Flora reached up and hauled down the big book, Olim. She traced her fingertips lightly over the title, careful not to rip the fragile royal red covering. Handwritten and in Latin, Flora could not read even the first word. But that is not what she planned to do.
Perching on her small reading stool and opening up to the middle, she placed her hand on the weathered yellowing parchment. A rich and strange golden light enveloped her as she was transported far, far away.
Flora took in the delightful warmth and light – so different from the chilling, stale city air – before she opened her eyes and her lips turned up in a smile. Colourful wooden cottages dotted the countryside, whispering trees on one edge, and a winding road leading into the distance on the other. Flora took in the sight: children singing and farmers returning from a good day's work back to their homes. She pushed nostalgia out of her mind. This was all too familiar to her old life in the country, before the day mother and father did not come home and Flora was forced to pack up her things and leave for the large, smoky city. Flora tried never to think of that day, but despite her best efforts, tears leaked onto her cheeks, dripping down onto the pretty daisies and violets.
“Hello. Are you all right?”, a boy with sandy hair had come up behind her.
“Oh, hello.”
“Hey, I’ve never seen her before!”
“Shush Beth, she might be new.” The boy stopped the whirlwind of a girl, dark hair flying everywhere, trying to calm her.
“Err, I’m just visiting.” Flora answered, trying to wipe discreetly at her eyes.
“Nice to meet you, I’m Joe and this is Beth.” He motioned to Beth whose fingers were now swiftly splitting daisy stems and threading them together.
Soon, after Beth finished daisy crowns for each of them, Flora was laughing along with Joe and Beth, as well as Fran and Cindy, who they had picked up along the way. The group ran along as they showed Flora their favourite berry-picking spot, then the ‘goblin glade,’ then the river stepping stones.
“Come on, let's go home and pack a picnic, then we can show Cindy and Flora our tree,” Beth announced.
Joe, Fran and Beth who, Flora found out, were siblings, had the kindest and gentlest mother. The plump women packed plenty of meat and chutney sandwiches, orangeade, muffins and some boiled sweets for each of them. Again, nostalgia clutched at Flora’s heart as she remembered her own mother. Cindy was staring at the food in awe, and Flora watched, just realising she was dressed in a thin cotton frock and apron, much like Flora’s own outfit. Cindy explained that she was almost a maid for her stepsisters, and very rarely got proper food. That explained her skinny frame.
They ate lunch in a grassy glade by a stream, listening to the trees whisper. Fran said she knew what they were saying, but Flora didn’t believe her. Afterwards, they continued on to ‘The Most Secret Secret’.
When they arrived, Flora stared up in awe. Boughs like a ladder rose up, up, up, further than she could see. They began climbing, Flora and Cindy slower than the others, their dresses catching on spikes and ripping, neither having climbed trees before.
They passed platforms with little windows and doors cut into the ancient trunk. Each time, Joe, Beth or Fran offered information or gossip of some sort about the person who lived there – a fairy in one, a gnome in the next, a grumpy old fellow and so on. When Flora looked up she thought she could see the top, the canopy finally gave way to clouds. Clouds! How high were they? But then something was going wrong, she was falling, her bliss turning into dampness, cold, hard stone. The impact left her slumped onto the ground, tangled up in that beautiful sparkling frock. But no, not a pretty green frock anymore, instead her thin cotton dress and blouse, swirling around her feet and soaking up her disappointment, her dread at having returned to reality.
Flora knew what she had to do next. Despite her drooping shoulders at the abrupt end to her dream, there was work to be done.
She padded softly over to the large oak desk beside the wall and reached for a fresh piece of parchment. Flora forced her trembling, cramped hand to reach over to the ink pot, before quickly drawing her arm back into the small bubble of warmth and comfort surrounding the notebook, her hair falling around and creating a false sense of security.
She began to scratch swirling words onto the parchment…
Once upon a time, in a small village in the countryside, three children called Joe, Beth and Frannie prepared a picnic.
“Where shall we explore today?” Frannie asked.
“Well, I was thinking we could pick up Cindy on the way so she can escape those awful stepsisters, then we could go to…”
Flora wrote by candlelight long into the night, filling page after page with what would appear to be fantasy, but for her, was as real as anything. The comforting sound of pen on paper calmed her racing mind and allowed her to forget about the hard reality she faced everyday – she allowed herself to stop worrying about burglars, kidnappers and starvation. She focused only on the words and let her imagination run wild, continuing the adventure she had never been able to finish, continuing an adventure that she could all but wish for, friends of her own that she could all but wish for.
As Flora wrote, she thought about Cindy and unconsciously decided to make her the main character. Her full name was Cinderella, Flora decided. A girl who was overshadowed by her older stepsisters. She would go up Joe, Beth and Frannie’s enchanted tree and into those clouds, Flora could picture it. Just like she escaped to her own magical worlds, Cindy would escape into faraway worlds beyond the clouds, she would attend parties and balls, play games and sing songs. Flora could picture her sparkling gown, a swirling skirt and all layered in delicate lace. She could see her glass slippers as if they were on the table in front of her.
This was how she survived, by becoming lost in magic and fantastical worlds.
She continued writing, expressing her own feelings and life into Cinderella’s story.
Words inspired by If The Shoe Fits (2022) by May Moe. A watercolour and acrylic painting. It is inspired by Cinderella (originally a French fairytale) and Ye Xian (a Chinese tale) which share similar plots of a servant girl becoming a princess. Photo: Miriam Berkery View the full collection and artist's statement here.
