He turned away from Lana and, standing on his tiptoes again, he hoisted the big red fairytale book onto the highest shelf he could reach. ‘There, out of harm’s way, that’s better.’ And, without another word, he disappeared out of the aisle and round the corner.
Lana waited for a moment, then, after a quick look around, she stretched up, pulled the red book down from the shelf and then hurried off to find her mother. If the little old man was so determined to keep the fairytales from her then they must be good.
As soon as Lana was gone, the man peered back round the corner, a tiny smile on his face.
‘If you want a child to read something…’ he whispered to himself. ‘Tell her it’s forbidden.’
* * *
‘What on Earth have you got there?’ asked her mother, at the checkout. There was no one at the till, but she had piled everything from her trolley high on the conveyor belt anyway.
‘It’s a book of fairytales,’ said Lana, proudly. ‘I’d like it as my treat, please.’
‘Oh,’ said Lana’s mother, and sneezed six times in quick succession. ‘Dust,’ she croaked, and sneezed another eleven times. ‘Are you sure this is for sale? It looks very old.’
‘Ummm…’ began Lana.
‘Can I help you?’ said a familiar voice, and Lana’s mother jumped. There, sitting by the till, was the little old man. Except now he had a dark brown moustache and was wearing a white collared shirt with a maroon waistcoat, a maroon-and-gold necktie and a gold pillbox hat.
‘Hello,’ said Lana’s mother. ‘My daughter would like this book, but there’s no price on it.’
‘Oh, would she?’ he asked, fixing Lana with a stare. ‘How old is she?’
‘Nine,’ announced Lana.
‘A young nine, or an old nine?’
‘I’m sorry?’ asked Lana’s mother. ‘What difference does that make?’
‘These fairytales are not… suitable for a young nine. An old nine, maybe.’
‘I see,’ said Lana’s mother, who really didn’t like being told what she could or could not do by anyone, let alone strangers. She opened the book and skimmed the contents page. ‘Oh yes,’ she said, smiling. ‘I used to love these stories when I was little. We’ll take them, please.’
‘As you wish, madam,’ said the little old man. ‘But don’t say I didn’t warn you. That’ll be seventeen pence.’
Lana’s mother looked at him blankly.
‘But with your introductory discount,’ he said, with a breezy smile, ‘I can do it for eleven.’
Once Lana and her mother had left the supermarket, the little old man grinned to himself once more. ‘And if you want an adult to buy something,’ he muttered, ‘make it cheap.’
Chapter Three
‘Will you read to me?’ Lana asked that evening, as her mother was tucking her into bed. ‘From my new book of fairytales?’ ‘Of course,’ said her mother, after she finished sneezing. ‘Let’s take a look at what we have… There’s Hansel and Gretel. That’s about a little boy and a little girl who get lost in the forest and find a house made of sweets.’
‘That’s so lucky!’ said Lana. ‘I’d love to find a house like that!’
‘Ah, well, that’s what Hansel and Gretel thought, only it was a trap.’
‘A trap?’ Lana’s eyes widened.
‘The house belongs to a witch, and when the children try to eat the sweets she captures them and they discover to their horror that, erm…’ Lana’s mother’s voice trailed away.
‘That what?’ asked Lana.
‘That she wants to eat them,’ replied her mother briskly. ‘It’s a little bit of a scary story, so maybe let’s not read Hansel and Gretel. How about this one, Rumpelstiltskin?’
‘Rumpel-what?’ asked Lana.
‘Rumpelstiltskin. Here, there’s a picture of him.’
Lana’s mother turned the book round so Lana could take a look. There on the page was an old-fashioned picture of a familiar figure.
‘That’s the man from the supermarket!’
Lana’s mother smiled. ‘Hmmm, I suppose it does look a bit like him, doesn’t it?’
‘It’s not like him,’ pressed Lana. ‘It is him.’
‘Of course, dear,’ said her mother dismissively. ‘Anyway, here he is, spinning straw into gold.’
‘Who’s the girl?’ asked Lana.
‘The miller’s daughter,’ said her mother. ‘From what I remember of the story, her father told the king that she could spin straw into gold, which was a lie. He was just showing off. So, the king locks the miller’s daughter in a room full of straw and says if she hasn’t spun it all into gold by the morning, then he’ll, erm…’ her mother’s voice trailed away again.
‘What will he do?’ asked Lana.
‘Er… kill her,’ said her mother.
‘Kill her!’
‘Yes.’ Her mother was beginning to wonder if the man at the till had been right, and the stories weren’t suitable for Lana after all. ‘Look, maybe we should find a different book to read tonight? Something a bit nicer?’
‘But what happened to the miller’s daughter?’ asked Lana.
‘Well,’ said her mother reluctantly, ‘after the king has gone, Rumpelstiltskin appears and offers to spin all the straw into gold for the girl, if she gives him her necklace. So, she agrees, and he spins all the straw into gold. But the next morning the king is so impressed to see all the gold that, instead of letting the girl go, he locks her in a bigger room, with even more straw in it, and tells her to do it again.’
‘Does the little old man come back?’
‘Yes, he does, and he helps again, this time in return for a… ring. Yes, that’s right, a ring.’
‘And then does the king let her go?’
‘Um, no actually,’ her mother started to look a bit uncomfortable again. ‘He locks her in an even bigger room, with an absolutely massive amount of straw, and tells her to do it again. This time she has nothing to give the little old man, so he asks for her… first born child in return,’ said her mother, flicking through the pages. ‘This isn’t the nicest of stories either. Are you sure you don’t want another book?’
‘No,’ said Lana. ‘These all sound much more exciting than the things we usually read. What about this story?’ asked Lana, pointing at a picture of a beautiful girl, asleep on a bed, with roses growing all around her.
‘That’s Sleeping Beauty,’ said her mother. ‘You must know that one?’
Lana shook her head, because she didn’t.
‘That was one of my favourites when I was little. I don’t think it’s scary… not that I can remember, anyway.’
‘It sounds lovely! Please can we read it?’ asked Lana.
‘All right,’ said her mother. ‘I suppose we can read a little and see if it’s suitable.’