Stories Matter

With thanks to bow for the suggestion of including a hedgehog!

I was looking out of the parlour window at the hedgerow separating the Dragon’s Teacup garden from Next Door’s. Next Door’s Terrier was barking at a small, prickly bundle sheltering under the lower branches.

“What’s happening?” Biscuit asked, flapping his way into the room and settling on the windowsill to look outside. As he folded his little dragon wings, he let out a gasp. “Oh! No! Is Next Door’s Terrier bullying that poor little hedgehog?”

“Shhh!” I said quickly. “Don’t worry, I know this story. Just watch.” Biscuit glowered at me and turned back to the scene outside.

“What do you mean?” He demanded, clearly upset by my heartless attitude. “How can you know this story?”

“Look at how confident Next Door’s Terrier is!” I pointed out. “As if he has no idea he’s up against a tiny ball of ferocity and hypodermics! That hedgehog is David to his goliath. That’s a HedgeUnderDog. He’ll win. It’s written by the stars.”

“You don’t hold with astrology.” Biscuit pointed out and I chuckled.

“I meant the scriptwriting stars.” I corrected as Next Door’s Terrier leapt forward and received a defensive bristling of rapiers from the tiny ball of violence he was threatening. “How many stories have you ever seen where the plucky underdog loses? I’m more worried for Next Door’s Terrier.”

“But that’s just in stories.” Biscuit argued and folded his little dragon arms. “That’s not the real world. You put too much faith in stories.” I frowned.

“I don’t.” I argued. “But Terry Pratchett says there’s a story in everything. Change the story, change the world.”

“So you keep saying.” Biscuit tutted. “And it sounds dangerously close to toxic positivity.”

“Now hold on!” I exclaimed at that. “I aim for positivity but not toxically. Stories matter because, when we keep telling ourselves the same stories over and over, they shape our lives. Like if we keep telling a story about how it’s important to have lots of money, we’ll keep making choices based on what gets us the most money instead of what makes us happy. Big stories are powerful and hard to change.”

“No, no.” Biscuit waved my argument away. “I can see what you mean about the big stories but claiming this specific hedgehog will win out against this specific dog because you’ve read some stories where the underhog always wins is ridiculous. You can’t know that!”

“No, but I can know that the underhog knows the stories too and so is less likely to back down than she would be if the stories all said the underhog always loses.” I defended my position, not certain why I was suddenly under attack.

“We could go out and help.” Biscuit snapped back. “We’d be like the cavalry riding in, what if that’s the story here? The brave hedgehog defending her position until the cavalry arrive at the last moment?” I considered it and thought that Biscuit had a point. I reached forward and threw the window open.

“Shoo!” I shouted at the dog. “Off you go!” Next Door’s Terrier bounded off back towards his house and the hedgehog unprickled and snuffled at the leaves.

“Thank you.” Biscuit sighed and I nodded to accept it.

“I don’t put too much store by stories.” I argued again, a little petulantly. Biscuit gave me a sceptical look.

“You know when it’s dark on a stormy night and you go to brush your teeth?” He asked and I nodded, a little crease on my brow as I tried to work out where he was going with this. “You know when you open the bathroom cabinet with the mirror on to get the floss? Why do you hold your breath before you shut it again?”

“Well, obviously because I’m worried there’ll be a ghost standing behind me when I see my reflection.” I declared. Clearly this was obvious, everyone reacted that way, didn’t they?

“And if you were to find an injured frog by the edge of the river, what would you do?” He wondered, arching one dragon brow as though he had eyebrows to quiz me with.

“I’d nurse it just in case it turned out to be a Prince under a spell.” I replied smartly. Biscuit looked as though I were confirming his argument for him. I couldn’t see how.

“And if you were in a position where you were being bribed to seduce someone to destroy their company…” He began but I cut across him, I knew this story.

“Trick question because we live in the UK, so I wouldn’t have any massive medical bills to pay so that my sick granny could be treated which means they wouldn’t have enough pull over me to make me do it.” I replied archly. “All those stories are always about someone needing money to pay for a loved one’s operation. It’s the only way to justify why they’ve gone along with the evil plan.”

“But, if you were, why would you need that justification?” Biscuit asked and I tsked at him because this was a ridiculous question.

