Albert Chimes was standing in front of me with a strange magnifying eye contraption on his eyes. He was a very old man. His body didn’t seem comfortable within its skin, as though it were a bad fit. I think he might have been near to a hundred years old. He looked like a wizard in a fairy tale. One that lives in a strange tower in a forest. A dangerous wizard, who had gone mad, maybe? Is London a great forest? Am I in a magical tower? I think I may have walked into a fairy story.
He took the eye contraption off and smiled politely. “Good morning, young lady. How may I help you?”
I could hear a cat purring, and a slinky plump black-as-night feline materialized on the shelf, watching me with dazzling emerald eyes.
“Her name is Cleopatra. Do you like cats?” His smile remained fixed.
“I have come for a gift for my father. It’s his birthday. And yes, I do like cats. She is very pretty.”
“What sort of clock would your father like?”
“A pocket watch.”
“I have quite a few pocket watches at the moment. Step over here and we’ll have a look in the display cabinet.”
I crossed to him, where a glass cabinet with a purple velvet lining sat. Inside, a dozen pocket watches were nesting. As comfy as eggs. All of them were made of silver, some with gold threads and jewels. Some had animals carved into them, or symbols: I saw a fox with a diamond tail, a tortoise with a green jewelled shell, one with an eye symbol, another with a row of dancing imps. But in the corner, I saw a watch for my father: it had an engraving of a kingfisher with a key in its mouth. My father had always loved kingfishers.
“That is the one I want,” and I pointed to it. Albert Chimes was just about to open the case, when he looked at me rather oddly. The way the man on the bike had looked at me.
Circling me.
Part Three
I: Mirror & Her Sisters
What is my earliest memory? I remember when I was called Myrtle. That was my name. One of three sisters.
Myrtle Violet Rose.
We were listening to Grandpa tell us a fairy story. It was about a wolf who lived in the forest and he was very hungry. I remember Violet was frightened; she didn’t like his big teeth and his big yellow eyes.
Wolves are supposed to love the moon, they are deeply in love with her. She protects them, she gives them power, feeds them with love. Stars tremble about her.
Grandpa says the wolf can disguise himself. He wears the clothes of humans so they can be tricked and eaten. In this story there is a little girl with a red cloak. She carries a hunting knife in case a wolf tries to eat her. A huntsman watches over her, he has a big axe and he knows the forest and can recognize wolves.
Is London a great forest? Are there wolves dressed in top hats? Smiling, eating cake and drinking tea?
My name was Myrtle. I didn’t own anything red. The only red was my hair. My sisters’ hair was brown. My sisters said fairy folk have red hair. Red as a sacrifice. Am I a piece of meat? Will a handsome wolf man want me for dinner?
Grandpa says the wolf dresses up as the little girl’s grandma and sits in bed waiting for her. Granny’s shawl on his shoulders, her spectacles perched on the end of his wolfish snout. Tucked up in bed. The moon heavy, prehistoric above him. A night light.
“I don’t want her to get eaten,” said Rose, and covered her ears.
“If you don’t listen to the story, you won’t learn anything,” Grandpa replied, his yellowish teeth snapping together. What did he want us to learn? Did he want us to carry an axe? What was the lesson?
The moon is always on the side of wolves. The huntsman guards the forest path. If you have tea with a wolfman in a top hat then you will probably be eaten. Maybe the granny wasn’t tricked. Maybe she let him in. Maybe there is something inside us that wants to be gobbled up. My sisters were scared of the story, they didn’t like wolves. I touched my hair, I could feel the heat, the teasing itch.
And that was my first memory.
My name was Myrtle. When I died, I jumped into a mirror. Became a reflection. Part of the moon. The wolves sing to me at night now.
II: Pomegranate
The Wife of Mr Fingers
I was abducted from a field of flowers when I was sixteen years old. There were poppies in the field, as red as fire. Bursting like blood vessels. I remember that he smelt of angels. My Auntie Eva told me that angels smell like fireworks because the atmosphere burns their wings, crackles them like paper under a lighted match. Auntie Eva said never trust angels because they are beautiful. But he wasn’t beautiful. He was small and poisonous with dark spectacles. I wanted him so much to be beautiful.