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Derek Smith

The Cinderella story exists in many forms, as do most folk tales. The one most of us know was written down by Charles Perrault in the 17th century; its beautiful but passive heroine appealed to the then middle and upper class readership and to many people since. Quite a few of the other versions have a tougher heroine, so you might think that the Perrault story might have lost its appeal by now, but if Princess Diana's death says anything about the British, it tells us it is impossible to overestimate mass sentimentality when it comes to royalty.

The Girl By The Fire

A girl is sitting on stool by the fireside weeping. She is pretty and dirty, her clothes are in rags. The room is a kitchen: pots and pans hang above the fireplace, a wooden table is at the centre of the room, tall cupboards at the back are in flickering shadow.

As she sobs, one foot kicks a coal scuttle and a besom broom falls over. She looks up as it falls to the floor, her face tear-stained, the fire-light catching in her blue eyes, and shinning in her bedraggled hair which might be blonde but is difficult to tell by the poor light. She half rises, picks up the broom and puts it back in the corner. She moves wearily, her feet are bare and small, very small, considering her age. She must be 17 or so, and, surely, no one of adult age has smaller feet than she?

The sound of a carriage approaching draws her gaze to the window. It is dark outside, and although she might be able to see something, she turns away and sinks back onto her stool as wheels crunch over gravel, hooves steadily clip clop, and excited voices ring out as the carriage whirls past. If she had looked, she might have made out footmen on the carriage, and a woman inside with a fan and a high wig wearing a massive pink dress full of ruffles, beside her a man, also bewigged, wearing a fancy jacket with lace cuffs. But she doesn't look and the carriage with its elegant passengers is carried away into the night.

The house returns to silence, except for the sobs of the girl.

In a corner of the room, without warning, a bright light appears in a rush of wind. The girl looks up startled. There by a kitchen cabinet her gaze is held by a sort of fireworks display, spilling a fountain of red, yellow, and blue, interspersed with dazzling silver. In its midst appears a woman, dressed in flowing white robes with a jewelled crown on her head. She is holding a wand with a silver star at its tip.

`Don't be afraid,' says the woman stepping out of the fountain which instantly dies.

`Who are you?' says the girl in awe.

`I am your fairy god-mother. I have come to help you.'

`Oh please, oh please,' says the girl. `You don't know how miserable I am.'

`Yes I do,' says the woman. `And that's why I have come.'

`Oh help me go to the ball!' pleads the girl, falling to the ground on her knees by the woman's feet.

The woman kneels down and puts an arm on the girl's shoulder.

`Why do you want to go to the ball?'

`Everyone is going,' says the girl depairingly.

`Not everyone,' says the FGM. `Not you.'

`Not me,' says the girl sadly, looking down at her red hands.

`Are milk-maids going?' says the woman, `And boot blacks? Do you think cooks and scullery maids are there - other than those working in the kitchen? Are stable boys and ostlers there, other than those looking after the horses? Are shopkeepers and assistants there? Are mill hands and farmworkers there?'

`None of those,' says the girl.

`Then why do you want to go, my girl?'

`Because I am not really a servant,' burst out the girl. `I shouldn't be here in the kitchen dressed in rags. You see my mother died and my father married again, and my step-mother and my two sisters.'

`I know all about those,' interrupts the FGM.

`They have been preparing for weeks and weeks. They have been shopping for dresses, shoes and jewellery. I have been sewing and stitching for them, between my hundred other jobs.'

`But you haven't answered my question. Why do you want to go to the ball?'

`Because everyone is going!'

`I thought we had settled that,' sighs the FGM.

`Because I want to go,' exclaims the girl. `It is my right.'

`That's better,' says the woman. `Let's admit why. Let's come clean. But why do you think it is your right and not the right of those others who won't be there?'

`Because they were born servants and workers. I wasn't. It is only cruelty makes me look like one. I am my father's daughter!'

`I should hope so indeed,' says the FGM. `So, you want to go to the ball to show you are not really a maid-of-all-works but like the others? Those that did get invitations.'

`That's partly why.'

`So what's the other part, my dear?'

`Don't you know the occasion of the ball?'

`Tell me.'

`The Prince is looking for a wife. He has invited everyone.'

`Let's not start that everyone again.'

`He has invited everyone of the right sort.'

`I wouldn't say right sort, would you, dear?'

`He thinks they are the right sort.'

`Do you?'

`Yes.'

`By a great effort of will I will not digress into the class nature of this society,' the Fairy God-Mother says with a sigh. `Some other time I will contribute to you education on that score. So - you were saying.the Prince is looking for a wife - and he means to select one from amongst the young ladies who are there.'

