Red riding hood

Red, there’s a reason why women claim it as their colour. It’s a power colour, interwoven with our right of passage into womanhood. This month I submitted a story to the Scottish Book Trust part a fairy tale and part biography inspired by my journey to doing a PhD. The Scottish Book Trust hosted the story for a while, but it is no longer available. The story was called Emma’s Little Red Coat. And I have the full short story below for you.

Little Emma’s Red Coat

Walls can be furry; at least the outer surface. The side where I found myself was ribbed and fleshy. I took one of granny’s knitting needles and pressed the tip against my finger. How did I get here? The options for a shy, self-deprecating girl, after university are simple: she puts away her cloak of dreams to find a job and somewhere to live. Naturally a biology degree led to cleaning, reception work, and pensions; where wolves eat little girls and call it profit. I used my meagre wages to travel: I hiked in Peru, worked with children in India, dove in the red sea, yet my palms itched for something more.

In stories the main character takes a while to figure out what they want. It takes a long time to worm your way out of a wolf’s stomach with only a pair of knitting needles. Trust me.

My granny was a clerk of the court. She knew the law inside out. She also liked to knit and read horror novels. The paths we chose weren’t neat little woollen knits. Granny’s wool became as red as blood. Clickety-clack, she weaves the wool into a coat to see me through winter.

I never had the chance to ask Granny about academic life because she died before I understood many things. I do not think she would be proud of the girl I was: quiet voice, long hair, crippling fear. Isn’t that what a girl is brought up to be? The good news is that I rebelled, silently, slowly. She would be proud of me now.

The “truth” of Granny’s journey, and my journey, is complex: mouthfuls of pins, flowers and feathers. Do you know the story well? Perrault lied: my granny never knitted me a cloak, she crocheted a shawl. Mr and Mr Grimm lied too: Stranger Danger? There was no hunter.

I raked myself free of the wolf’s belly without scissors or axes. I used the tools that my granny left me: curiosity, imagination and perseverance. I strove to escape the clichés of womanhood; scorned red shoes and threw porridge pots at would be suitors. I was dubbed Ice Queen by people too wrapped up in their furs to be open to “the other”. They did not see the woman who listened to the heartbeats of trees, laughed like a child, read for hours, and danced while ironing.

Have you noticed that in folk tales women’s blood is constantly spilled? Keep to the path little girl; be good, be docile; hide your face, curl your hair and avoid giving off the wrong impression. There are still plenty of wolves in the forest but it is not those wolves you have to be wary of.

I returned to university to create a story of my own making. I researched oral storytelling in schools; spoken, verbal, uttered. The social space created by stories. I am not saying the whole world is comprised of fiction, but I have certainly wove a fiction out of this journey.

The knitting needles are sticky in my hands. I will put them down. I do not need them anymore. I do not need the self-criticism and self-doubt. I must ignore those harmful words from parents, teachers, peers, which still echo in my ears. I need to have hope, I need to be nurtured and supported. To break the spell that led to the smooth and fleshy stomach of the wolf.

So let us, other, woman, man, run, run like my grandmother did towards something more satisfying. This is where our journey begins and ends.

Storytelling research

If you would like to know more about my work some initial thoughts are published here:-

Parfitt, E.L. 2014. Storytelling as a trigger for sharing conversations. Exchanges: the Warwick Research Journal. 1(2).

Young people, learning & storytelling was published with MacMillan in 2019.

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Red and Ralph

Red’s story

There were certain words that Red’s mother repeated ad nauseam, ‘Don’t eat on the path. Don’t leave the path. Don’t forget your bow and arrows.’ As if any self-respecting young woman on her way to visit a sick relative would prance about picking flowers in the wood, or speak to strangers. Besides the basket was heavy and the path was long.

