A HELPFUL FAIRY

Now where might it be more comfortable for a hungry and cold elderly lady than 2023 England?

A HELPFUL FAIRY

Daisy Fairweather was hungry and she was cold and, yes, she was old as well. At least, she was old if seventy-nine was old, a whole year dragging her to the number eighty which she always believed would be it, if she made it that far, that was. But in recent months she’d been unconsciously modifying that destination. Things in her world were so very wrong she couldn’t fully comprehend what was going on. But the end reslut was she had no pennies in her purse and could hardly even afford to pay the rent, and if she didn’t pay that she’d be out on the streets with all the other homeless urchins.

Today, like many other days, she was shivering in a bus shelter clutching her bus pass in her hands, and waiting for a bus that wasn’t going to come because the crews of the local buses were all on strike, but that piece of news had passed her by like most did these days.

She was feeling the incisors of the wintry weather biting into her like it did every day now that it was December, and she shivered, nearly dropping that precious bus pass.

“Cold today, dearie,” isn’t it said a quiet and, to her, rather young voice at her elbow where nobody usually liked to stand. And the speaker, the newcomer, was refreshingly young, though it wasn’t her youth that attracted Daisy’s attention rather than her wings.

“I don’t think I know you, dear,” she found herself saying even though the words were totally ridiculous seeing that she didn’t know a single human being who sported wings, and certainly not diaphanous ones like those adorning this beautiful young woman..

“Oh, you don’t, Daisy, but as you can tell I know you,” smiled the… fairy. Dared she think the woman was a fairy? Or were they plastic wings stuck on for some kind of joke? Young people did things like that, didn’t they, these days? Joked a lot… like she had, once, a long, long time ago before the number eighty had zoomed remorselessly into her view, defining the full stop that she believed would terminate her life.

She looked a little closer at the winged woman, trying to recall if she’d ever seen her before, a silly thing to do because she knew she hadn’t. She, the fairy that is, was dressed in a delicate pale pink mini-outfit that barely covered any of her, had gorgeous long hair (hers had been gorgerous and long once, but those days had disappeared into the fog that was her history) and was generaly what she could only call beautiful. But she had no recollection of meeting her before or why so radiant a creature was able to make so free with her name. So she resorted to the obvious.

“It’s darned cold,” she said, “can’t you feel the chill eatimg ito your pretty flesh?”

“Of course not, dear! Don’t you remember? Going to school with your books in a bag and wondering how come an old lady might be shivering in a bus shelter on such a fine day?”

That hit something in her memory, but what it as she couldn’t be certain. But there was certainly a flickering uncertainty somewhere in the foggy confines of her head.

“The thing is,” she began, then paused when the fairy smiled and said “don’t say there’s no such thing as fairies and you don’t believe in them, because if you do one of us will drop down dead, and there aren’t so many of us left and it’s highly possible that the one to collapse lifeless in front of you could be me!”

That needed some kind of response, but all she could muster was “I’m so sorry…” and left it at that.

“I know you are dear,” sighed the fairy who was so far nameless, so she put that right before continuing what might be a beautiful conversation, “I wonder if you can remember me? Tinkerbel, they call me.”

“I can remember the name,” gasped Daisy, and then, shaking her head, “but I’m almost eighty and a lot of names have come and gone over the years…”

“Of course, dear,” murmured Tinkerbel, “There isn’t going to be a bus, you know, they’re all out on strike because they need more money every week for what they do, or their families will starve, and that wouldnlt be right, would it?”

“I can understand that,” sighed Daisy, “My tummy’s rumbling loud enough to waken the dead, and if I can’t buy something to put into it I might drop down dead, and not yet eighty.”

“You poor soul,” sympathised Tinkerbel. “so you’re not only cold but hungry as well?”

“They’ve put the gas up, and the electric,” sighed Daisy, “and I can’t keep up with it.”

“I know,” sighed the fairy, “it’s a few men and the odd woman who want more than they deserve, you know, the greedy sort who really ought to be behind strong iron bars, but being cold hearted they give a lot of money to themselves, making you pay more to them if you want to keep warm.”

“It’s all beyond me,” Daisy muttered, despairingly.

“So you’re cold all the time, and hungry?” asked Tinkerbel, “what a to do! I tell you what: I’ll take you somewhere that might help you if you like. I mean, I don’t want to be pushy, but you so look as if you need help..

“It’s so cold,” muttered Daisy.

“Then I know just the place to take you, where you can be given food and be warm. I’ve taken a few there, men and women who are in need. You’ll be okay at Saint Jissop’s

“What’s Saint Jissop’s” asked Daisy.

“It’s a place that isn’t there any more, so we have to take a trip back to another year, and using magic I can do that!” smiled Tinkerbel, “but they’ll be kind and good to you, mark my words. Saint Jissop’s is a workhouse, and you’re taking a trip with me to when Queen Victoria was on the throne…”

© Peter Rogerson 29.08.23

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