ACT 1: SCENE 1
Come with me.
Flanked by woods is the city of Pantoland - a series of ramshackle hovels crowding around a once magnificent Palace, which does nothing now but gather ghosts. In one particularly nondescript shack live three people, a mother and her teenaged twin son and daughter. At this moment in time the two women are running around the house in a frenzy, preparing a sumptuous feast which surely should beyond their modest means. The younger woman is wiry and mousy, with the kind of thin, muscular frame that comes from a lifetime of undernourishment and hard work. Her hair is dark brown and unkempt, as is her dress, giving her the appearance of a sparrow after a fight. Her name is Gretel Trellis. The lad is a strapping six footer, broad shouldered and well built, with a permanent five o'clock shadow and a fine head of ash blond hair which continues to grow as far down his back as anyone dare look. His name is Hansel, and he evidently takes after his mother. At present, he balances on the back two legs of his chair with a mouthful of sausage rolls stolen from a platter lovingly prepared by his sister.
"Hansel, are you eating?" asked Gretel.
Hansel swallowed. "No".
"You were eating! I'm telling mum! Mum!"
There was the sound of fast, heavy feet against stone. At the cry of her daughter, Mrs Trellis rushed into the kitchen, sixteen stone of taffeta and knuckle hair. Her voice cut the air with its delicate twenty-fags-a-day basso profundo tones:
"Hansel, are you eating again?"
"I'm starving!" protested Hansel through a mouthful of pork and pastry.
Mrs Trellis sighed and started rearranging the platter to make it look as though nothing had been taken.
"How can you be hungry, Hansel? You had seconds at lunch."
"Seconds?" whined the lad, "I had two brussels sprouts."
"Yes," retorted Mrs Trellis, "and your sister and I only had one each, so stop being so greedy. We can all have tea when the Mayor comes round..."
Mrs Trellis gave up on the rest of her sentence and dissolved into a sickeningly soppy grin. Gretel waved a hand in front of her mother's blank face, to no avail.
"Mum" coughed Gretel.
"Mum!"
Mrs Trellis sighed a little.
"MUM!"
Mrs Trellis blinked.
"Yes dear?"
"Mum, you've made a really lavish tea for Mayor Naize every night for the past month. You spend every penny we have on it. We can't afford to do it for much longer. You have to tell him."
Mrs Trellis opened her mouth to speak.
"Yeah Mum" added Hansel, "The more you spend on feeding him, the less you can afford to spend on feeding me."
Mrs Trellis shot a glance at her daughter, who rolled her eyes.
"Don't you see, my dears," explained Mrs Trellis as she eased a ridiculously large jelly onto a plate, "Mayor Naize has no wife to cook for him any more. He likes my cooking so... he might like it enough to marry me. And then we'd all live with him in the palace, and we'd never go hungry again."
Gretel opened her mouth in horror. Hansel took advantage of his sister being temporarily dumbstruck and started her sentence for her, mocking her girlish voice.
"Mum, how could you..." squeaked Hansel.
"Mum, how could you!" squeaked Gretel, then, realising she'd been made fun of, cleared her throat and continued in what she decided was a far more adult tone. "You mustn't marry Mayor Naize for his money, even if we are poor. People should only get married in the name of true love."
Her mother sighed. "Gretel, you know very well that I'm in love with the Mayor, money or no money. I haven't felt this way about anybody since your poor father died. If Mayor Naize came to me with not a penny to his name but a wedding ring in his hand I'd marry him like a shot. The fact that he's stinking rich and life as his wife and stepchildren would be a life of luxury is really beside the point."
"It is not!" exclaimed Hansel. "Mum, at your time of life, you deserve a rich husband."
"You deserve a rich Dad, you mean" interjected Gretel.
Hansel tutted. "You and your 'true love' claptrap, Gretel. Ever considered that all this idealism might be the reason why you're still single?"
"That's none of your business!" Gretel snapped.
"Don't get her started, love" muttered Mrs Trellis.
But it was too late. Gretel had begun to stare dreamily into the middle distance, a vague smile playing on her lips.
"But..." she murmured, "but when I get married, that is to say, if I get married, I want him to be charming and handsome. Chivalrous and brave..."
"...a real Prince..." sighed Hansel and Mrs Trellis. Gretel would often go through this Poor Ragged Heroine Seeks True Love monologue, as though saying it would somehow make it all come true. Well, to be fair, twenty years ago it probably would have.
"Yes," continued Gretel unabashed, "a real Prince. The kind you used to get back in the good old days of Pantoland. A chirpy, cheerful androgynous type with great legs and a penchant for slapping his thighs and bursting into song. The kind who'd sail into a peasant maiden's life and whisk her away from peril on his noble steed. That sort of Prince."
