Faerie Queene Wannabe Woman

“‘Ere, where are you taking me, woman?”

Wikipedia defines them as, “a type of mythological being or legendary creature, a form of spirit, often described as metaphysical, supernatural or preternatural.” She knows of no other descriptions.

“Just come with me, Ted.”

Blood-red lipstick is something not many women can make work, says her webcam (and I agree); she now applies it with a pout that even two years ago would have been beyond her. Her technique for coring new notches in her big brown belt is second to none. Her peroxide-streaked hair looks wild and alluring when not matted by grease. But the layer of white powder has been redundant for a long time: patchy from low webcam resolution (her fear of bad luck having long since banished mirrors); her skin pale enough already. And this self-taught education in making the most of such modest means clearly hasn’t reached graduation: the maroon leather jacket utterly betrays her lack of confidence in the once-flattering (now-rotting) white summer dress, and the knee-high high-heel leather boots aren’t exactly in keeping with the aesthetic of her suburban surroundings. But this is the nature of routine.

“No, let me stay here!”

One of the funny things that binds us all together – separates us from the beasts – is how, whatever our living space, one surface in particular stands as a record of our life there. Some are as bland as a semen- and footprint-stained bedroom floor, or a hallway wall with patches of original wallpaper shade, where the art used to go. But Faye can’t let herself be seen to be so dull: her mural is her kitchen lino.

“Come on, I’ll look after you.”

Field Lane is as radical as the name suggests. One row of greying, pebbledash bungalows faces another, across a road barely wide enough for two cars. The hedges are walls, to keep out the world and the sun. The whole road is cluttered with over-sized, broken-down suburbanalities: the aforementioned hedges, the recycling bins, the hanging baskets, the parking. It has been said that no road is slower to drive along than Field Lane. This may be as much to do with the pure pensioner population as it is the cars. Still, in a land of gnomes and human-dressed animal statuettes, Faye’s front garden of little winged women is very much in vogue with her location. Though on reflection, her gate – a wooden shambles, a rejection of the street’s iron rule – is perhaps not.

“But why are we going into your place?”

The root of the linguistic connection between ‘moth’ and ‘mother’ is one of the English language’s most logical. Faye, as ever, serves as a prime example of this: though I know nothing of the nature of the inner tangle between child-yearning and ‘child? urgh!’-ning, it is at least clear that it resembles the moth’s ecstatic desire for the flame, except that where moths reel away once it feels the deadliness, mothers go further and embrace the deadliness, have the child (as such, are moth-er, more moth than moths). Faye’s struggle is noble though, I believe, because she knows that she would rear her children only to kidnap them. That she would rear them because she has to kidnap them. Today is her substitute; her contraception. Her noble way around the last of those sentences copied from the Wikipedia article into Word for an A4 printout, that has acted as her mirror into the future for so many years now.

“You’ll be perfectly safe, Ted.”

What of the linoleum on the kitchen floor? asks the linoleum on the kitchen floor. Well, those two punctures underneath the table are her heels’ resting place for most of the morning (if not the day), checking her empty inboxes and ignored forum posts. The scrapes and cuts that form its main texture are because life is unfair: when a downcast woman won’t pick up her sharp-heeled feet, it’s always the lino left in agony. Which is why it enjoys Faye’s lower ebbs so much, I suppose. Its biggest tear, the one by the back door, is a dictionary definition of poetic justice: it found Faye’s attempt at sleeping at the foot of the garden amusing; her night-time distress, hilarious. You could say that the heel getting caught mid-dash and ripping it open was exactly what the floor deserved. To put it another way, if the webcam knows all that Faye is, then the lino knows all that Faye does.

“Well... can I have something to drink?”

She’d read elsewhere in the article that this was what they did. An old person. Hardly in short supply. The tea had been the bait all along.

“That’s more like it – of course you can, Ted.”

In years gone by, others of her kind would have sprinkled some sort of sparkling dust to lure them in. She had considered sugar lumps, but sugar’s hardly this generation’s magic dust, is it?

“Two sugars, if you’re asking.”

