Summer Breeze, Makes Me Feel Fine...

19

Summer Breeze, Makes Me Feel Fine…

    It was a stifling hot day: thank God he was getting out of the city very soon. Mortimer was discovered glooming on the front steps when he got home. Uh… not mooning over the loss of Mab?

    No. It was the mom’s hip again. Swallowing a sigh, Ben asked the poor guy up for a Scotch.

    “Look, Mortimer, my mom was a new woman once she had her hip done. Resisted it like Hell, first off: said she wasn’t old enough for that.”

    Mortimer looked dubious. “She’d be a fair bit younger than Mom, though, wouldn’t she?”

    “Early sixties, but it’s not something that’s regular. Anyroad, what I was gonna say, for God’s sake let me pay for the operation.”

    Mortimer goggled at him.

    “It’ll only get more painful the longer she puts it off.”

    Mortimer goggled at him.

    “Look, I just got a huge bonus, a company I recommended way back has just gone public, the bank’s shares are worth five hundred times what they were, and they’ve got their original investment back I dunnamany times. I’ve already forced Mom and my aunts to accept something, and sent something to Jessica and Bob—the guy’s stiff-necked like you wouldn’t believe, hadda make out it was for the kids’ college funds or whatever they call them in England before he’d accept. –Well, say something, for Chrissakes, guy!”

    “You mean, like a loan?” he croaked. “Look, I can’t— I mean, we did ask how much— I’d never be able to repay that sorta dough!”

    “I know, the management corporation pays you a pittance,” Ben agreed, not mentioning all those backhanders from desperate residents. “It’s a gift. No strings.”

    Mortimer licked his lips. “Uh—do ya mean it?”

    “Yes,” said Ben heavily. “The bonus was two mill’.”

    “Uh—two million dollars?” he croaked.

    “Yeah. That’s Wall Street for you,” said Ben drily.

    “Look, why?” he demanded on a desperate note.

    “Because all Wall Street bankers are crazy and have no idea of what real money is to ninety-nine percent of people?”

    “Nuh—uh, no. Not that. I mean, yeah, they are. No, why do ya wanna pay for my mom’s hip replacement?”

    “Because she needs it and I’ve run out of actual people I know that I can help,” replied Ben flatly. “Or do ya want me to give it to some faceless charity that’ll spend eighty percent, min, on administration costs and only twenty, max, on the people that it’s supposed to be helping?”

    “N-oo… Never had you down as no do-gooder,” the man said dubiously.

    “I’m about as much of a one as you are, okay? Just shut up and take the dough for your mom’s sake,” he sighed.

    “Okay, I will! Uh—thanks, Ben,” he said awkwardly.

    “Don’t thank me, giving always makes the donor feel miles better than the recipient,” replied Ben drily.

    “Uh—yeah, come to think of it. Uh, well, Mom’ll be over the moon,” he admitted awkwardly.

    “Good. Have a Scotch.”

    They did that, and Mortimer then decided to get on over to his mother’s to tell her the good news. “Um, she’ll probably wanna come right back and thank you in person,” he warned.

    “I don’t want any thanks.”

    “I’ll tell her that. Uh, at the hospital, they won’t let you register unless you got the dough,” he said uneasily, going over to the door but not opening it.

    “That’s okay, just set it up, tell me when, and I’ll go in with you.”

    “With that Gold Card of yours: right,” acknowledged Mortimer on a dry note. “Well, uh, thanks again, Ben.”

    “That’s okay. I was broke once, myself.”

    “Uh—yeah!” he said in startled tones, going.

    Ben staggered over to his very second-hand couch and collapsed onto it with a sigh. He couldn’t have said to save his life why he’d done it: he didn’t like Mortimer, and the guy didn’t like him. And he’d met the mother once. She hadn’t been actively unpleasant, but she had struck forcibly as the sort of old dame that was suspicious of everyone she met. No, well, probably her life hadn’t suggested she be otherwise…

    Goddammit, why hadn’t Aunty Sue let him pay for that Pacific cruise? She knew he knew she wanted to go! …Oh, well.

    “There you are!” cried Robin. “His heart’s in the right place!”