Mrs Trellis smiled sadly at her daughter. What was wrong with her? She was such a sensible girl apart from the Prince thing. Ironically probably far too sensible to ever need rescuing by some chinless aristocrat. So why did she need to hang on to the past like this? It wasn't even as if Gretel could even remember the Golden Age. She and Gretel were only twinkles in Mr Trellis' eyes when the baby Prince was snatched from his cradle and the poor King and Queen pined away into nothing. Was it a hyperactive imagination brought on by too many books and not enough around the hovel to keep her keen mind occupied? Or was it something else? Something that was going to happen that would need her to have this quirk? Was Panto coming back to life? Was the story starting up again?
Mrs Trellis looked up.
She is looking right at me. Dear reader, she is staring into my eyes! Distraction!
Mrs Trellis was distracted from her thoughts by a growing chuckle in the corner. She shot a glare at her guffawing son.
"Women!" he laughed. "If you ask me, you're both stupid. I mean, look at you. Gretel, when's the last time you brushed your hair or put on a bit of makeup? And how old is that dress? Three, four years? It's a good job you turned out so skinny and flat chested or you'd have had to get another one. And Mum, at least now Mayor Naize comes round every teatime you make a bit of an effort, painting your bitten down little nails, even shaving your chin nearly every day, but let's face it, you're not getting any younger. Or more feminine. Nobody in their right minds would want to marry you two, let alone Mayors and Princes...
Hansel's laughter trailed off as his mother and sister gazed at him blankly. They then looked at each other. And then at two cream pies which were gently cooling in front of them.
There were some things in Pantoland that had not changed. One was a certain breed of middle aged lady, to which Mrs Trellis subscribed, who were, to all intents and purposes, fat men in frocks, that despite all their masculine qualities were recognised by everybody as normal women and were somehow perfectly capable of mothering children. Another was the universal philosophy that a cream pie in the kisser was a perfectly good punishment for any insult or minor injury. In fact, the Small Claims Court of Pantoland always kept an in-house baker for convenience's sake, as it would often get through a couple of dozen pies a day. It seemed, however, that Hansel's case was not about to get that far.
Hansel laughed nervously as the women approached him, each with a pie in her hand and a murderous expression on her face.
"Ha ha, um, come on now ladies. Play fair." He thought of a new tactic. "You spent so much time on those delicious pies, it would be such a shame to waste them."
The women continued walking slowly towards him.
"Oh I don't think it would be a waste," Mrs Trellis addressed her daughter without breaking her eye contact with Hansel, "do you, dear?"
"Not at all, Mum," replied Gretel in a worryingly cheerful voice, also eyeballing Hansel, "in fact it would be a pity to eat pies as splendid as these."
By now Mrs Trellis and Gretel were right in front of Hansel, smiling evilly into his worried eyes. Without looking at one another they raised their pie bearing hands in unison.
"Mum? Gretel?" panicked the lad, cowering against the upcoming onslaught of cream and pastry. "Help!"
Just then, as she was about to launch the pudding attack on her son, an odd thought went through Mrs Trellis' mind.
Back in the old days, she thought, back when life was a fairytale, this would be just the moment when somebody would burst in and we'd have to pretend that we weren't fighting.
"Hello?" Called Mayor Naize as he walked through the door, "Mrs Trellis? Am I disturbing anything?"
Quick as a flash, the two pies were back on the table and the women had spun around and were beaming innocently at the Mayor. Gretel had even managed to get her arm around her brother and give him a big, yet slightly painful hug, which Mrs Trellis thought was a nice touch.
"Oh no Mayor" sang Mrs Trellis merrily, "We were just making tea."
The Mayor lifted up his Top Hat and wiped the sweat from his red, bald forehead with a monogrammed handkerchief. It wasn't his monogram, mind, he'd found the hankie in a drawer of the palace, but then since he was a gentleman noted for his excessive sweating and nervous nose blowing, nobody ever came close enough to his handkerchief to notice. He stood for a moment enjoying the family scene. The little table piled high with gently steaming home cooking, the rough, yet kindly, faced woman smiling warmly and wiping cream from her hands on her apron, the big strong boy grinning in agony as the clever eyed girl ruffles his hair playfully yet far too hard. And one spare empty chair. He shouldn't take advantage of the poor woman. She could barely have a penny to her name. But it all made him so hungry...
"Well Mrs Trellis," he managed eventually, "I must say you've excelled yourself again. I haven't seen a spread like this since... Mrs Naize passed on." He coughed and then continued, a little embarrassed. "I certainly wish I'd learned to cook for myself. All I've got waiting for me at home is a bit of bread and jam..."
Without a second's hesitation, Mrs Trellis rushed over to her husband's old chair and pulled it out. "Well then," she smiled, "you must join us."
The same as he did every evening, the Mayor paused. "Are you sure?"
"Absolutely, Mayor" protested Mrs Trellis, "we can't have you starving in that big empty palace on your own while we have this feast to ourselves." She beckoned to the Mayor.
