FanStory.com - Lavender Fieldsby JP

When I was nine years old, Mummy and Daddy left me with my grandparents in the Cotswolds. They wanted to go on a grown-up holiday. They never came back.

Granma and Gramps passed away three years ago, so now I’m here alone. Just little Elizabeth. Well, not so little, I am twenty-eight years old now.

So, I suppose its OK, besides, they were good enough to leave their beautiful little dormer cottage all for me.

Oh, you would have delighted in meeting my grandparents, they really were the sweetest little old couple, perfect in every way.

I was beyond myself with grief, when they failed to return from a routine walk in the lavender fields.

I sometimes feel like I could get lost in those fields, but try as I might I never have.

Every weekend I retrace their steps. I walk across the field, then around, but never through, the Rollright Stones. These wonderful stones attract people from all over the world. I guess they are some kind of ancient fairy ring or something, legend has it, that if you walk through them you will be cursed.

Where was I? yes! I go around the stones, then across the stream, up the crooked path and into those beautiful purple fields.

How I love to gaze upon all those fragrant rows and rows of lavender. Oh, the place is heavenly, you feel as tough you might float right out of your body. But I never have.

Apart from loved ones who disappear into thin air, my life is unremarkable. Correction, my life was unremarkable.

Each morning when I wake, I sit up in my bed, swing my legs out to the right, and feel around for my slippers. I really can’t abide cold feet.

From the side of my bed to the ensuite bathroom is ten steps precisely . There are never obstacles in my way, because I am impeccable about cleanliness and order.

So, you can imagine my surprise when last Wednesday morning I tripped over a substantial … something, midway to the bathroom, which in turn set my poor face on a collision course with the door frame.

My darling nose was visibly tilted to the left of my face, and it was a frightful shade of pink and purple, it jolly well hurt.

My eyes were blurry from the tears standing in them, never the less I stood straight, smoothed out my night gown and did my best to identify the culprit.

I heard him first, he had scarpered underneath the bed, I got down on my knees, but it was too dark to see. I reached up and took my phone from the bedside table, activated the flash light and looked again.

His little pink face was now clearly visible, his eyes were wide with fear, his little snout was wet with tears.

To my surprise he answered me back, at this point I was only half sure he was a piglet, and I had never met a talking piglet before.

“D-Do y-you promise not to eat me all up?” He sobbed between words. Poor chap was frightfully upset.

Out he came, clutching his little navy cap with the letters NY embroidered in blue and white. He wore denim shorts and a plain white t-shirt. He was a dainty sight to behold.

He looked at me, his face twisted in confusion before responding “I am a pig, we don’t do shoes.”

Secretly I reprimanded myself for asking such a silly question, but on some level my brain must have been screaming and clutching at the bars of what ever dungeon prison it was confined to.

A whisper of thought escaped from the depts ‘none of this is normal’ it said.

He looked thoughtful for a moment and then asked “What would you like to call me?”

Impatiently, I stamped my foot. “Now stop this nonsense, you have a name, tell it to me and I shall call you by it!”

“You don’t speak pig. You can’t speak it.” he made a series of grunts and snorts, that, right enough made little sense to me.

“Come Harold, downstairs with me, we shall drink tea and have some breakfast.” I led the way to the kitchen with Harold in close pursuit.

The chairs in the kitchen were too tall for Harold to climb, so I begged his pardon before lifting him up, he really was quite tiny.

I located two cushions from the living room to elevate his position enough that he might be able to reach his plate.

I set out toasted bread, tomatoes, some nice olive oil and some fine wensleydale cheese. As I added the usual English kitchen table necessities I was shocked to hear him ask. “Got any bacon?” I felt it best to ignore the question.

“Shall I be Mother?” I asked as I lifted the teapot to pour. He nodded yes, before again asking.

“Got any bacon?” Setting the tea pot down, I tilted my head quizzically to the right as I often did when confused.

“Oh yes!” He replied with a look of glee stretched across his tiny face. “It’s my favourite thing in all the world, we have it most days.”

Unsure how to proceed I opted for ignorance. “Well as I said, I’m a vegetarian, so I don’t have any bacon.”

I glanced around the table, then slowly I lifted the lid of the butter dish, searching his little pink face for a reaction.

“That’s it, oh golly gosh, that’s bacon!” He exclaimed while beaming a smile from little pink ear, to little pink ear, shifting energetically in his seat and clapping his front hooves together.

Slightly relived, I scooped some up on a knife, and smeared it thickly on a warm piece of toast, before handing it to him.

For once I was not so irritated at being answered by someone with a full mouth of food.

“My Friend Jack told me about it. One day he invited me to be breakfast for his family, he said bacon was the best thing he had ever tasted and he promised I would love it. He tried to sneak me out. But Muma was so angry, she caught us and said Jack was not my friend. She told me I could never see him again”.

He broke another piece of toast and crammed it into his mouth before continuing. “But next day your Mummy brought me bacon. It was in a little dish that looked like that, but it had a little blue and red windmill on the top.”

A surrealness filled my head as though I was floating, the windmill butter dish did seem familiar, I vaguely remembered one from my childhood before my parents went away.

As I listened to his story, I almost missed his reference to Mummy. As it registered, I feared I might be going mad. That recess of my mind was again sending forth echoes and whispers from its depths. ‘It’s not real, none of it is real.’

