My Creative Writing class

As you know I've joined a creative writing class and am busy trying to think of things to write about! Anyhow, I came up with this short story and thought I'd post it here to see what anyone thinks. I'll explain properly at the end of the post.

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‘Once Upon A time….’ All the best stories start off in the same way don’t they? Nurse knows all the best stories and she always begins with the same three magic words so I will too.I’m sat in my room and as it’s a Wednesday its Mrs White’s day off. Mrs White is my governess chosen for me by my mama not long before she died and she’s a thin, withered up stick of a woman who uses the birch rod on me whenever my attention strays from my lessons. I don’t like Mrs White.

The sound of gravel crunching under a horse’s hooves sends me flying to the window and with my nose pressed flat against the uneven glass stare out the window. A few moments later I watch my father ride around the corner of the coach house on the dark bay thoroughbred- mama’s last gift to him. He’s wearing his best blue coat and his boots are so shiny you can see your face in them and I know where he’s going. I’ve been eavesdropping on the servants again, they know all the gossip whether it’s going on in this house or in the Kings palace. Servants know all sorts of things that young girls shouldn’t know and that’s why I listen behind doors and on stairways.Yes, I know where my Papa is going dressed up in all his finery and riding his most expensive horse…. And I know something else too! No one is watching me!

I dart to the door and carefully open it to spy out. I’m supposed to be staying in my room today and reading my book but knowing Papa is out the way along with Mrs White I have a plan. I check the landing to make sure that the maid isn’t putting things away in the linen cupboard- that is just down the corridor from me. The corridor is empty so I open the door a little further, not too far though as it creaks if you open it too far. I squeeze through the gap and tiptoe out onto the landing.Downstairs I hear the murmur of voices from the entrance, the scuffling of feet and the noise of the library door closing. Nurse and Mrs Biggs the cook have gone to steal Papa’s brandy again.

My steps are light as I walk along the passageway and down a small flight of steps to the big bedroom that looks out over the rose garden at the rear of the house. This was my Mama’s room and I’m not supposed to go in here.My hand finds the handle, turns it and pushes open the door- and then I’m in! I close the door quickly behind me and tiptoe over to the huge four poster bed that drips with lace hangings. Memories come flooding back to me… Mama laughing getting ready for a ball, Mama in bed wearing a silly cap over her golden hair and….and Mama lying there white and cold while outside the sun shone so hotly.I blink back the tears that threaten to spill from my eyes and wander over to the dressing table still set out as she left it. Perfume bottles stacked in one corner, tins of cosmetics, a chain with a silver pendant lies strewn amongst pearls and then the fan that she used on her last outing. Everyone said Mama was so beautiful that she should have married a prince and not the dancing master who’d stolen a kiss when he was supposed to be teaching her to waltz.On Mama’s dressing table sits a miniature of her grandfather as a young man. Great grandfather was a Duke and not pleased when Mama ran away with Papa at her coming out ball. Mama said it was because he’d plans for her but that he’d soon come round to the idea especially when he’d first laid eyes on me as a newborn babe. I’ve never seen Great Grandfather, he’d gone away and no one knew where…

I walk over to the large object that stood in the corner veiled with a black silk sheet. This was the very thing that I’d sneaked away from my room to look at; carefully I twitch the end of the cloth and the silken fabric slips down to reveal the portrait of my mother. She wore a shimmering ball gown and she was only seventeen. It was painted just before she eloped with papa.I gaze at her beauty and sneak a glance into the dressing mirror to look at my own reflection. It shows a young girl wearing a plain dress covered in a starched white pinafore, thick woollen grey stockings and sensible shoes. I look at my Mama’s wonderful golden hair and to my own dull blonde. Mama had pretty blue eyes and I have green, Mama was happy and I am sad, Mama was all I wanted to be and never will be. It made me feel sad. Maybe if I was more like Mama Papa would love me. I am not like Mama. I am not beautifulI lift the black sheet and place it back over the painting and try not to look at my reflection again.

As I open the bedroom door I hear the raucous laughter of Mrs Biggs and Nurse and the clink of glasses as they made merry with Papa’s drinks. Of one thing I am sure, the gossip will be flowing as fast as the drinks so I set off down the stairs to listen by the door.Sure enough they were gossiping. Mrs White would be annoyed and Papa furious if he ever found out.

I hear Mrs Biggs say, “So the widow Mirabelle has accepted a proposal from our employer has she?”I took a deep breath for I knew Papa visited the widow, the servants had known for months but a proposal?

Nurse grunted, “Taken in by falsehoods he be. The widow and her two ugly daughters have him in their clutches now.”They aren’t laughing now and sound grim which is strange for they had all liked my mama so why wouldn’t they like my papa’s new wife?

I moved back from the door and thought about what I had heard. I decided I’d like a new mama. I hoped she’d be pretty and full of laughter like my own mama had been and that her daughters would be the sisters I’ve never had.A second chance of happiness for us all….Perhaps this story will end with the words ‘they lived happily ever after’ for all the best stories do. I climb the stairs back to my room and as I do so wonder if my new mama would like a step-daughter called Ella.

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Did you guess? It's the very beginning of the fairy story Cinderella. I'm thinking of re-reading a few fairy stories and writing the very beginning of these stories, that parts that are usually skipped.