Follow the Yellow Brick Road

FOLLOW THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD1

By Shirley Heelas2

“Just take the ticket will you? I haven’t got all day! I’m a messenger and you’re not the only person today with a message!”
The tiny being persevered, trying to drag me out of my trance with his strangely deep voice.
“For the love of Gaia, what’s wrong with you? Haven’t you seen a goblin before?”
If I hadn’t been in a state of suspended animation, I might have quipped, “Not such a miserable faced, rude one as you, no!”
But a weak “no” was all I managed.
He continued to hold out his small, chubby hand. And tapped a pointed shoe.
You know how in films people move in slow motion? Hands gingerly reaching out, seeming to fear the burn of an invisible fire?
Well, that is how I was, inching my hand forwards as though there was a scimitar poised in the air above to hack it off. In my own living room.
It was a very small green ticket. And nothing happened when I touched it. Don’t know what I expected really.
The little man’s eyebrows raised, his wrinkly face showing utter disdain for this feeble being before him.
I think I was trembling.
Well how would you react if suddenly confronted by a vertically challenged hairy creature in your living room?
Maybe you’d say “Hi! For me? Oh thank you? Cup of tea?”
You’re fooling yourself. You would be frozen to the spot just like me.
With a green ticket in your hand.
“I’ll come back tomorrow. Let me know your decision then.”
With that, my visitor opened the door and, crouching down, disappeared through it.
Silence. I hadn’t heard the door close.
I’d painted the tree on the wall. My new living room had no fireplace, and I have never liked the television to be the focal point in a room. And the little door had been for sale in the window of my favourite witchy shop down town. A fairy door they called it. To the amusement of my friends, I had glued it onto the wall, onto the tree trunk. It looked amazing, certainly a talking point. Like a door to a tiny old castle, dark weathered oak with cast iron fittings.
But it was never meant to open.
I blinked. Too much wine last night? Some magic mushrooms in the kettle?
I forced myself to take my eyes off the door on the wall. To look down at my hand. No escaping it. The ticket was real. Like a very small bus ticket, but lime green. And shiny. With tall black lettering on it. “Ticket to Destiny. Admit One.”
I placed it down carefully and went to make a coffee. Maybe I was still dreaming.
If I was, the hot coffee burning my throat seemed real enough. And I only had to get as far as the living room door to see that there was still a small piece of shiny green paper on the coffee table.
Kneeling on the mat, I felt the door. Tried to pull it off the wall. It wasn’t going to budge. Firmly glued as I’d intended.
So I tapped on it. To see if there was a hollow sound I suppose. There wasn’t.
I’d only just sat back on the sofa when the door silently opened again, just a fraction of an inch, and a set of whiskers appeared, followed by thin, grey feline features peeking around the door.
“Did you want to ask something?”
I gripped the edge of the seat.
This new visitor tossed its head in disgust, long pointy ears waggling.
“Boggart told you he’d be back tomorrow! Do you think we have nothing better to do than come backwards and forwards through here?”
Long bony legs became visible, and a pale stubbly body. Mange sprang to mind.
“The Ferrishyns thought they were doing you a favour by making you the offer. Think yourself lucky you stupid woman! And leave us alone until tomorrow.”
I heard the door slam this time.
And my front door open.
“Chinese people should stick to cooking wontons! They know nothing about running a paper shop.”
The armchair howled, a loud splintering sound, as the huge pair of trackies fell into it. “Thought you were making me a coffee?”
I don’t get to see my husband’s face much. It is always hidden by the covers of newspapers. No, that’s a lie. He would never read a newspaper. He is more a footie score and “Cor, look at the tits on that!” kind of reading matter man.
I made his hand a coffee. It didn’t say anything as it appeared from behind the large chested woman to grab the mug and pull it back into its own little world.
I listened to the silence. What had happened to the man I married? Or had this grunting lump of blubber always been hidden there behind the mask?
What was there left? Years of talking at a hand and faceless belches.
My library books lay stacked in the corner. Books were my escape into a fantasy world. Of happy lives in colourful places. My favourites were about fairies and other dimensions. I suppose such stories had been the prompt for my fairy tree with its little door. … And my hallucination?
I picked up the ticket. … No, I couldn’t tell him. He’d just laugh in my face and then go back to rearranging the contents of his joggers. And ignoring my existence.
I kept it in my pocket for the rest of the day. Autopilot is not a bad existence you know. Your head is one place and your body doing things without you realising it. It even made me a nice toad in the hole while I wasn’t looking.
And took me all the way through the Eastenders omnibus while my head was behind that little door.
I didn’t even come to a decision. Just did the normal routine with a goblin’s ticket in my pocket. But didn’t sleep much.
And now Boggart is here again. And I am going with him. He says I can never come back. Well, only on All Hallows Eve. And then you won’t know I’m there. But I’ll be able to see you.
Nice of them to let me leave you this note. Try to explain it to everyone. I know you won’t understand, and probably don’t even believe where I say I’m going.
But those steps I can see through the open doorway, those vivid yellow steps, are irresistible.
And I’m sure I can hear music.
I’m now going to hand him my ticket.
Take care of your dad for me.3

…. x4