`The unmarried ones.'

`I assumed that.'

`And he won't go for a divorcee or a widow. Or a Roman Catholic or Muslim or a Jew. Or anyone who is black of course.'

`They must be amongst the uninvited.'

`Well I expect they've invited a few. For form sake, for good relations. But you can count them out.'

`But you think you are in with a chance?'

`Well my father is a baron you know. And I am C of E. And I am white.'

`All essential qualities.'

`And I'm good-looking. I mean he is a Prince. You can't imagine him going for any old dragon.'

`Just because she's high born, C of E and white.'

`I am told he goes for.well you know.'

`Good looking girls?'

`More than good looking. Classy. You know what I mean?'

`Odd term. Classy presumably meaning having class. Some of the maids in the palace he is rumoured to have liaisons with - I wonder how they fit with that?'

`He's allowed to have the odd fling. He is a Prince, you know.'

`I'm surprised you defend him.'

``Well we mustn't be prudish. This is the 17th Century after all.'

`Already? I do lose track of time. And my argument. Where was I? Ah yes - marriage and the Prince. So what are the odds on you being the one?'

`Well something like two thousand women have been invited. Let's say 500 of them are eligible. You know.'

`Yes C of E, high born and white.'

`Of those, let's say one in ten are beautiful.'

`So that gives him 50 to choose from. So if you go you'd be 1 in 50. Have you thought about this seriously? All the implications. For a start - do you want to marry him?'

`I beg your pardon.'

`Him. The Prince. You've said what he wants. What do you want?'

`He's very good looking, he's rich.'

`C of E and all that. But he does have rather a roving eye. Couldn't that be a problem?'

`Not at first.'

`Then later perhaps?'

`I'll deal with that when I come to it. First I have to get my Prince.'

`Do you think you'll fit in in the palace?'

`Fit in?'

`Well the King and Queen - they can be rather difficult I am told. And some of the ladies in waiting and the old retainers, they are sticklers for form.'

`I suppose I could learn.'

`They might make it difficult if you couldn't.'

`With respect, fairy god-mother. Please don't be offended but I just want to marry a Prince. I don't need these cautionary tales. Besides they never happen. It is well known that anyone who marries a Prince lives happily every after.'

`I wonder who spreads tales like that, and for what purpose?'

`So fairy god mother - please, if you don't mind.?'

`Yes?'

`Begging your pardon, but I'm sure you have come here for some reason. Not just a social call because you happened to be passing.'

`True, my dear. But things have changed recently in my profession. I have a diploma now and so I am no longer free-lance but a member of the Association of Fairy Godmothers. And one of our rules, the Associations rules that is, is that all members have to offer counselling.'

`Counselling?'

`I am afraid so.'

`But I want to go to the ball! It's getting late.'

`It'll be quicker if you don't argue.'

`Alright then. But please be quick.'

`Right, my dear. Now where was I? Oh yes. We were talking about the Prince and marriage. Let's take the other side of the coin. Suppose he doesn't pick you?'

`What?'

`Well we have talked a little of what it might be like to marry the Prince. And your view is somewhat more glamorous than mine.'

`It's got to be better than this kitchen.'

`Most likely, though don't underestimate misery in the palace, my dear.'

`If you're asking me whether I would rather be a miserable scullery maid or a miserable Princess. then it's Princess thank you very much.'

`Perfectly understandable. In your situation I'd probably go for the same. But what I am trying to say is that the odds are not in your favour. One in fifty we estimated.'

`One in fifty is a chance. What chance do I have here?'

`That's exactly what I am coming to.'

`I don't follow.'

`Don't be impatient. Let me get there, my dear. Now I could get a pumpkin, some white mice - and fix you up with a carriage and a fine dress.'

`And footmen.'

`Yes, footmen too. And off you would go to the ball. I could do that.'

`Please! Please!'

`And off you would go in all your finery. And there is no doubt you are good looking, and so you would be in with a chance.'

`When I come into the ballroom all heads would turn. The music would stop, the Prince would have eyes only for me. `Who is she?' he would ask.'

`Are you so sure of that? There are another 49 beauties to contend with, and I suspect he's doesn't simply want good looks.'

`He's not interested in brains.'

`More's the pity, the royal family could use some - but you are right. He does though want someone who can ride a horse. Can you?'

`I could learn.'

`I dare say, but it is a point against. All I am trying to say is that he will ask a few questions, and it certainly isn't cut and dried. Put it this way - suppose you went to the ball, the Prince played the field, had a dance with you, then with some of the other 49, then picked one and danced with her the rest of the night. And it wasn't you.'

