Two fascinating short stories for you to enjoy
When six-year-old Chloe shares a secret with Tilda, it gives her much to think about
Tilda was the kind of child who was impressed by other children: a follower rather than a leader. I used to notice her on the edge of a playground group while I waited at pick-up time. She’d listen to the other girls and agree with them, supporting their plans rather than instigating anything.
Sometimes I worried.wasn’t it the job of a parent to teach a child confidence? But Tilda was happy, so I left it alone.
She was six when she came home more than usually bouncy and full of the day’s news.
“Chloe just told me!” she exclaimed. Her eyes shone with the thrill of something or other.
“Told you what?” I asked.
“She lost a tooth on Tuesday and put it by her bed, then she woke up and saw the tooth fairy! You will never guess who it is.”
I was having trouble not laughing, looking at Tilda’s face, which was taut with excitement.
But I also wanted to know about Chloe’s experience with the tooth fairy.
She leaned towards me, deadly serious.
“It’s Chloe’s dad! Chloe’s dad is the tooth fairy!”
Her little head waggled from side to side.
I thought quickly. My husband and I always try to be truthful with Tilda but, equally, I didn’t want to bring her fantasy life crashing down.
“Oh, my goodness,tilda,” I replied. “I can’t believe that you’ve found out!” Then I sighed.
“Yes.we knew all along. Jim, Chloe’s dad, is the tooth fairy.” I squatted down to her level.“you know it’s a secret, right?” Tilda nodded solemnly. “You must not share this,” I warned her.“can you imagine if everyone knew?”
“Mr Gutteridge runs the café and everything,” she whispered.
“Yes, he does, and being the tooth fairy as well means he is very busy.”
She frowned.
“Sometimes he looks tired.” “Wouldn’t you?” I asked.“dashing around at night –” “In their red car?” “I suppose so,” I replied. “Wow.” Three weeks later,tilda lost a tooth. My husband and I dithered about whether to reinforce this flight of imagination about Chloe’s dad, this fascinating response by two small girls to mundane reality.
In the end, we typed a tiny note, wrapped it around a 50p piece, and laid it beside Tilda’s bed. It read,‘love, Jim, your tooth fairy’.
In the morning, she hurtled into the kitchen with the note held high.
“See!” she said.“the tooth fairy signed my note! That’s because I know.”
That lost tooth was followed swiftly by another, and another note from Jim, and Tilda glowed with her secret.
As the weeks passed I noticed her becoming quieter and thoughtful. Sad, even. Chloe had often come to
To Tilda, the cafe was cool; you could get milkshakes with ‘shots’ of vanilla
our house for tea, but those visits had become rare.
One windy morning on our walk to school,tilda turned to me.“chloe’s dad does two very cool things, Mummy.”
Jim Gutteridge owned the only café in our town, and he was considered by all the under-10s as being the very pinnacle of glamour. Chloe’s mum helped in the café, and she was worshipped to a slightly lesser degree. Chloe herself basked in their reflected glory.
To Tilda, the café was cool; you could get milkshakes with “shots” of vanilla or butterscotch, and fairy cakes with proper twirly icing.
“That’s true,” I agreed.
“The tooth fairy has sort of a super power,” she said.“and he’s the frothy milk person, too. Chloe says he’s interesting.” “I suppose she’s right,” I said.
“My daddy is a law person.” My husband, Peter, was a family lawyer, and a very good one. He went to work in a suit every day and came home again.
He never served coffee with chocolate powder in the shape of a heart, so I suppose he didn’t ooze any glamour. Tilda was too young to understand the complexity of his work.
“Chloe’s so lucky,” she said.
Envy shone from her.
I hadn’t anticipated what the tooth fairy incident might do to Tilda.
It seemed to reinforce her status in her mind as second fiddle. Chloe wasn’t domineering, but Tilda felt inferior.
Peter and I discussed it, and we didn’t like that she was feeling low, but we weren’t quite sure what to do about it, or whether we should do anything.
“Chloe’s my best friend.” she said over breakfast one morning.
We nodded.
“I like her. So I think it’s OK that her daddy is the tooth fairy and café man. Chloe asked me why she hasn’t been here for tea. She was sad. Can I ask her?”
“Of course!” I smiled.“how about Monday?”
Between Peter and me there passed an intense look of pride.tilda, we knew, was a follower, but she was also a person with a generous spirit, and a thinker. She was the kind of individual who could rise above envy in the search for friendship. She was the kind of person we’d hoped to bring up. “You’re amazing,” Peter told her. Tilda lowered her voice.
“The tooth fairy,” she said conspiratorially,“only gives Chloe twenty pence! I think that’s so she doesn’t get big-headed.”
My daughter retained her wonderful imagination, though nowadays she claims she can’t remember believing Mr Gutteridge was the tooth fairy. She’s never stopped being generous and thoughtful, either, and we’ve never stopped being proud of her.