Mum cried one more goodbye like some sad calling bird with only one song. Then the front door slammed shut.
We were on our own. I looked at Will. He looked at me, his deep-green eyes very bright. I thought he’d slope straight past me up to his room but he stayed where he was, staring at me. I tried to stare back but my eyes swivelled first. I looked foolishly round our boring beige living room and then looked back. Will was still staring.
‘What?’ I said, my heart thudding.
‘I’m just subjugating you to my will,’ he said.
‘Shut up!’ I said, giggling.
‘No, you shut up, little Violet. I’m in charge, remember?’ Will walked over to the brown corduroy sofa. Mum’s side was neat, with her Maeve Binchy book and the Radio Times and several magazines carefully stacked beside her cushion. Dad’s side was shiny, the seat dented with the weight of his fat bum. Will’s lip curled.
‘I’m so glad he’s not my dad,’ he said.
‘Will, I’m so sorry. All that stuff Grandma said. She’s mad. And stupid. How could Mum and Dad have kept it from you? They’re mad too.’
‘You don’t get it, do you? It’s wonderful. The biggest kick ever. I’m not part of this crappy family.’
‘Yes you are. You’re still my brother.’
‘No I’m not, dozy.’ He took hold of my wrist, twisting it to see the veins. He held his own wrist up too. His veins were much nearer the surface, delicate and very blue. ‘Different blood.’
‘Blue blood.’
‘Bad blood.’
‘I hate Grandma.’
‘I love the daft old bag for turning my life around. I’ll just hang out here till I’m eighteen and then I’m off.’
‘To trace your real mother?’
‘Well, she doesn’t sound a bundle of laughs, does she? Some sad junkie who gave up her own kid? No thanks. I don’t want any more parents. I’ll be fine just by myself.’
‘You won’t be by yourself,’ I said. ‘Because I’ll follow you and stick to you like glue.’
Will looked at me and then laughed. ‘Right, little Miss Pritt. OK, let’s eat.’
‘Together?’
‘Well, you can take yours down the road and round the corner but I’m sitting right here.’ Will sat in Mum’s chair, one leg straddling an arm.
‘Mum’s taken some of her fish pie thing out the freezer. And there’s veg and stuff. I’ll go and fix it, shall I?’
‘We don’t want that muck. We’ll have pizza,’ said Will.
‘I don’t think there’s any left.’
‘Take out!’ He picked up the phone and ordered a giant Pizza Palace special with all the toppings, two portions of garlic bread, two large Cokes and a big carton of ice cream, chocolate, strawberry and vanilla.
I stared at him. I knew he didn’t have any cash at all. Dad hadn’t given him any pocket money for weeks and he’d confiscated his building society book. I tried to calculate how much I had in my purse. Less than a fiver. I had a pound or so in loose change rattling round in my school bag, but that was all.
‘Credit card number? Sure,’ said Will, and he reeled off a number and an expiry date. He put the phone down, grinning. ‘Supper in twenty minutes, Violet.’
‘Did you just make the numbers up?’
‘No, they’re Dad’s. He left his wallet lying on the kitchen table. It was stuffed with twenty-pound notes, but knowing him, he’d have them all counted – and probably coated with PC Plod secret marking ink too. Nicking his credit card was too obvious. Memorizing the number was a doddle.’
‘But he’ll find out later when he gets his statement.’
‘In a month or more. Like who cares about the future? Let’s live for now, Violet.’
So we shared the giant pizza and ate the garlic bread and drank the Cokes and spooned up every scrap of ice cream.
‘You can have all the strawberry,’ said Will, knowing it’s my favourite.
It was wonderful being us again. I lay back on the sofa, totally full, blissfully happy.
‘My tummy!’ I said, rubbing it. ‘It feels like it’s going to burst.’
‘You look like Muffy,’ said Will.
She’d been his pet chinchilla. He’d had her for five years and loved her more than anyone. He’d never cuddle any of us, not even Mum or me, but he’d sit for hours with Muffy curled on his lap. Will rarely confined her to her cage. She had a habit of burrowing beneath a cushion or under the bed so you could never fling yourself down anywhere in case you squashed her. Will insisted she was fully house-trained but Muffy still had many accidents. I tried not to make a fuss when I sat on her small hard droppings.
I think Will was probably devastated when she died but we had started to keep to our own bedrooms and I had no way of telling. Mum and Dad had told us that we had to keep apart.
‘Will’s getting a big boy now. You don’t want to go running into his bedroom all the time,’ said Mum.
‘Yes I do!’
‘Well, it’s not sensible. He needs his privacy. And you need yours. Do you understand?’
They couldn’t have really stopped us, but Will did start to want time by himself. He frequently yelled at me to get lost when I trailed after him. I felt so lonely without him.
‘Will, why don’t you get another chinchilla? Or some other kind of pet?’
‘I don’t want anyone else, thanks.’
‘So have you still got Muffy’s cage in your room?’
‘Yep.’
‘It must look a bit weird, empty.’
‘You’re the one with the weird bedroom. All those fairies flitting about. Have you still got them all hanging down from the ceiling?’
‘Of course I’ve still got them,’ I said.
‘There’s the Crow Fairy, the Dragonfly, the Rose – what else?’