    “Yes,” Isabella agreed in a tiny voice.

    Puck was looking puzzled. “How can a mortal’s heart not be— I’m not here!” he squeaked, disappearing.

    “Good riddance,” noted Robin. “And you must admit, Isabella, that Mother was right: all mortal men are fallible.”

    Isabella licked her lips. She had admitted it, hadn’t she? “Mm.”

    “And you had gone away,” he pointed out.

    “Blossom Blackbird’s already told me that, Robin,” she sighed. “More than once.”

    “Well, she’s right!”

    “Mm.”

    Robin hesitated. Then he said in a low voice: “You're making him miserable, Isabella.”

    Promptly Isabella burst into tears. The sky clouded over in sympathy, and lakes of primroses sprang up…

    Suddenly there came a soft flutter of immense wings and a soft swish as of swirling skirts of silken rose petals. The sweet tinkling of tiny faerie bells slowly died away…

    “It’s all right Robin, darling, I’ll handle this.”

    “Haven’t you done enough already?” he hissed crossly.

    Titania looked down her perfect nose. “Nonsense, silly one.” She put an arm round Isabella. “It’s all right, my dearest: Mother understands.”

    She ought to, with her experience of mortal men! Robin glared crossly, as Isabella sobbed on Titania’s shoulder.

    After quite some time a small train of beetles staggered out of the forest of primroses and handed Robin a creased cherry laurel leaf.

    He peered…

    “Blink at it, ass’s head!” hissed Puck, suddenly reappearing at his elbow.

    “Ooh! Don’t do that!” Robin blinked.

    The leaf read: “Petishn to T’ Nobl Fairy Robn. Pls to arsk Grate Queen no Mr prim Roz Btls Howses Dowrded Sgd Yr. RspkfL Btls.”

    “Um… that’s ‘Robin’,” discerned Puck. “Um… ‘Beetles’!” he concluded brilliantly.

    “That was difficult, considering it was them handed it to me. –Mother, please get Isabella to stop crying, her primroses are downing the beetles’ houses!”

    “Er, drowning, with respect, Noble Fairy Robin,” Bertie Beetle corrected, with a slight cough.

    “Oh, right. –Mother!”

    Titania looked up, smiling, from the weeping Isabella. One perfect tear ran down her perfect cheek. Immediately a bush of perfect pink roses sprang up.

    Unwisely Robin began: “That’s only gonna make it wor—”

    “Primroses, begone!” she trilled.

    The primroses vanished, the skies cleared, and the beetles, chorusing thanks, positively prostrated themselves before Her Majesty.

    “Up you get, dear ones!” she carolled. “Of course I wouldn’t let your houses be drownded! –Magic Oreos for everyone!”

    The Magic Oreos were taller than the average beetle, but they didn’t object. Kindly Robin broke some up for them, absently eating one as he did so.

    “Uff fee ’e’er?” asked Puck through a Magic Oreo.

    “Not quite better Puck, dear,” replied his Faerie Mistress kindly. “But she soon will be.” She ate a Magic Oreo, smiling. “Mm! I must say I’m glad I discovered these! Isabella, darling,” she said, brushing the last of the tears away gently, “I really think you ought to go down to earth again.”

    “Um, yes,” croaked Robin.

    “Definitely, Most Beloved Princess Isabella!” added Bertie Beetle eagerly.

    “Shut up, that Magic Filling has gone to your head!” snapped Puck. “Nobody asked your opinion!”

    “Don’t be silly, Puck, we’re glad to have it!” smiled Titania. “Aren’t we, Robin?” she added sweetly.

    He’d better be: the steel was showing behind the sweetness. “Yes, of course, Bertie, dear.”

    “Ooh, good!” he squeaked, puffing out his shiny chest. “Did you like the writing, Prince Robin? Barry Beetle done that!”

    “‘Did that’,” murmured Isabella faintly.

    “Yes, it’s lovely writing, Barry,” said Robin kindly.

    “I had the impression,” said Puck crossly, “that you were asleep under a dock leaf the entire time the writing was being taught, Barry Beetle!”

    “Only part of the time, and then, the leaves were all on the ground, very convenient for a beetle, Respected Puck,” he replied with a bow.