Red’s mother often reprimanded her, ‘You add insult to injury.’ So when Red saw Ralph trying to act casual just off the path, she thought time to have a little fun. ’Hello,’ said the wolf. ‘Hello,’ Said Red. ‘What are you up to?’ ‘Oh, nothing, just taking in a nice day,’ the wolf replied. ‘What are you up to?’ ‘Taking some provisions to my sick grandmother.’ ‘That’s very kind of you.’ ‘I’m not kind,’ she said. ‘And I’m armed, in case you are thinking of trying anything funny.’ ‘Me?’ said the Wolf all large eyes and big smile. ‘Yep,’ said Red. ‘I think we understand each other. So this is how it’s going to go.’

And she told him the story of a wolf that visited her grandmother’s house, ate the little old woman, and tried to trick the little girl but ended up with an arrow in his skull.

‘Right,’ said the wolf. ‘Is there any way to negotiate this ending?’ ‘tell me a story and we’ll see,’ she challenged him. So, he talked about woodsmen, and a wolf that felt bad about what it had done and left with a small scar on his belly.

Red laughed, ‘Or we’ll fill it with stones and throw you in a river.’

‘You’re very blood thirsty,’ said the wolf.

‘Look at me,’ smiled Red, the rich velvety cloak, the red slippers, the bow and arrow slung across her back.

‘I believe we have reached an impasse.’

‘I need to take this thing to grandmother.’

‘Goodbye then.’

She scrunched her forehead, ‘Aren’t you going to offer to carry it for me.’

‘I’m not supposed to go on the path.’

‘Just once won’t hurt,’ she coaxed. ‘I would be very grateful. Just don’t get any ideas.’

He eyed her dainty ankles her bared throat. ‘I really shouldn’t, but okay then.’

She let him carry the basket. It left her arms free to collect any stray flowers that dipped onto the path, onto which she kept her feet planted at all times.

‘How much further?’ said the wolf.

‘very far.’

‘What’s in this thing? It’s heavy.’

‘I think something is leaking,’ she said. Little ruby droplets scattered the path behind him.

A red smear had appeared at the bottom of the wicker basket, as some creamy red liquid seeped through.’

‘It’s the cream.’

‘Red cream?’

‘The wolf did it.’ Red said. And they cut his stomach open.

Ralph’s story

There were certain words that Ralph’s mother repeated ad nauseam, ‘Chew your food properly before swallowing, sit up straight and little girls tend to arm themselves with weapons.’ If one wandered off the path however she was fair game. Even folks in the village on the edge of the wood said that people who wondered from the path got what they deserved in the end. Besides, even wolves had to eat.

Ralph’s mother often reprimanded him, ‘Your eyes are too big for your belly.’ So when Ralph saw Red skipping along the path his belly rumbled. ‘Hello,’ Ralph said, ‘What are you up to?’ ‘What are you up to?’ Red said suggestively, the tip of one red shoe playing with the dust at the edge of the path. He swallowed, ‘Nothing.’ She smiled, ‘My mum is forcing me to take this basket full of goodies to grandmother’s house.’ ‘That’s kind of you.’ ‘I’m not kind,’ Red said, ‘I’m not good, and I’m definitely not stupid. So whatever excuse you have for me to step off the path this time, be aware I am armed.’ She let the basket drop onto the path and drew an arrow. Ralph’s tongue felt too large for his mouth as he swallowed.

She told him a story. That’s not the way I heard it, he said. Red sighed, go on, I like a good laugh.

And he told her the story of a little girl who got to grandmother’s house and though the cat and the goose tried to warn her she ate the blood of her blood in the rust-tinted milk, and the warm stew. But then escaped the danger herself.

‘I prefer your story,’ she said. ‘Though I wouldn’t eat my grandmother.

‘There’s something everyone in the village knows about the Red family. Don’t mess with the women.’

Red laughed. ‘You’re funny. Don’t take that as encouragement.’

‘I wouldn’t presume,’ said he.

‘Help me carry the basket,’ she said, taking one of the thick handles. He took a cautious step onto the path. The basket was heavy.

‘What’s in this thing?’

‘Food for grandmother: bread and milk, cheese and ham, tomatoes and spinach, green beans and potatoes.’

‘It must be the potatoes that make it so heavy.’

‘And the cake.’ She said

Ralph’s stomach rumbled just before he died.

Like Beauty and the Beast?

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