Real Talk

Littlewood combed the narrow streets of the small Italian town.  The sat-nav on his phone was proving useless, unable to distinguish between the many alleys and side streets, the mews and piazzas that lead into each other, the street map an orgy of snakes and worms.

There!  There was the little church he used to pass every day on his way to school.  Or would have done, if he’d made it to school.  He had been diverted on his way by something… Littlewood’s memories of his childhood were hazy, to say the least.  As though parts of his mind were blocked off.

There was the little bridge over the trickling culvert… The covered well… The baker’s shop…

So, where was…?

Littlewood rotated on the spot.  Everything was vaguely familiar and yet completely strange.  He supposed he could ask a local – if he could find any, among these deserted streets – again, leaning on his phone’s internal translator, the language of his early years forgotten.  He had tried to learn it several times but it would never stick.  As though the part of his brain for retaining Italian was missing.

He was on the verge of giving up when he saw it.  The bay window of mullioned glass.  The old toymaker’s shop was empty now.  He had sort of expected it.  The old man long gone, too, no doubt.  At night, Littlewood could almost conjure the old man’s face.  The drooping white moustaches, the glint of his half-moon spectacles. A twinge of guilt pumped through Littlewood’s heart. He had always meant to keep in touch. A toymaker’s shop had seemed too small, too enclosed, when there was the whole wide world beyond.

He tried the door.  Locked, of course.  But with the judicious use of a forceful shoulder… He stumbled over the threshold into the dark and dusty shop.  There were still hooks on the walls where the clocks would hang.  The silence they had left behind was eerie.  In the backroom, the workbench – his birthplace!

Littlewood almost swooned.  He ran his hand against the chipped and scratched wood.

Stairs led up to a tiny bedroom under the rafters.  The sun was going down.  Littlewood didn’t have much time.  He clambered up the stairs and hurried to the curtainless window.  The sky darkened.  Littlewood’s eyes searched the gathering gloom.  Where would it appear?  The first star… It was his one chance to make his dearest wish.

Light pollution from the from the modern autostrada that circled the village meant Littlewood could see no stars at all.

He slumped.  It was hopeless.  He was stuck the way he was.

Heaving his shoulders, he slumped down the stairs.  In the workroom, an old woman was waiting, her face creased in a gentle smile.

“Hello,” she said softly.  “I had a feeling you would come.”

Littlewood started.  “Is it really you?”

The old woman nodded.  “Time affects us all,” she sighed.  “Even blue fairies.”

Littlewood grabbed her gnarled and knotted hands in his.  His eyes searched hers, pleading, imploring.

“Can you do it?  Can you grant my wish?  Please!  You’re my only hope.”

The old woman shook her head.

“My magic is spent.  But look at you, what a fine man you turned out to be!  But there is a sadness within you, my dear.”

“I can’t do this anymore,” Littlewood’s head drooped.  “I’ve had enough of the real world.  I don’t want to be real a moment longer.”

“Oh, my dear!  What has brought you to such a sorry state?  I remember when your dearest wish was to be a real boy, and so I granted it, after your acts of bravery and sacrifice.”

“Life was simpler then.  But now everything comes with strings attached.  I hate my job. I’m in debt up to my ears. My wife – even she treated me like her puppet.  And she tells me she is pregnant!  But how can I bring a child into this wicked world?”

The old woman smiled.  She placed a hand like a crumple of old leaves on Littlewood’s head.

“You will be fine, my dear,” her voice soft and reassuring.  “Real life brings many challenges, disappointments, horrors, and sorrows.  But sometimes, among all the pain, there are moments of joy and love.  All of these mean you know you are alive.”

Littlewood sniffed.  He knuckled tears from his eyes.

“I’ve been such a blockhead.”

“Go home,” said the old woman.  “Be real.”

Littlewood nodded.  He headed for the door.  He turned to thank the old woman but she was no longer there.