    Slightly mollified by the bow, not to say the ‘Respected”, Puck allowed grudgingly: “I suppose it's not bad, for a beetle.”

    Titania picked up the leaf. “Very beautiful indeed, Barry! Would you like something else nice to eat, dear?”

    Of course he would. They all would, actually, and a certain amount of shouting arose, but Titania settled it by declaring that it must be Barry’s choice for being such a good writer, but they could all share it!

    “Donuts and jam!” she cried, waving the wand that half a split faerie second back hadn’t been there.

    Donuts and jam it was. Grimalkin appeared looking eager but then sat down and had a cross wash, so a huge saucer of cream appeared.

    “Mother, she’ll burst,” groaned Robin.

    “Silly one! Little Baa-Lamb! Hither!” she cried. Immediately Little Baa-Lamb came to lap at the giant saucer.

    By this time there were so many crumbs around, what with Magic Oreos and donuts galore, that the Four and Twenty Blackbirds didn’t need to be summoned: they fluttered down of their own accord, followed in short order by a panting retinue of lizards, elves and pixies.

    “Jam Tomorrow, Jam Yesterday and Jam Today,” croaked Robin, looking at the pots and pots and pots of it.

    “Certainly. I am so very tired of your father’s silliness. –Hither, Merlin and twins!”

    Immediately they were there, goggling at the feast.

    —It might be noted, reflected Robin on a sour note, as the crowd all tucked in, that Mother hadn’t yet managed to persuade Isabella to anything. Though the lack of primroses was an improvement. And it was nice to have a clear blue sky, too.

    The entourage was lying back, replete, and in the cases of Puck and Grimalkin, snurring, when there came a great WHOOSH! of wind, and a great CRACK! of lightning.

    “Stop that immediately, Oberon,” said Titania in a steely voice as he hovered, glaring.

    The thunder died away sulkily and His Majesty merely glared.

    “Sit down. Have a slice of bread and butter with jam,” she said serenely.

    “I DON’T WANT—” Oberon took a deep breath. “Thank you, but I don’t want food. These all deserve jam, do they?” He directed an unpleasant look at the jammy-faced twins, now sleeping the sleep of the innocent and undeserving.

    “Of course. It’s known as cutting them some slack,” she said serenely.

    Sighing, he came down to earth. “I dare say. –Your contribution was no doubt notable,” he added coldly to his son.

    “You’re making yourself ridiculous, Oberon,” Titania warned.

    “Do I have to bother, with you—” He took another deep breath. “No, well, we’re none of us without fault.”

    Titania’s glance just flickered over the innocent, jammy, sleeping Fairy Rosebud. “I’m glad you can admit it, my darling, and of course I admit it, too.”

    Sighing, he sat down. “And?”

    “And I was just about to say to Isabella, that I think she understands that everyone is fallible, but that Ben is truly, truly sorry for his slip. And that to let him continue to be unhappy would be even crueller than what I did to my poor dear mortal John.”

    “Um, yes,” said Isabella in a small voice. “I’ve been too mean to him.”

    “Did you eat anything?” demanded Oberon abruptly.

    “Um, a small piece of donut, Father.”

    Frowning, he held out his hand. Meekly Isabella took the slice of bread and butter that appeared, and ate it.

    “That’s better!” Titania encouraged her. “—Though at least I did my best to console John: I found him someone nice to take my place,” she noted.

    Robin’s jaw dropped. “What did you say?”

    “I found someone nice for poor dear John,” she replied, smiling serenely.

    “But I thought… Mother, you’re boasting. The woman works near that steakhouse, it was a pure coincidence that she walked in when you were th—”

    Titania was shaking her head.

    “—there,” he ended weakly. “Wasn’t it?”

    “Of course not, silly one! I put the idea into her head that it would be nice to go to the steakhouse for lunch for a change, even though it was a chilly day—she usually doesn’t even go out to lunch—and of course I made sure that no-one else sat down at my table until she came!”

    “And then you gave her the guts to ask if she could share with you, I presume?”

    “That’s right!” she replied sunnily. “She’s a very shy person, you know.”