Mayor Naize relaxed. "Well, if you put it like that..." He sat down at the head of table. Mrs Trellis removed his hot Top Hat and heavy gold chain. He sighed happily, his rotund body sagging as the air left it like a deflating balloon.
"Gretel," called Mrs Trellis as she hung up the Mayor's slightly damp robes of office, "get a plate for the Mayor."
But Gretel was already on the case. The Mayor's special plate had been taken carefully out of the crockery cupboard, wiped, and was already nearly fully loaded with the lion's share of the food - quite an achievement considering that the Mayor's special plate was nearly a foot in diameter. As Gretel piled on the food, her brother caught her eye and drew it to his own, tiny plate. Hansel scowled at her. She shook her head at him and shrugged. He opened his mouth to speak. Gretel looked deliberately at the cream pies again. Hansel's mouth closed again and he sulkingly tried to balance three boiled eggs on his little plate. Gretel passed the plate on to her mother who in turn presented it with a flourish to the Mayor. The Mayor gazed in wonder at the huge platter piled with pies, sausages, potato salad, flans, eggs, sandwiches, and mysterious little things on sticks. He wiped his forehead again, then removed his glasses and wiped off the steam piping from the little volcanoes of hot food.
"Oh Thank you Mrs T!" He exclaimed before putting on his glasses and noticing how very little the other three had. "I... I say," he muttered, guilt taking control again, "you don't have much yourself."
"Oh, you know me, Mayor, I eat like a bird" giggled Mrs Trellis falsely.
"But, " continued the Mayor, "are your children not hungry?"
Hansel's gaze shot up to meet his accusingly.
"They're on diets" said Mrs Trellis quickly. The Mayor looked at the skinny, stunted girl happily tucking into a bit of dry bread. Before he could say anything, Mrs Trellis continued "but enough about us. How was your day?"
Mayor Naize thought about his day and all of a sudden the guilt of eating the majority of a penniless family's dinner melted away.
"Tiring as usual. It's too much for me to have to run the whole of Pantoland by meself." He sighed and wiped his forehead again. "I only took the job on because nobody else would after... the Tragedy. I'm just getting too old for all of this. If only there were a King and Queen again so I could retire and settle down."
Mayor Naize sighed into his chipolatas but Mrs Trellis' eyes lit up.
"Settle down?" Mrs Trellis' eyes met the Mayor's but then quickly returned to the table. "Um, I mean, there's not anybody in particular you could see yourself settling down with is there?
The Mayor took a long, hard look at Mrs Trellis as she demurely swallowed the last chunk of dry bread on her plate. He replied with words that he had practised over and over again.
"I honestly don't know, Mrs T. I mean... as lonely as I am, I don't think that anybody could take the place of my Bella."
Mrs Trellis looked up again and smiled sadly at the Mayor.
"Bella?" spat Hansel through the end of a pork pie.
"Bella was Mayor Naize's late wife" murmured his mother.
Mayor Naize smiled vaguely into the middle distance. A picture of the late great Bella Naize began to manifest itself in front of him. It would appear that the good Mayor's deceased wife was of the same Pantoland stock as Mrs Trellis, only with a dress in sky blue instead of orange and brown, and a slightly different wig. "Oh, she was a magnificent lady, kids" said he. "Six foot two with broad, hairy shoulders, massive hands and the finest chin of stubble you ever did see on a woman."
Mrs Trellis scratched her chin. Sparks flew from her rough fingertips. Mayor Naize continued.
"Kind, unselfish, a great cook and a beautiful Baritone singing voice. I'm not going to find another lass to fill her dainty shoes in a long time." He paused. "Seriously! They were size 12s!"
There was a long pause. Mrs Trellis scratched a hairy size 12 toe against her chair leg.
"Yes, well," she beamed at last, "tuck in everybody."
"I've already finished" came the voice of her son from across the table.
"That's nice dear" she muttered, not listening.
"But mum," he whined, "I'm starving!"
Come with me.
Out of this hovel, down the road, over the fence and through into the Western Woods.
Oh, nobody ever comes here any more. There are tales told about these woods. Tales meant to frighten young children into doing what they're told.
"If you don't brush your teeth", parents would say, "the witch of the western woods will come and get you."
They're empty now, save for trees and moss and the occasional Thing that goes Bump in the dark. But here there's a clearing and in the dusk we can make out a little cottage, brightly coloured. It looks as though it's made of... but no, it can't be.
Come inside.
It's much darker and drabber inside. Candles flicker against the twilight, lighting a little black ball of fury which paces around the tiny dark room. It clutches a large wooden walking stick which it clearly doesn't need. Watch it with caution, dear reader, because this little bubble of rage is a witch. Not just a witch but The Witch. The Witch of the Western Woods. And what is it saying?
"I'm starving!" shouted Nettlewart Snapdragon.