The signal was given. The brass band struck up a joyous tune and moved forward, sunlight glinting off their instruments. High-stepping majorettes, dressed in ra-ra skirts, followed in their wake with batons twirling and pom-poms shaking. Then a cavalcade of colourful carnival floats passed by the cheering crowd. The May Day Parade was fully under way.
“Isn’t it marvellous?’ Joan turned to her twelve-year old daughter with a smile.
In response Sandy simply scowled. She had just spotted the float bearing the May Queen to her coronation on the village green. Joan turned away with a sigh. She knew how desperately Sandy had yearned to be chosen for that role. Instead, it had given to one of her classmates. Moira’s face with its flawless complexion was framed by wavy, dark tresses that suited her to perfection and endeared her to many. When her name was announced as the chosen candidate, she had flashed a triumphant smile at Sandy, who turned away to hide her tears.
Joan, an experienced dressmaker, had been asked to make the coronation dress for the young girl. She had thoroughly enjoyed designing and making it but was all too aware that whenever Moira came for a fitting, Sandy would stomp upstairs to avoid her rival. To try and soften the situation Joan bought a doll and dressed it in a mini version of the coronation dress.
“There you are my love. You have your own May Queen now.”
Sandy had taken the gift with an ill grace but was polite enough to thank her mother. Joan glanced at her now and smiled. The replica queen was firmly held in her small hands.
Sandy muttered to herself, “It’s not fair! Why couldn’t they have chosen me?’ But she knew the reason. “Sandy by name and Sandy by nature”. Her sandy coloured hair and heavily freckled face marked her out as different, falling short of the popular idea of beauty. At best she was teased about it; at worst, she was bullied. As a result, she had withdrawn more and more into herself. The few friends she had fell away.
She had become a lonely, unhappy child staying in her room, and reading a multitude of books; not all of them suitable for an adolescent girl with an unsettled mind. One of them, “A History of Black Magic: An Exploration of Voodoo,” had particularly caught her imagination.
Now, as she watched the ‘Royal Float’ approach, tears dripped silently down Sandy’s face. The May Queen sat happily on her throne, surrounded by her handmaidens. She nursed a beautiful bouquet of flowers in one arm, their pink and white blooms splashing colour across her white dress. As the float made its processional way past the assembled crowd, Moira smiled and waved to everyone. Sandy’s rage grew at the sight.
“Huh! She’s even blowing kisses at people. Gross!”
A black haze descended; anger and resentment spilled over into action.
She pulled out the hat pin she had hidden in her dress pocket.
“I hate you!” She hissed as she drove the pin hard into the chest of her doll. At that moment there was a collective gasp from the crowd. Sandy looked up. The May Queen had slumped forward, her hand clutching her breast, and now lay prone on the floor of the float. Her bouquet fell apart and tumbled to the ground, disappearing under the feet of those walking alongside. The Parade bumped to a disjointed halt, the triumphal music dying away.
A medic rushed forward and started giving Moira cardiac massage. The crowd fell silent. A sudden shriek rent the air.
“My baby! Save my little girl!”
It was Moira’s mother. She ran along the roadway and flung herself on her knees alongside her daughter. Her distraught cries carried through the silent crowd.
“C’mon, Moira. … Don’t leave us. … You can do it. … Don’t die!”
Sandy stood motionless, frozen by the enormity of what was happening in front of her. She hadn’t really meant that to happen. She tugged at her mother’s dress and whimpered.
“Mum, mum! It’s all my fault!”.
Joan turned round to look at her and saw the impaled doll in Sandy’s hands.
“Christ, Sandy! What have you done?”
She snatched the doll from her and pulled out the offending pin. At that moment, a cheer went up. A babble of voices broke out.
‘She’s breathing!”
“She’s alive!”
“Thank God!”
Sandy and her mother turned to look. Moira was being helped to her feet and an intense conversation was taking place. The medic seemed to be trying to lead Moira away to a waiting ambulance. She, however, was clearly reluctant to go and was pleading with her mother and the carnival organiser to be allowed to continue.
A huge cheer went up as, pale and trembling, she was helped to resume her place on her throne.
“Long live the Queen!” A voice shouted from the crowd. The cry was soon taken up by others as the procession resumed its journey towards the village green. A throng of people followed.
Joan, however, had a firm hold on Sandy who was trying to move away and join them.
“No! Stay here my girl! I don’t know what’s happened today but you’re coming home with me.”
She glanced around her. No-one seemed to have noticed the pair of them nor made any connection between the dramatic events of a few moments ago and themselves.
Soon, they were standing all alone at the roadside. Sandy threw herself at her mother and wrapped her arms tight around her. Convulsive sobs shook her body, and her face was as pale as Moira’s had been just a few moments earlier.
“I’m sorry, mummy! I never really meant that to happen. It just seemed like a good idea - a bit of a joke. I didn’t really want to hurt her. It was the book that made me think of it.
“What book?”
“The one on voodoo. It’s really interesting.”
“What the hell are you doing reading books like that?”
Joan paused. Realisation struck. How well did she know her daughter these days - what she was doing or thinking?’ She had been so engrossed in trying to make a living for them both since her husband had walked out one night, never to return, that she had forgotten to make time for Sandy.
Her tone of voice softened.
“Alright, my love. Let’s go home and take it easy now. We’ll get ourselves a nice ‘cuppa’ and then sit on the sofa together. It’s time for us to have a little chat.”
Holding Sandy’s hand gently, Joan led the way home. Once inside, they snuggled up together.
Sandy spoke in a quavering voice.
“I did a bad thing today, didn’t I mummy? Will they come and take me to prison?”
“No, of course not.” But I need to get some help for you - counselling or something. The sooner the better.
After a while, Joan switched on the television “Just for the news, my love.”
Sandy watched disinterestedly as various images flashed across the screen. Suddenly she sat bolt upright. The May Day parade was before their eyes. Joan jumped up and increased the volume. The news anchorman spoke.
“Drama unfolded today in the little village of Snapbury-on-the-Hill. The young girl chosen to be May Queen, Moira Smith, was suddenly taken ill and needed to be resuscitated as the parade wound its way toward the village green for her coronation. Apparently, unknown to anyone, even her parents, she has an irregular heartbeat. The heat and excitement of the day obviously affected her and caused an involuntary spasm of the heart. I am delighted to say that despite the medical emergency she was able to continue and be crowned after all.”
The screen then showed the moment when the crown was placed on Moira’s head. A roar of joy greeted the moment and a fiddle struck up. A group of young children, looking resplendent in their costumes of red and green, took up their places and began the celebratory dance around the Maypole. All was well.
Joan gave Sandy a little squeeze and spoke in a reassuring tone.
“There we are then, my love. It was nothing to do with you after all.”
Sandy smiled weakly,
“But I’m going to burn that voodoo book first thing in the morning.”
Joan reached behind her and picked a lace cloth from the dresser. She dropped it over Sandy’s hair with a kiss.
“You are the one and only queen in my life. That’s all that matters.”
Bio
Emmie Blake has been writing for many years, both professionally and for pleasure. Her work through the years has brought her into contact with many people who are disadvantaged by health or circumstances. Those concerns spill over into her writing. Over the years she has had poems and short stories published in anthologies in the UK and in India. She is currently a co-administrator of Aspiring Writers’ Society and a member of its Editorial Team for this e-zine. She enjoys living amongst the hills of Wales (UK) with her husband and dog.
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