‘You can’t have forgotten them! You used to play with them too! Come on, I’ll remind you.’ I pulled at Will’s arm, and he followed me upstairs to my bedroom.
He walked in and smiled. ‘Oh yeah,’ he said, looking up at the fourteen fairies suspended from the ceiling. He reached up and gently flicked the Moonbeam Fairy so that she wavered, feathery wings wafting as if she was really flying.
She was my first successful fairy. I’d tried copying Casper Dream’s illustration right from when I got my first fairy book, but my funny little felt creations looked nothing like his beautiful artwork. They were too fat and lumpy, with button eyes and wool hair.
Then Miss Lang, the old lady who lived next door, taught me how to sew properly, showing me all the different stitches. She gave me a special sewing kit for Christmas, a little rag doll with a matching outfit of clothes. I wasn’t very interested in making a rag doll but I used the basic pattern to fashion my own fairy. I pored over the picture of the Moonbeam Fairy in my book, doing my best to copy her properly.
I made her out of white silk, though it was very slippery to work with, and I sewed little pearls all round the hem of her dress. I gave her cream feathery wings and long white curly cotton hair way past her knees. She didn’t look exactly like the Casper Dream illustration but she was much better than her lumpy felt fairy sisters.
Will liked my Moonbeam Fairy – and the Rose and the Bluebell and the Autumn Leaf fairy. He particularly liked the Crow Fairy. She crouched on the back of a black crow. I hoped it wasn’t a real stuffed crow. I’d found it on an old hat in a junk shop. It seemed a simple replica, but there was something frighteningly real about its sharp orange beak and beady black eyes. I was never too sure about the Crow Fairy, especially when Will made her sweep through the air, casting evil spells.
He used to play all sorts of magical games with me and my fairies until Dad caught us at it.
‘A lad of your age playing with fairies?’ said Dad, his lip curling.
Will hadn’t gone near them since. But now he reached up and touched them all, making them dance up and down on their elastic threads. He pulled the Crow Fairy by her tiny black toes so that she and her crow bounced up and down as if they were bungee jumping.
‘Don’t, Will.’
He took no notice. He pulled the other fairies in quick succession as if he was bell-ringing. Their wings flapped dementedly as the elastic pinged.
‘Stop it!’ I said, pushing him.
I pushed harder than I meant to. He lost his balance. He tripped, still hanging onto the Crow Fairy. Her elastic snapped and she flew across the room and landed in the corner, slipping right off her crow, breaking one of her feathery wings.
‘Now look what you’ve done!’ I said, kneeling down and examining her. ‘Oh no, you’ve ripped her dress, look, and I haven’t got any more black lace.’
‘It was your fault, shoving me like that, you stupid girl,’ said Will, but he kneeled down beside me. He cradled the Crow Fairy and her bird in his hands. Her flimsy net dress had caught on the crow’s sharp beak and had ripped beyond repair. Will poked his finger through the hole.
‘Poor little ruined Crow Fairy,’ he said. He flew the crow through the air, aiming it straight at me. ‘Vicious beast. Watch out, Vi, it’ll peck you to death.’
Will saw I wasn’t in the mood for fooling around. He stopped larking, pulled a feather out of the crow’s wing and stuck it into the Crow Fairy’s soft back.
‘There. She can fly again now. And you can make her a new dress, can’t you? Haven’t you got anything black? Look, I’ve got black socks, you can have them.’
‘You don’t put fairies in black wool. She’ll look like she’s in winter woollies, little cardie and mittens and bobble hat. It wouldn’t work.’
‘I know! My black velvet waistcoat,’ said Will.
It was another junk shop find, a hippy-type waistcoat straight from the seventies, but it somehow looked amazingly cool on Will. It was his all-time favourite garment.
‘We can’t use your special waistcoat!’
‘Sure we can,’ said Will, taking it off. He thrust it at me. ‘There. Get snipping.’
‘I can’t spoil your waistcoat.’
Will snatched the scissors out of my sewing box and cut right up the back of the waistcoat. ‘There. I’ve spoilt it for you. Now get sewing. Have you got any black sequins? Black ribbon?’
I started cutting out a tiny black dress for the Crow Fairy. Will sat cross-legged beside me, watching. He dug in my sewing basket and found another pair of scissors. He started cutting something out himself from the ruined waistcoat.
‘Are you going to sew, Will?’
‘Boys don’t sew,’ he said, imitating Dad’s voice so accurately I had to check his lips.
He went on cutting out a long soft strand of velvet with an hour-glass shape in the middle.
‘What’s that you’re making? It won’t fit her.’
‘It’s not for your little Crow Fairy. This is for you,’ said Will.
He tied the shaped part over my eyes and knotted it behind my head. ‘You too shall go to the masked ball, Cinderella,’ he said.
‘What are you now, a fairy godmother?’ I said, pretending we were still larking about, though my heart was pounding.
I knew what was coming now.
Dear C.D.,
Are you ever frightened?
Did you ever play games when you were young – really scary games?
There’s a page in your Midnight book that really haunts me. At first glance it looks as if it’s a completely black illustration, glossy and opaque. But then you see these eyes gleaming in the dark, amber and orange and green, and if you look very carefully you can see these strange twisted shapes. They could just be gnarled old trees – or they could be creatures waiting to get you.
I can’t look at that page without my heart thudding.
With love from
Violet
XXX
WILL AND I