`It would be me! I have dreamed it. I have hoped so hard. It couldn't possibly be anyone else.'

`I said just suppose it wasn't? How would you feel after all the effort you have put in to get to the ball?'

`Devastated, miserable, suicidal!'

`Worse than now?'

`Far worse. I would have no hope.'

`Counselling nearly over. You see, I could set you up with the beautiful dress, the carriage.'

`And footmen.'

`And footmen. And off you go to your one in fifty. Or I could, as I have got to do magic anyway, set you up in business. In a small way. So what do you think?'

`Have I got this clear? I can go to the ball.or I can be set up in business?'

`Yes, that's it.'

`What about both? I go to the ball, and if it doesn't work out - then you set me up in business.'

`I am afraid you can't have both. Professional ethics - you know how it is. It's one or the other. So what's it going to be? A life in the palace with a Prince, or a business - I was thinking of something like a hat shop.'

`But suppose he chose me, suppose he has eyes for no one else, suppose he danced all night with me.?'

`I'm afraid he can't dance with you all night. My magic runs out at midnight.'

`You never said that. And what about the hat shop how long would you give me that for?'

`You get the shop with a ten year lease. Mind you, it's up to you to make a success of it. I'd start you off with some stock and a hat-maker or two... Then I leave you to sink or swim.'

`Let's get back to the palace. There I am dancing with the Prince. The bells chime midnight. What happens then?'

`You'd have to run off, because at the last chime it's back to your rags.'

`He'll think I'm just a kitchen maid!

`Then you'd better head off at the first chime.'

`Oh I'll sprint off alright!'

`But if it goes as you hope, my dear - then he'll come looking for you.'

`And find me?'

`Most likely.'

`And marry me?'

`Probably.'

`I do so want to be a Princess! I have dreamed of it all my life. I would love to leave my dishes for someone else to wash up, to be served at table, to have clean clothes waiting for me every morning, to be bowed and curtseyed to, to be waited on for every whim.'

`You haven't mentioned the Prince.'

`Yes him too. Even if it didn't quite work out - there are compensations. We could live in separate palaces.'

`And if he should take a mistress or two?'

`I wish you wouldn't be so pessimistic.'

`That's counselling for you. But I have finished. I've discussed the matter with you fully. I've informed you of the risks of marrying a Prince. And tried to do that without political bias. Tricky. But according to our rules I am not allowed to influence you one way or the other. You must make a free decision. And, as you have noted, time is passing. So please decide.'

`You have me in turmoil - I can hardly think! I want to marry the Prince, I don't want a hat shop, but if I can't marry the Prince. Why did you ever suggest I might not be able to marry him?'

`In the cause of truth, my dear. And remember too, I suggested marriages don't always go well, royal or otherwise. So please concentrate. Do you want a Prince or a hatshop? You have just ten seconds to make up your mind.'

`That's not fair.'

`The Association of FGM rules. I shall count out loud, when I get to ten you must tell me which - or you get neither. Is that clear?'

`Clear - but not at all fair.'

`Not everyone has a fairy god-mother, my dear. There are many girls in your position who would be glad of the chance.'

`Suppose he hits me?'

`Suppose he does.'

`But suppose he is a perfect loving Prince. Suppose he worships me and showers presents on me and loves me all my life.?'

`Suppose he does.'

`Or a hat shop.'

`Or a hat shop. Now I shall begin the count. One, two.'

Let us draw away at this time of decision. Use our technology to zoom out, our camera outside the window. Inside, we see a fairy god mother counting while a kitchen maid on her stool crushes her fingers to her mouth. Even by firelight we can see that beneath the tear marks and dirt, with a wash and clean clothes, she is beautiful - and the Prince might very well be attracted by her. True her hands are somewhat red, but if she wore gloves at the ball who could tell her fallen state?

She knows she is in with a chance. A Prince! Who would take her out of the kitchen. That would be one in the eye for those mean sisters! Besides, not once, as she scrubbed floors and darned dressed, has she ever dreamed of a hatshop.

But the hatshop is there for the having and the Prince is but 1 in 50. She sighs, she grimaces, she moans as the count reaches its conclusion.

Should she go for the glory, the life of splendour (she would be Queen one day!) or go for the life of a hard-working business woman, looking at the clock as the seamstresses come in late, and bowing to her customers?

The Fairy God Mother ends her count. The girl must choose. Will she go for the Prince and risk losing the hatshop? Or will she scorn the hatshop in fear she'll forever regret she never aimed for the power and the glory?

Oh dreadful decision! The girls eyes flash in fear and doubt.

`Choose,' says the Fairy God Mother, `or lose.'

`The...' says the girl.

The what?

 

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