The Magic Faraway Tree

My mum wouldn't let me wear the pots and pans to school. I remember us standing in the kitchen and her telling me “They’re too heavy!” and “you won’t be able to sit down without making a racket”. My dad suggested from the lounge that she just let me, it would make for a good laugh and a photo, even if I couldn't keep my costume on for the whole day.

Instead, my mum insisted that I go as Silky the fairy. In hindsight, I see how this would be a much more practical costume for the book week parade. It would have been hard to practice my handstands with a skirt made of frying pans. She made my dress from this beautiful pink mesh material, with light green and blue splatters. I can see her sitting next to the sewing machine, cross-checking with me “you are sure that you want to go as Silky, not Moon-face”.

To be fair, Moonface is another excellent character. And I am renowned for my indecisiveness, even in my newfound adulthood. Moonface was the first to welcome the children into the tree, and could always be relied on to offer the children an expedited trip home on his slide that swirled around the inside of the trunk, taking its passenger safely to the bottom.

I can see why Mother would question my decision right up until the moment it would have been too late to turn back.

My older sister teased me, as all good big sisters do. She said I should dress up as Mr Whatshisname, because I was so forgetful that I would forget the character's name anyway. I told her that it was a stupid idea because Mr Whatshisname wore normal clothes. She probably understood the funny poetry to that dress up idea at the time, but I only understand it now that I have come to write about it now.

She was in high school before I even learnt to read. This meant that she was the involuntary narrator of my bed time stories. We cuddled up,flush against each other, even though she had a double bed and we would fit far more easily. She would read me “just one chapter”, but my budding skills of negotiation would quickly turn this into at least 2-3 chapters, if not more. They were long chapters too, or at least my young brain thought they were. God, it was delightfully satisfying when she would read for too long and my Dad would have to come and tell us to stop.

There were nights though, that no persuasion from her little sister would make her want to read me more than the one chapter my parents told her to read. She would grumble about even having to read me one chapter when I requested. “You’re reading this again! Look at all the other books you have” she would try to persuade me, but to no avail.

Steadfast, I would climb into her bed with my tattered copy of the Magic Faraway Tree and sit beside her, open at the page with the bookmark. She would inevitably try to skip bits in a borderline petulant attempt to finish faster so that I would go away.

“You missed where….” I would correct her with a sense of indignity that she would even try such dirty tactics. I couldn't even read yet, but I knew the story by heart. I knew the characters, their conversations, their musings, the minutiae of the narrative. She couldn't trick me.

We laugh about it now. These little stories come up every so often; Christmas, birthdays, when we are sitting around having drunk maybe one too many beers. The story connects us now, just as it did then. The story was a vehicle through which we built our relationship, and helped to create the family dynamic that continues on, despite our independent growth. It enables me to examine my relationship with my family through the lens of my inner child with the small amount of wisdom that has been growing since before I ever learnt to read for myself