    After quite some time the stunned Robin managed to croak: “Is she even real?”

    “Of course, darling! All that history between them did happen. And I must admit there were one or two men in her life after that, but nothing lasting. I could see she'd never forgotten him.”

    “She built on what she found,” said Oberon drily. “The best sort of tactician.”

    “Well, yes, I think so, Father!”

    “I don’t believe it,” said Isabella faintly. “You gave her a push, Mother.”

    “Isabella, I didn’t! I didn’t have to, she’d never forgotten him, and she’s at the age where mortal women often get— What is that word? One of Mortimer’s, I think,” she said to Robin.

    He winced.

    “Well, never mind! It means very keen, Isabella. And he is terribly attractive, you know.”

    “Yes: come to think of it, most of the women at the bank had crushes on him. Even Millie: she went bright pink whenever his name was mentioned!” Robin recalled with a laugh.

    “You haven’t even met the women at the bank!” said Isabella indignantly.

    “Well, some of them, when I had to drop off those papers for Ben. But he told me about it: he thought it was very funny, because it wasn’t just the older ones that were John’s fans, but the younger ones as well, and he’s old enough to be their father!”

    “There you are,” said Titania complacently. “And I should just point out, Isabella, that John switched his affections to her very quickly, quite of his own accord—though I had been rather naughty, I must adm—”

    “Rather?” cred Oberon indignantly.

    “Mother, you maddened the poor man,” said Robin. “No wonder he got fed up! I’d have dumped you, too, in his shoes.”

    “I dare say. Most males have no stickum,” returned Titania with considerable relish. “But you see, Isabella, not only is it in the mortal nature to stray: by comparison, Ben’s was negligible.”

    “Not—not negligible,” said Isabella in a voice that shook a little.

    “Very minor, by comparison, then.”

    There was a short pause. No-one moved: even the flowers and grasses were motionless, and Grimalkin, Puck, Rosebud and Barry all stopped in mid-snurr.

    “Um, yes, you’re right,” Isabella agreed. “And—and he is very sorry.”

    Robin went limp with relief, Oberon’s wide shoulders were seen to sag slightly, and the snurring started up again.

    “Splendid!” cooed Titania. “So you’ll go down to earth and try again, dearest one?”

    Isabella licked her lips nervously.

    “We could make it a fresh start,” offered Oberon. “He never met you, or us—well, he still believes he only dreamed us, that makes it easy.”

    “I don’t think… That wouldn’t be fair on him, Father. Haven’t you ever heard of free will?”

    “I said it was a mistake to teach those children ethics!” cried Titania crossly.

    “Hush,” murmured Oberon, the suspicion of a quiver about those wide shoulders. “Well, Isabella, my darling one?”

    “Um, thank you, Father, but I’d rather just try again, and—and see if it can work, with—with all his mortal faults.”

    “So be it,” he said mildly. “Think up a good excuse for how a mortal girl from England suddenly turns up on the coast of Maine for the summer.”

    “His Aunty Sue asks her, of course!” said Titania crossly before Isabella could reply. “Stop making matters more complicated than they need be, Oberon!”

    His jaw sagged. “I’m making—”

    But Titania had vanished.

    “I am not,” noted Oberon heavily, getting to his feet, “following her to the faerie bower, whatever she may imagine.” With this he vanished, too.

    Robin looked anxiously at his sister. “Will you do it, Isabella?”

    “Um, yes,” said the Fairy Isabella in a small voice. “I—I suppose I will.”

    Ben reached Halibut Cove, okay, but he’d forgotten the way to Eel Lane. This didn’t matter, however: the minute he drew into the curb and asked the nearest person who looked like a resident rather than a summer visitor, the old identity in question replied: “You must be Ben. Turn left at the next but three, that’s Splicers, carry on to the big old fallen spruce—it’s still growing, you can’t miss it—and Eel Lane’s next left after that. Mary Jean’s Moon of Strawberries Cottage is way down the far end, ’bout opposite to where we are now, you better watch your springs on them bumps. This your own car?”

    “No, it’s a rental,” Ben replied weakly.