“Obviously because the person I’m trying to seduce would actually turn out to be the good guy and I’d fall head over heels in love with him then have to prove to him that I’m not an awful person, just someone trying to save a loved one, and that I’m really sorry about it all.” I explained like I was talking to a four year old. “And then I’d have to do some grand gesture that would expose the real bad guys and then selflessly turn away, wishing him all the happiness in the world and promising never to darken his door again so that he can arrive at the art gallery I work at with flowers and a massive engagement ring.”

“Obviously.” Biscuit said sarcastically.

“Obviously.” I affirmed heartily. Biscuit sighed.

“But you don’t think stories hold too much sway with you?” He demanded. I reviewed our conversation and spotted maybe one or two small details which may have been ever so slightly far-fetched. Even so, I wouldn’t give in.

“Maybe I’m past the major romantic lead stage of my life.” I allowed and then frowned. “But that’s just a story, isn’t it? If I say ‘Oh! Look at me, I’m middle-aged. All the fun bits of my life are behind me and now all I can do as a woman is fade into the background until someone’s in need of a crone to seek advice from or a granny at death’s door whose medical expenses need paying for.’ I’m just letting the story that women’s lives are only meaningful before they hit thirty rule my life. I won’t do it! I can live all the stories I want. The problem is, everyone else believes the crone-or-dying-granny narrative and that limits my choices. And, as I’ve mentioned, the NHS means that even option two is out for me.”

“Middle-aged women have varied and adventurous lives.” Biscuit argued and I agreed.

“Yes they do.” I confirmed. “But the stories of robust, healthy, middle-aged women just don’t get told like the tales of consumptive eighteen-year-olds from the eighteenth century, do they?”

“Well, I suppose robust, healthy, middle-aged women are busy living their lives instead of being in stories.” Biscuit suggested and I sighed.

“What if I’m not ready to stop being in the story?” I demanded. “However little a story it might be? What if I’m not ready to join the hoards of middle-aged women who are counsellors and writers and are busy trying to make their teenaged selves proud?”

“But you are a counsellor.” Biscuit pointed out.

“I know but…” I began.

“And you write, and you’re trying to make your teenaged self proud!” He went on.

“I KNOW!” I exclaimed, throwing my hands in the air. “But that’s a story all by itself, isn’t it?”

“Well, what happens to those robust, healthy, middle-aged women who are counsellors and writers and are trying to make their teenaged selves proud in the end?” Biscuit demanded and I glowered at him.

“They end up running cafes in the woods and talking to tiny mythological creatures and pretending they’re sane.” I muttered back at him. “Or they go cold water swimming and decide it’s the answer to everything and they learn to be content.” I knew I sounded bitter. Biscuit sucked in a breath and his eyes opened wide.

“Well, we can’t have that, can we?” He declared sardonically. “But don’t worry. You’re robust but you eat too much cake to be healthy, so you’re not one of them.” I gave a little laugh at that.

“Thanks.” I smiled wryly back at him.

“And luckily for you, I’m entirely real.” He added and I gave another sigh as I let go of the irrational irritation that had been gripping me. Biscuit leapt onto my shoulder and curled against my neck. “If you’d like, I could bribe you with biscuits to seduce Geoffrey so we can destroy his knitting empire. He’s making too many little coats for Next Door’s Terrier, I don’t like it. And I know you need biscuits to survive. If you don’t seduce him and ruin his reputation, I’ll cut off your supply.”

“You wouldn’t?!” I gasped, horrified by a very credible British threat. Biscuit laughed.

“No.” He allowed, chuckling. “I like Geoffrey. He’s making me a little coat too. And you wouldn’t know where to start with seducing him.”

“True.” I admitted. I thought back to my younger self. She wouldn’t have had a clue either. So I thought about my teenaged self. “Shall we have ice cream and chocolate for dinner? Because I’m a grown-up now and I can do what I like?” I asked. Biscuit was enthusiastic about the idea, so I went to make it.

Later, as I sat with a bottle of Gaviscon and a painful tummy in the parlour, I looked out at the little hedgehog still snuffling its way through the undergrowth. I still think it would have won all by itself, I said to the empty room, and then took another swig of antacid. I didn’t care how much it hurt, my teenaged self would still have been proud.

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