A Fair Little Tale: Chapter 1

A Fair Little Tale: Chapter 1 - How it Started



I have heard many a voice remark, in good confidence, that the very moment the dawn Apollo first sheds his molten gleam onto the cobbles of Topper Street is the very moment when those same crisp cobbles are awakened by a merry hubbub of townsfolk who come to relish in the crispness of the daybreak air and that irresistible scent of the morning bakers. Be that as it may, any hour before eight can be considered a most frightful and ungodly time of day which warrants only slumber and, perhaps, astronomy.

         There are no strangers in Topper Street, nor are there any, for that matter, in the streets adjacent. Indeed, it has been said that every person within a ten mile radius is either friend, kin or elbow relation of another and in some cases a mixture of all three. So rests our hushed pocket of warmth, secluded in the hearts of its inhabitants like a precious gem in the arms of Mammon.

         If, by some malfunction of nature, any foreigner were to step a tentative toe onto Topper Street they would find a vibrant, rich and cheerful place where wafts of cinnamon and nutmeg would greet them like a long lost friend, the tattle of chattering grandma’ams would pass gently by their ear and bright apple reds and luscious plum purples would gaze up at them lovingly. They would find it more than tempting to merely come across some private streetside and pass the day in wonder.

         Ribbons, fabrics, bows and buttons ornament the haberdashers. Door knockers, handles, locks, hinges and hooks adorn the ironmongers like treasures from forgotten adventures. A chemist’s stacked high with bottles of strange substances to cure every ailment airs fragrant jasmine and peppermint. Every man and his messmates drop into the Horse and Hammer from time to time to indulge in a nip of seasoning and roll out all the merrier. The butcher stands in his doorway, calling a fond “hullo!” to passers-by while selling them turkeys and rabbits and pork joints to be carried home to cosy hearths. The sweet shop sets the eyes of children, both young and old, alight and the fruiterers shop has enough dewy fare to fill any hungry mouth in search of belly timber.

         On the corner some handsome girls in summer dresses with parasols are being courted by trim young men who think they are beyond their years, while across the way and in the route of most busy shoppers, five children squeeze in a quick game of marbles before their irritated mothers arrive to put an end to it. Whole families are promenading the streets today. Here come the Pritchetts now: father, mother, grandfather, two sons, three daughters, one cousin, an aunt and a baby; all habilitated in Sunday best and a common auburn crown.

         Nearly every city-dweller is bustling through the narrow lanes. Some amble along in groups of good friends, their destination not being a priority. Some walk individually, quickly and with purpose to get to their workplace or some important meeting. Some walk with their minds ahead of them, full of daydreams about the next chapter of a fine book, a missed distant lover or the meal set for dinner this evening of goose and roast parsnips, washed down with a good few pipes of wine.

         Mr. Bonnefig, the baker, is stood in his shop looking altogether pleased with himself at the fineness of his latest cooking as it is born of the oven. Flour and dough mix are strewn across his apron, tow shirt and, most comically, his hair; his face is bright with smile and his chubby belly is happy with bread. Yes, Mr. Bonnefig is a jolly old fellow who frequently wobbles great belly-laughs with his own risibility and has a generous good sense of rectitude.

         In close neighbourhood, Mr. Sturton the pawnbroker is a slim, solid man in appearance. He looks down through the eyeglasses on the end of his hooked nose with superiority and his frock suit comprises charcoal striped trousers, a swallow-tail morning coat, a bow tie and a glinting pocket-watch draped across a teal waistcoat. His pale complexion, white hair and aged face give him a ghostly quality, yet there is a twinkle in his eye and a twist in the corner of his mouth which shows there is something of a jolly old wiseacre inside.

         Such a diversity of characters, shapes, sizes and voices! The totter of shoes taptap on the cobbles. Young girls in bonnets talk with their mamas like proper young women, beside snippets of conversation from intellectuals debating politics or philosophy. A wood mason knocks out a new pine chair releasing an aroma of fresh sawdust and a horse is heard neighing in the distance.

         The chattering carriage of the Lord and Lady Ellwand and their children passes by, on the way back to the manor, shining like a bedewed beetle in the sun. They earned their wealth from sugar plantations. The youngest little daughter appears, looking excitedly through the window at the busy street scene outside when she drops, quite unintentionally, a small white glove, fitted only for the tiniest of hands, with lace trim and a pink bow ribbon. She watches it as it floats gently to the ground, as calm and soft as snow, until it lands, despondently in the mud. No-one even twitches an eye except the one barely discernable face that it lands directly in front of, a girl, it would seem.

         Her insipid colour is as quiet as her nature; she gets by without a rat-squeak. Her hair is matted, her face dirtied, her expression numb. Her bare feet reveal themselves from the bottom of a tired dress as she sits on the curb-side with her arms wrapped round her knees, watching the townspeople walk past, obliviously. There is scarcely any meat on her bones. As if it were the most prized possession in the world, she clasps in her hand a single copper penny.