    “I wouldn’t worry, then,” the gnarled old identity returned insouciantly. “Give Mary Jean and your Aunty Sue my regards—Joel Hershey—and tell ’em I got ’em first on the list.” Heavy, meaning wink.

    “Uh—sure, Joel,” replied Ben very weakly indeed. “Thanks.”

    What with the rapturous greetings from both Aunty Sue and his hostess, the necessary admiring of the latest additions to the cottage’s frontage—shellwork frame round the “Moon of Strawberries Cottage” notice on the blue front gate in the white picket fence, more shellwork smothering the mailbox—the unwrapping of the gifts he’d brought accompanied by the token protests from both of them, the detailed demonstration of every last feature in his bedroom, and the giant afternoon tea, English-style, according to Mary Jean, it wasn’t until some considerable time later that Ben recalled Mr Hershey’s message.

    “Oh, great!” they beamed.

    “List for what, Mary Jean?” he asked weakly.

    Giggling, the elderly dame confided: “Maine lobsters, of course, honey!”

    Uh…

    “He’s a fisherman, Ben,” his aunt added helpfully.

    “Yuh—Uh, think his huge ancient guernsey, or whatever, might’ve wised me up to that one, Aunty Sue. But why didn’t he come right out and say lobsters?”

    More giggling from his hostess. “We’re not sure, but we think his fishing is possibly illegal!”

    Uh… “Do you have to have a licence, then?” he groped.

    They exchanged glances and his aunt revealed: “We don’t know, Ben, we’ve never asked.”

    “Discretion is the better part of valour!” gasped Mary Jean, this time collapsing in positive hysterics.

    “Goddit,” Ben conceded with a weak smile.

    It was all like that. For the next week the two ladies continued merry and bright. Mary Jean’s cooking varied between the traditionally scrumptious: boiled Maine lobsters, potato salad as good as Mom’s, angel cake that more than lived up to its name, crisp fresh salads straight out of the garden; and the frankly odd: strange-tasting herbs straight out of the garden, home-made English crumpets, crumbed pigs’ ears, no kidding, and, on the same theme, a disastrous cold pork pie described as “hand-raised”. Aw, gee, Joel Hershey had killed a pig, had he? Whether legally or illegally—mm-hm. Mary Jean had all these old cookbooks, you see. Mainly English? Why, yes, Ben, how did you guess?

    “I did talk her out of doing her new meatloaf recipe,” his aunt confided as the two of them went for a stroll along the beach. –Not the main Halibut Cove beach, no: you went down in back of Mary Jean’s place, climbed over the boundary wall of the adjoining farm property, went along the possibly illegal lane that led along inside this wall to its corner, climbed over it again, utilising the neatly sawn log that just happened to be lying there as a step, and then went straight down a longish, rutted and possibly illegal lane that ran along between, on the right, a row of broken-down picket fences and hedges belonging to the properties of assorted village identities and, on the left, an immensely high, whitewashed wall that sheltered the immense and luxurious summer vacation home of some rich city guy that the locals had no truck with—like that.

    At the end of this lane you discovered the most broken-down hedge of all, to your right, and to your left a notice affixed to the high whitewashed wall: “Private Property. Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted. Yah.” The final syllable having been added in what was possibly tar. Matched the bottom of the upturned boat in the local back yard opposite. Which just happened to be Mr Hershey’s yard. Like that, as well.

    Beyond that was a hump of sandy soil tufted with the sort of stringy, tough-looking grasses you only ever saw on the coast, and beyond that again, the wide beach, the sky and the ocean.

    “Hard to see what could be wrong with meatloaf, Aunty Sue,” hazarded the innocent Ben, as they strolled along the sands.

    She shuddered. “She found this recipe for Medieval—I kid you not—Medieval mince in some old book. Or was it online? Anyhoo.”

    “And?”

    “Well, you know Jessica’s mince pies?”

    “N— You don’t mean her Christmas mi— You do,” he said, as his aunt was nodding hard. “But…”

    “If you kind of combined that fruit mixture with the ground meat, only loads more spices, it’d come close,” said his aunt thoughtfully.

    “Uh—don’t they say that was what traditional Christmas mince once was?” he groped.

