Lyceum Christmas Tales #1: A Fairy Tale, by Morna Young

Cal MacAninch in A Fairy Tale by Morna Young, part of Lyceum Christmas Tales directed by Zinnie Harris and Wils Wilson. PIC: Aly Wight

We’ll start with once upon a time, for that is how all fairy tales should begin… and this is, indeed, a tale about a fairy.

It could be some time, anytime, a matter of time - because the clock at the centre of this story is broken. Indeed, everything at the start of this story is broken, for we have entered the broken house of broken things.

Inside this house, there is a broken chair and a broken table. The plates are chipped, the cups are handle-less and the rug is torn. A stray doll is missing her buttons, a flattened cushion has burst its stuffing and that poor shoe has lost its mate. And there, square in the middle of the mantelpiece, is our broken clock with its rusted hands. So, we really must presume that time has broken too.

Amongst all that is broken, we also find a little girl who has tried all she can to glue everything back together; but, as hard as she works, her stitches remain wonky, the cushions won’t plump and she can never find missing shoes. There really is only so much that little shoulders can carry and little hands can do. Since we’ll stay with this girl for a while, we should call her by her proper name: Robin, so called after her mother and father’s favourite bird with its streak of merry red. For this girl too has a streak of red – locks of unruly auburn hair, tumbling in curls and waves and knots.

Her hair is perhaps the only bright thing about Robin now. Once sparkly eyed and rosy cheeked, she has paled into a sickly looking thing along with her surroundings. But it wasn’t always like this. You see, the house at the centre of this story wasn’t always broken. Once upon a different time, this house was a home, every brick cemented with love and care by her father. He was the ultimate repair man and no job was too big or too small. Armed with his assortment of tools, he could make and mend anything.

Robin often remembers this house when it was a home; the warm fire, the fleecy throws and the echo of a mother’s laughter in the cosy hallway. Her parents, the sort who held hands and wrapped arms, would tuck Robin in at night and regale her with magical tales of enchanted forests and epic adventures. Everything seemed possible back then. Every day was a little piece of magic.

The breaking of this beautiful picture was not the result of a single smash or a crash. Rather, it happened with a sneak and a creep. First, it was a chipped teacup after mother’s visit to the doctor. Then it was a fallen mirror after the too hard slamming of a door. Then withering plants, sticky surfaces and unwashed plates. As the days passed and the warmth faded from mother’s face, Robin’s fix-it father realised that not everything could be mended with sticky-tape and glue. And when the day came that there was no fire and no mother, he stopped fixing entirely. Some might say that he too was broken.

As we weave through the ebb and flow of time, we join Robin on the day that the first frozen touch of winter arrives. She’s polishing a persistently streaky window when she sees the first snowflakes fall. She pauses, her mouth agape. For the first time in what feels like forever, a little wonder sparkles in her eyes and she calls out to her father with glee: “Dad! Dad! It’s snowing!”

Her father, Fred, edges through the doorway, greying and stooped. He’s half the man he once was.

“Does this mean it’ll be Christmas soon?” Robin asks, her eyes still wide.

“Soon,” he replies, “almost a year since we lost your mum.”

“Does that mean we shouldn’t celebrate?”

“I’m not sure we have much to celebrate.”

Robin deflates along with that first flicker of snow-induced magic. For if she sees wonder in the flurry, her father sees only the ghost of all that has been. Snow can have that effect on people. Christmas had been Robin’s mother’s favourite time of year. She’d decorate the house top to bottom with silvered tinsel and twinkling lights. On Christmas Eve, they’d gather around a roaring fire – mother, father and daughter – to eat sweet treats and share stories of proud pine trees and little match girls.

Perhaps we shouldn’t celebrate, Robin thinks to herself. Perhaps it’s not right or proper to be cheerful without her. But as she looks out at the snow once more, watching it cover all outside imperfection, she has a little thought. And, as we all know, little thoughts can cause big avalanches in stories.