“Yes.” replied Harold as he munched the last of the toast. “Then your Granma told me you always had some and if I asked you for it, you would give it to me.”

“Harold, I must insist you take me to them once you have finished your breakfast, I have more bacon in the fridge, you can have it all if you take me there.

Out the rear door of the kitchen he ran, and I followed close behind, what a sight we must have been. He in in his little outfit and cap and I in my nightgown and slippers with a bloody nose and bruises under each of my eyes, giggling gleefully as we ran.

I hesitated momentarily when we came to the Rollright stones, local legend reverberated in my brain. As I carefully walked around, I looked to see Harold was right in there, right in the middle. Sensing my hesitation, he began to reassure me, it was simply a legend to keep normal folk out of their secret land.

In I went, casting all my worries to four corners, I half expected to be struck by lightning, but that of course did not happen. On we ran, across the stream, tip toeing on stepping stones, then over the fence to the lavender fields.

As I ran my feet lost touch with the ground, we were floating, it was the most glorious feeling, the lavender looked like a carpet of crushed velvet beneath us as we glided and wooshed past, picking up ever more speed as we went. The butterflies in my tummy working furiously now with each sudden dip and elevation. This was the most exciting thing I had ever done, in my life.

“This way. “Yelled Harold. As he suddenly flew up about one hundred feet, I don’t know how I followed him, but it happened.

I closed my eyes tight as the ground appeared to move closer and closer. Then all at once I began floating like a feather, as if there was no such thing as gravity, and as if I was lighter than air.

My foot gently touched down on the softest landing. I can’t tell you what it was because we have no frame of reference for it in our little world. It was pink and fluffy life candy floss, but not sticky, and it supported my weight just fine without flattening or being diminished in any way.

As I opened my eyes to look around, I was thrilled to see so many wonderful pastel colours on buildings, road ways, street furniture, every imaginable surface was delightful.

Everything was spotless clean and organised, no rubbish on the street, no fumes rising from the tiny little cars. Everyone was smiling and happy.

Of course, everyone was a pig, like Harold. Then a thought intruded on my mind, perhaps everyone here thinks I look odd, since I am not a pig.

I looked to my hands, and they had become hooves. I gently touched my nose, it was no longer sore and swollen, but it was flat and snout like.

“Harold, am I a…” before I could finish my sentence a familiar and welcome voice filled my ears. “Yes, and what a beautiful little piggy you are.”

I spun around. “Mummy.” I placed my forehead against hers and tears flowed from my eyes. “It has been so long.” Lovingly like only a mother can she brushed against me and fussed over me, and I felt such a strong sense of belonging that I never wanted it to end.

“Well then, can I get a hello?” another familiar voice. “Daddy.” I exclaimed before excitedly running the short distance to him, we playfully rolled around on the fluffy cloudlike surface of this wonderful place before I thought to ask any questions.

“Have you both been here all this time?” I blurted the question out with all the excitement of a nine year-old who was thrilled to see her parents. They nodded in unison.

“But its so close to the house, why have you never come to visit?” No answer came back, just a sadness in their eyes.

Just then, the beautifully pink and purple pastel sky started to crack, from within a brilliant bright light was forcing its way through its very fabric, as it began to tear apart, the blackest of black skies could be glimpsed beyond.

“You should go.” daddy said sadly. “You’re not supposed to be here yet.”

A wind had started to pick up now, it swirled around my feet and grew steadily, making it more and more difficult to keep my balance.

I reached for Harold, he stepped back out of my reach. “I can’t go with you this time Lizzy, but thanks for the bacon.”

I blew kisses to Mummy and Daddy as the wind lifted me up and spun me towards the torn fabric of this fabulous little place. The voice from my mind was no longer whispering but booming –‘none of this is real Lizzy, its not real ‘

As suddenly as it had begun it had finished. I opened my eyes, a man was leaning over me shining a light in my face. A woman was removing sticky pads from chest. A searing pain ripped through my head and my nose and cheeks throbbed.

“There you are, welcome back Elizabeth” she beamed. “You had us worried my love”.

As I lay on the floor, I looked around my little bedroom. I noticed the smear of blood on the doorframe. The estate agent was sitting on my bed with a cup of tea, telling those around her how she found me when she arrived.

It all made a familiar, rational kind of sense, the more I listened, the more the pieces fit together. There were no talking pigs and my heart sunk as I realised there was no Mummy or Daddy either.

I permitted myself to cry, just for a moment, nothing messy. Just a small indulgence to pass the time while the paramedics negotiated difference between the narrow staircase and the stretcher I was strapped to.

Once safely in the hallway, the estate agent asked if I still wished to sell the house, I shook my head no. I didn’t remember why I would want to leave such a lovely place, but whatever the reason it didn’t apply anymore.

“No bother love, I’ll leave your keys with the paramedics. Oh, by the way, can I ask, where did you get such a lovely lavender arrangement?” She indicated to the sideboard in the hall.

I was quite sure I have never encountered an arrangement as magical, a beautiful glass globe inside which were the fluffiest of pastel clouds and rows and rows of lavender fields beneath, a glorious soft light emanated from inside and the smell of lavender filled the air. and from some hidden place deep within in my mind, escaped the whisper ‘it’s all real Lizzy, it’s all real.’