    She eyed him drily. “You ever tasted sandalwood?”

    “Uh—you don’t eat that!” replied Ben with a laugh, very startled. “Mom had some sandalwood soap and drawer-liners one year, they were great.”

    “Right. Imagine that, multiply it by ten, and add it to your meatloaf.”

    Ben gulped, looking sick.

    “You goddit,” she concluded.

    “But is it meant to be eaten?” he croaked.

    She shrugged. “Apparently. Well, don't look at me, hon’, I’m not a cook! But Mary Jean swears she had it in a—wouldn’t have been a soda, would it? Some sort of drink, on the famous ashram visit.”

    Ben winced. “Right.”

    “Yeah. –Your mom try to make you watch her DVD of that Marigold Hotel thing, your last visit?”

    “No,” he said blankly. “What is it?”

    “It’s got Judi Dench in it,” she explained. “About this bunch of elderly Li—English misfits that end up in India at this exotic but cosy and cute-as-Hell hotel run by this eccentric but cute-as-Hell young Indian guy—”

    “Say no more,” he sighed.

    “Your mom loves it. Cute and cosy as all get out, and about as real as—well, take a number!” she said with a laugh. “Your adventures with your little red engine? Damian’s fairy at the bottom of the garden? And exotic with it? Sheesh! –Actually, I think the word ‘exotic’ might be in its frightful title… No, it’s gone.”

    “No loss, I’d say, Aunty Sue!”

    “Yeah, but be warned: if your mom didn’t inflict it last time, it’ll be next time you go home. She sent me a copy: it was so bad I gave it to Mary Jean, I thought it’d be just her cup of tea—well exotic, Indian, and cutesy with it? But even she admits it’s bad. Totally divorced from reality.”

    Ben’s eyes twinkled. “Right. Unlike the sandalwood.”

    “Uh—yeah! I was talking about that—yeah. Wandering. –Must be catching,” she ended drily.

    “Yeah!” he choked.

    They walked on amicably in the sun and breeze, smiling. After a while Sue picked up a small shell.

    “Pinkish,” she reported dubiously.

    “Is it the right shade of pink, though?”

    “Dunno!” she choked ecstatically, collapsing in guffaws.

    “No,” he conceded, grinning. “Hey, that vanity in my bathroom’s a work of art, huh? Dunno which I like best, it or the scary head in the garden!”

    “Don’t!” she gasped helplessly.

    “I can’t help wondering,” Ben admitted as they wandered on, “what’ll happen to all that shell-smothered junk once she’s gone. She hasn’t any relatives, huh?”

    “No, there was only her and an older brother: he’s long gone. But I wouldn’t worry, Ben,” said Sue airily.

    Failing to spot something suspicious, not to say spurious, about this airy tone, Ben replied seriously: “I wasn’t worrying, just wondering. I guess it’ll all be junked. Sad to see all that work go to waste, really.”

    “It’ll only go to waste if the heir hates it.” said Sue neutrally.

    “No-one in their senses could like— Hold on. What heir? You just said—“

    His aunt was giving him a meaning look.

    Ben went very red. “Surely not!”

    “Honey, she’s got no-one, and she knows you love the cottage,” she said heavily, taking his arm.

    “Yeah, but— Oh, jeez.”

    “In your shoes, I’d keep the shell junk in her memory.”

    “Yeah,” he said wryly. “So why isn’t she leaving it to you?”

    “Well, I’m not all that much younger than she is, and then, she knows I can’t afford the upkeep of two houses.”

    Very red again, Ben replied crossly: “If you’d let me help you—”

    “We’ve had this conversation before, haven’t we? You can have me come stay,” she said soothingly, hugging his arm. “And there is the additional point that Mary Jean’s enjoying the thought of you and your kids in her cottage.”

    “What kids?” he said sourly, pulling away from her.

    “Well, I’d say yours and Isabella’s.”

    “That's not funny!”

    “Previous, maybe, though not by much. Don’t shout at me. She’s come over: she’s staying in Joel Hershey’s renter—inherited from a great-uncle and never had anything done to it—”

    “What do you MEAN, she’s come over?” he shouted.