This house is broken… she muses… but perhaps some tinsel and fairy-lights could do as snow does – hide and distract from what’s underneath. Perhaps a decoration or two might lift her father’s spirits. Perhaps it would let them hold onto mother’s memory a little longer.

The Christmas decorations are kept in the attic and it takes Robin several attempts to get up there because the ladder is missing three steps. Her little legs can’t quite reach but, nevertheless, she persists. Once in the attic, she quickly finds the box she’s looking for, marked clearly with her mother’s handwriting. She runs her fingers across the ever familiar lettering, breathing in the overwhelming memory.

The box is full of waves of tinsel, little ornaments and paper stars. But amongst all the familiar charms and baubles, sits a beautiful trinket box she’s never seen. Curiously, she opens it and, there, she sees a little porcelain fairy, dressed in a sparkling gown with iridescent wings poking out the back and a tiny crown on a head of golden hair. And, next to it, a note in her mother’s pen: “Fred, this little fairy has a broken wing. Could you fix it?”

Turning the fairy over, Robin inspects the little torn wing. It’s unbelievably fragile, made with the finest, thinnest silk she has ever seen. But as she touches it, suddenly, the fairy bites Robin’s finger and shrieks in a silver bell voice: “Be careful!”

We did promise you a fairy tale so it shouldn’t be too surprising that we’ve reached the point of the fairy in the tale. But to Robin, this is the greatest shock in the world and, so stunned is she, that she immediately drops the little fairy.

“When I said be careful, I didn’t say throw me, did I?” the fluttery creature snaps.

“I’m sorry,” Robin stammers, “But - you bit me!”

“How would you like it if I poked around at your broken bits? Or stuck you in a dusty box for goodness knows how long. Aaaa-chooo…!” the fairy disappears into a glittery cloud of dust. Now, storytelling tradition would suggest that we give our winged friend a name, but names are precious things in the fairy realm, guarded in the whisper of the wind. There’s power in a name, you see, and fairies like to respect such forces. As such, we shall simply call our fluttery fairy: “Fairy.” And that’s what Robin calls her too.

“Fairy, how did you end up in our attic?”

“I’ll tell you my tale if you fetch me a little water. And maybe a raspberry? I’m famished.”

Though it isn’t the season for berries, Robin does her best to cater to the pocket creature’s needs, fetching a thimble of water and cutting an apple into teeny tiny pieces. Only once she’s drunk, eaten and belched a tinkly little belch, does the Fairy begin her tale…

Morna Young writes...

“I wanted to write a classic Christmas fairy-tale and so I began with those very words: Fairy. Tale… a tale about a fairy. I’ve always loved stories about fairies; from the darker creatures in Scots mythology to the sweet pocket-helpers in children’s storybooks. Where there’s a fairy, there’s magic and I knew I wanted my Christmas tale to be wrapped in enchantment.

“I also knew, instinctively, that my tale would be tinged with a bittersweet ending. The Snowman was my favourite festive story growing up and I’ve always found a certain sadness in snow. Christmas is a time where we cannot help but remember absent friends and it felt poignant and pertinent to tap into themes of loss, loneliness and a brokenness amidst the Covid-19 landscape.

“This clash of loss with the enchantment of my wee fairy felt key to the story. Thus, I began at the end: what might make our little fairy’s departure a particularly touching affair? From here, I thought about flight, flying and stilted wings. Imaginary and symbolism felt particularly prominent in my initial development… a broken clock, a broken house, a broken man… what could have happened to cause such damage? And, at the centre of it all, there’s my heroine, Robin; a young girl who will learn to fly once more.”

To sign up to receive The Lyceum's eight free Christmas tales, or to buy tickets for the four live stories, please visit www.lyceum.org.uk or contact the box office for more information on [email protected]. This production has been made possible by Creative Scotland's Performing Arts Venues Relief Fund