It’s not the first shot of panic she’s had today, but when she looks in the drawer for the sugar spoon and sees she only has butter knives, her heart beats palpably faster. Stay calm, she tells herself, needing reassurance – skin that old can’t be any thinner than Parma ham (and she may be right). A butter knife, she hopes, will still suffice.

“There you are.”

The boots were a gift to herself. The jacket was a gift from her mum. And she never told anyone about the party-wings. But she doesn’t wear those anymore, ever since she realised they only made her feel more lonely, not less.

“This is all rather fancy – what’s brought this on?”

Our fairy of this tale is a fairy only by circumstance, of course. And it’s any wonder she still is, isn’t it, when you consider how with every tick by every sentence cut from Wikipedia, every task she’s completed to become better has only made her feel worse.

“Just wanted to make you a bit more comfortable, Ted.”

“For what? I was perfectly comfortable in my chair watching Countdown, thank you.”

Her grip on the butter knife is far too suited to spreading than slicing, which she suspects may be a problem.

“I’m afraid this is it for you, Ted.”

“No biscuits, then?”

“Sorry? No, listen – ”

“I could have brought some with me, if you’d have said. Do your family know you’re this barmy? Must have been a right odd little one, am I right?”

This solves the grip problem.

“Drink up, Ted. I read they used to bury people with food and drink for their... impending journey.”

“You daft girl, I’ve got plenty at home as it is. You don’t need to feed and water me, you know – you’re not my son!”

“No, Ted, I... you don’t seem to understand what’s going on – ”

“That’s because I’ve got my brain all ready for that lovely blond one on Countdown and her puzzles, not your cryptic crossword clues. Speak properly, will you!”

The lino smiles, and is met with one heel being driven right through it to the concrete below.

“Have you read about what fairies do to people like – ”

“Fairies now, huh! Mrs Wilkinson always did say you were away with the fairies, I suppose she must be right, huh... here, what’s that knife for? You got some cake hiding somewhere?”

“No, Ted, it’s not for cake – ”

“Because really you’re all right love, you don’t need to worry about that – the cup of tea’s kind enough of you, very kind.”

The door shuts, eventually, after scraping the linoleum yet further.

“Oh, you’ve no need to shut the door, I’m not stopping.”

“You’ll be stopping very shortly, Ted.”

“Yeah, I’ll be off in a bit. ‘Ere, you sure you’ve not got any biscuits? Sorry to be a pain.”

“Ted! Just be quiet! Be quiet, all right?”

“Now hold on just a minute there young lady, you’re the one going on about cake in the first place!”

She can’t bear to look at him. She paces towards the back door. This is not the easy way round.

“Just be quiet for a second Ted, please!”

“Well then why’d you drag me here if you wanted a woman’s moment to yourself? You’re bloody barmy, you really are. Now where’s that cake? I’ll get it myself if you’re going to be funny about it.”

“There is no cake!”

“Well why’d you tell me there was cake? Gordon Bennett, you aren’t half daft, aren’t you?”

A sudden turn, a menacing lunge.

“You are my hostage, you doddery old bastard! I have taken you hostage, and now I am going to kill you! Now just shut up, shut up, shut up!”

“Well I thought I was meant to be your guest as well, until you started lying to me about cake and such!”

“Ted, what are you – I am going to kill you!”

“Flippin’ heck, it’s not that bad – I’ll have something to eat at home if you’ve not got much. I don’t want to be eating you out of house and home, now.”

“Ted – !”

“No, no, I’ll hold my hands up, my mistake. Look, if I’ve really been such a pain I’ll – ”

“What are you – get off!”

“No, really, it’s no trouble – ”

“Get off my knife!”

He wins, with his old-man strength.

“I’ll even wash this up for you, look.”

And he was as good as his word. Fairy liquid (groan) to boot. Sparkling.

“See, I am house-trained, honest. Look, it was lovely to see you and everything, just, er... yeah, see you, now.”

The doors offered as little resistance as she did. Ted went home.

The lino had never felt the warmth and the weight of her like this. They had never shared such an intimate moment before. It wanted to envelop and protect her, just like the rest of us. But what good would that have done her? How would lino help a woman on a quest to the summit of an A4 dream that only laughs at her, or to calm the doubt-flavoured vertigo? It cannot even help me decide if this smudge, this anti-climax, is a happy ending or not.