    “Arrived last night, according to Joel. Should have settled in by now. Walk back towards the track, it’s the, uh, fourth shack, I think, before that white wedding-cake monstrosity with the high wall. Kind of a dark blue. Peeling.”

    “Why didn’t you tell me?” he said in a trembling voice.

    “I promised not to,” replied Sue simply. “Go on: back thataway. I’m going on up to Windjammer Bay to get that fresh cheese for Mary Jean.”

    Ben just stared numbly as she walked away. Isabella was here? Why hadn’t she let him know? How had she even known he was here? And how long had goddamn Aunty Sue known she was planning to come over, just by the by?

    They’d come a fair way. Numbly he turned and began to slog back in the Halibut Cove direction. The summer breeze freshened. It had been at their backs before: now it blew briskly into his face.

    … Jesus! She was here? After all these months?

    The beach sloped to the sea along here, and the sandy, grassy bank behind it was quite high: you only got an occasional glimpse of the houses—well, shacks, Sue was right, there—beyond it. He was just wondering whether to get up there on the bank—though it was hard to make much progress on it, what with soft sand, unexpected rocks and tufts of hard stringy grasses—when suddenly he saw her!

    Was it?

    Yes, it must be! A slim, dark-haired figure, the shoulder-length curls blowing in the summer breeze…

    Ben began to run.

    “Hullo!” he panted, coming to a halt before her.

    “Hullo, Ben,” said Isabella, going very pink. He didn’t say anything, so she added awkwardly: “I—um—thought I’d come over and see you.”

    “Yeah!” he gasped. “I mean, good,” he said weakly, getting his breath back.

    “I’m very sorry I was so horrid to you, all that time,” she said in a tiny voice.

    “No! I mean, it was all my fault, and I’m sorry, Isabella!”

    “I know. I got your letters,” she admitted.

    “So—so can we start again?” he croaked.

    Could mortals do that? “How do you mean?” she asked shyly.

    Ben found he was sweating. “Well—uh— Well, Hell!” he said desperately. “Come live with me, see if we can stand each other on a permanent basis! Uh—I mean, view to marriage, Isabella, if—if that turns out to be what you want.”

    “Um, yes, I’d like that,” she said in a tiny, tiny voice.

    Ben’s heart was hammering so hard he wasn’t sure he’d heard her. “Yes?” he croaked.

    “Yes, please, Ben.”

    Somehow Ben found he’d gotten his arms round her and was kissing her desperately…

    “All right?” he panted at least.

    Isabella beamed at him. “Yes, lovely, Ben! –So do we go to bed now?”

    “Yes!” he said with a crazy laugh. “We sure do, honey!”

    “It’s a creaky bed,” she said seriously as he took her hand and headed in the presumed direction of the peeling blue-painted shack.

    “Then I can guarantee it’s gonna creak till it busts!” he promised. Grinning, he began to run with her.

    Behind the bit where the sandy bank rose into an almost very nearly dune, Joel Hershey nudged Mary Jean violently in the ribs. “There ya go!”

    “Yes, that looks okay!” she beamed. “I’m so glad! Sue’s quite sure she’ll be the making of him!”

    “… And so they lived happily ever after!” smiled Titania.

    A great sigh of contentment arose from the audience of assorted fairies, elves, pixies, lizards, beetles and blackbirds.

    “Tell it again, Great Queen!” begged Liam Lizard.

    “Yes, please tell it again!” they all cried.

    Nothing loath, Titania launched into it again, smiling. “Once upon a time there was a fairy called Isabella and a mortal called Ben who fell in love…”

    Never mind they’d just heard it, everyone listened again with rapt attention, much oohing, aahing, sighing, etcetera.

    “… And so they lived happily ever after!” she beamed.

    “Hurray!” cried the Fairy Rosebud.

    “Yes, hurray,” Puck agreed. “Mind you, it was agony while it lasted, wasn’t it?”

    Judging by the cries of “No!” and “What do you mean?” that arose, most of them had forgotten already what Isabella had put them through. Not to say what her respected mother had put them through—quite unnecessarily, in his humble opinion. True, fairies were notorious for having horribly short memories, not to say attention spans.

