I
There was a time, which
seems distant but really was not so very long ago, when very few
people lived in cities. Back then people lived in small villages or
in solitary houses a long way from anywhere. We tend to think of
olden times as being more friendly and more simple but really people
went to great lengths to keep out of each other's way. Take, for
instance, the family who are at the heart of the story I am about to
tell. The father, well, he was either dead or working abroad for the
king, depending on who you listened to. The grandmother was so keen
to avoid the rest of her family that she had installed herself in a
remote cottage in the middle of a forest which was populated by rowdy
woodcutters and crafty, talking wolves. The mother, meanwhile,
thought so little of her only child that she was willing to send her
off into this parlous labyrinth of trees unaccompanied, and dressed
in bright clothing which was bound to draw the attention of any
ill-intentioned passer-by. The little girl? It seems that she was a
simple, beautiful soul, rather as we imagine little girls to be in
stories like this. So that's a relief.
She was, like small
people are to this day, prone to fads. Her mother, in a rare fit of
affection, had sewn her daughter a bright red cape with a hood, and
the girl wore it all the time. The villagers thereabouts called the
girl “Little Red Riding Hood”, because it was remarkable that she
always had the same garment on, and because they couldn't be bothered
to remember her real name; they had problems of their own, after all,
what with blighted crops and talking wolves and suchlike.
One day, Little Red
Riding Hood's mother (a name she resented, she was a person after
all, with an identity of her own) learned from a passing tinker that
the girl's grandmother was ill. She had some leftover cakes and a
small pat of butter that needed using up, which she wrapped hastily,
and put in a small basket. “Little Red Riding Hood,” she called
into the garden, “Take these things at once to your grandmother in
the forest!” The little girl, delighted that her mother had
embraced the nickname theretofore used only by the faceless populace
of the village, skipped to the kitchen step, collected the basket and
set out on her way. Her mother readied herself for a trip into the
village, to do some leisurely shopping, and to perhaps get her hair
done. She saw the floating crimson form of the child's riding hood
dwindle out of sight amongst the long grass at the forest's edge.
Then it disappeared altogether into the darkness of the wood. “Mmm,”
the mother thought. “What's the worst that can befall her?”
II
It took a while for the
small girl's eyes to adjust to the light beneath the forest's canopy.
As soon as she had finished squinting she saw a large, low figure
approach. A wolf it was, wearing a pair of small round spectacles
and a yellow waistcoat which was a little loose, where he was hungry.
He was otherwise dressed much as you would expect a wolf to be. He
stopped a few feet from the girl, sat up on his hind legs and spoke.
“Good morning,
delicious child. Where are you off to?”
“Good morning, sir,”
said Little Red Riding Hood, politely. “I am going to see my
grandmother a short distance hence. She has been unwell and I am
taking her victuals which I hope will restore her health.” The
wolf eyed her quizzically, not least because of the child's diction,
which seemed rather old-fashioned, even in those days.
“Okay,” said the
wolf. “I won't keep you, but I would advise, since you've gone to
the trouble of entering this here forest, that you take time to
admire the beautiful wild flowers that lie just off the quickest path
between here and your Granny's house.”
“Oh, do you know
whereabouts my grandmother's house lies?” The wolf thought for a
moment. He wondered if the girl was perhaps not as naïve as she
appeared. His avid yellow eyes looked into hers, which were blue and
trusting. The situation was developing. His initial ruse was simply
to get the girl out of earshot of a crowd of unruly woodcutters who
were chopping things, wood presumably, in a nearby clearing. Now he
saw that his plan might be easily adapted into an
eat-one-get-one-free opportunity. He was tremendously hungry.
“Remind me?”
“It's half a league
from here, as the crow flies, due west. A compact, picturesque
rustic-style property with its own mature nuttery.”
“Made of
gingerbread?”
“Made of bricks,”
said the little girl, firmly.
“Right you are,”
said the wolf. “I'll let you be on your way, don't want to keep
the old girl waiting. Don't forget to smell the flowers, and maybe
pick some. They're gorgeous.” And with that he fell gracefully
onto his forepaws and trotted off westwards.
The forest was indeed
full of beautiful flowers, most of whose names her grandmother knew
or had invented. The dew wort, the badger lily, the philanderus. In
places the sunlight pierced the the leaves overhead in narrow beams,
illuminating small patches of the forest floor, and revealing every
small thing in the air above. Little Red Riding Hood lost herself in
the splendour of the moment, of the then and there. She quite forgot
about her mother and her grandmother and the wolf and her poor
father, either lost or dead or in France or somewhere even more
horrendous. She pulled her hood down and danced to the music of the
forest, which was mostly just crickets.