    “I think it’s my favourite story,” said Philly happily.

    “’S’got no jam in it, though,” objected Runcky dubiously.

    “Be quiet! You don’t know nothing!” she cried furiously, falling upon him, bootless and all.

    “Hush, twins!” carolled Titania. “Be good! You’ve just heard a lovely story about love: don’t spoil it!”

    “Tt, tt, tt! Hush, now! Birds in their little nests agree!” Blossom Blackbird reminded them.

    Runcky began pugnaciously: “We’re not in—” But suddenly they were.

    “A very cosy nest indeed, Great Queen, Beloved Mother of All, Queen Mab, Queen of all the faerie lands!” Puck congratulated her.

    “Thank you, Puck, dear!” she trilled, awarding him a Magic Oreo.

    “So what are they doing now, Your Majesty?” asked the Fairy Rosebud eagerly.

    Puck coughed. “Not literally now, I don’t think she means, Your Respected Majesty. In general.”

    “Naturally!” she cooed. “Well, my darling Rosebud, the Fairy Daniello has persuaded Ben to leave the horrid bank and work for his foundation—he’s set it up again in America, that’s the land where Ben lives, one has to do that in the mortal realm—and what they do, you see, is find small businesses that need mortal money to make and sell their good things, and give them the money! And it’s Ben’s job to check them out, you see. So he’s doing what he was before, the stuff that he’s good at, only this time for a good cause!”

    The blank silence that had prevailed was overtaken by gusts of approval as her audience chorused: “A good cause! Hurray!”

    “Yes,” she said pleasedly. “And they’re still living in Ben’s lovely loft, and their dear elderly friend Miss Mary Jean Oliphant—isn’t that a lovely name?—has given them a lovely shell-trimmed dressing-table that she made especially for Isabella, and they've got a lovely big bed that Ben bought at a big shop, almost as comfortable as a fairy bed of roses; and the heating always works, because now Mortimer’s on Ben’s side! And Isabella’s working at the day-care centre where Robin used to work: she loves it, looking after all the little mortal children! But they’re planning to move to a pretty, cosy house in a leafy suburb—that’s a place where mortals have nice houses and there’s lots of grass and trees as well as mortal roads—because they want their children to grow up with nice fresh air. And Ben will drive his car to the station and take the train into the City of the Big Apple! So it’s all worked out perfectly, hasn’t it?”

    Possibly not all of the nuances had been grasped by her audience, but they all agreed fervently with her, and donuts and Magic Oreos were produced for everyone. With a big saucer of cream for Grimalkin.

    … “I suppose it’s worked out all right,” Oberon conceded grudgingly.

    “All right?” cried Titania indignantly. “It’s worked out perfectly, silly one! I knew it would!”

    “You knew no such thing,” he said grimly.

    “Pooh! And before long there’ll be more grandchildren!” she reminded him fervently.

    Oberon looked limply at her shining eyes. There was no doubt she was genuine. Surely that wasn’t what all that nonsense with Whatsisface, the John mortal, had been intended to result in… Surely?

    “Titania, I shall never understand you, an I live for thirteen million mortal lifetimes,” he moaned.

    Predictably, at that one the Fairy Queen merely laughed her tinkling laugh, patted him carelessly on the cheek, and flitted away, murmuring “Perfectly,” to herself.

    “Do not cough!” said Oberon irritably.

    Puck emerged from behind a handy bush, trying not to cough. “Your Respected Majesty, the Princess Isabella’s very happy. Isn’t that what counts?”

    Oberon smiled reluctantly. “I suppose it is, yes.”

    “So shall they live happily ever after?” he piped hopefully.

    “Isn’t that what happens in the best of fairy tales, Puck o’ mine, Robin Goodfellow, thou merry Hobgoblin?” replied His Majesty dulcetly.

    “Of course, Majesty!” he fluted happily.

    Tolerantly not pointing out that that had been a question which had two possible answers, His Majesty waved him away. Puck vanished hastily, before the words “girdle” and “earth” could be uttered.

    “Oh, well,” His Majesty concluded heavily. “It is how the best fairy tales end, after all. Let them live happily ever after!” He paused. “With lots of grandchildren!”