SNOW WHITE - THE WAY IT WAS 

 by Richard Banks

‘Let’s get one thing straight from the start, the Snow White story is fiction, the stuff of legend, forget it. If you want the truth, this is it, the way it really was. Believe me, I’m her mother.

      You look surprised, Mr Reporter. Well, don’t. Write this in your notebook:  I’m alive, there never was a wicked stepmother. As for Snow White, well, I mean, what kind of a name is that? Even in this crazy world who would call a kid Snow White? Well, it wasn’t me. Her name, her real name, is Flo White. If you want her full title it’s Florence Veronica White. Here’s her birth certificate. No, the father ain’t around; took off in 1931 after she set fire to the kitchen. No, I don’t blame him, should have taken off myself and let him raise the little hellcat. Who knows, he might have done a better job. Even so, things would never have happened the way they did but for that idiot photographer from the Southend Mirror. That was the start of it - saw Flo pulling up tulips in the park and took her picture.

      “What the hell are you doing?” I say. “Shouldn’t you be asking me first?” I thought if I made a big deal of it I could touch him for a few quid.

      “Calm down dear,” he replies. I nearly hit him. “Don’t you want your young lady to be in the Mirror?” I say she already has for breaking her probation order and I don’t want no more publicity, no thank you. But the man won’t take no for an answer, keeps rattling on about a competition the Mirror’s running called Teen Queen of Southend. “Fill out this form,” he says, “and she could win £100.”

      “For doing what?” I say. I give him one of my don’t mess with me looks and get ready to knee him in the breadbasket.

       “Look,” he says, “It’s all on the level. We publish her picture, along with all the other girls, and the cutest one wins.”  

      What is this man on, I thought? Flo doesn’t do cute. Can’t he see that? Well, whatever he saw, he certainly took a decent picture, and what do you know, Flo wins. Overnight she becomes a local celebrity. 1,000 people turn out to see her crowned and ten times that number watch her parade of honour go up and down the prom. People can’t get enough of her and the Mirror milks it for all it’s worth. ‘A NEW STAR IS BORN’ is one of their headlines. ‘ESSEX GIRL DESTINED FOR GREATNESS’ is another. Sales of the paper hit an all time high and now everyone in town wants a piece of the action. Scarcely a day goes by without her being asked to open a shop or appear in some club or other. It’s manic, but they’re paying big bucks, so why not, I think, after all she don’t get paid for turning up at school. The little minx loves every moment and, to my surprise, Flo does cute like she invented it, takes it to a whole new level. There’ll never be another one like her, that’s for sure.

      You’re looking puzzled Mr Reporter. What has all this got to do with Snow White? Is that what’s bothering you? Okay, let's cut to the chase, as they say. It’s a nickname, something the Mirror invented when they entered her for the Eastern Counties Belle of the Year contest. First of all, it was Snow Flo. Didn’t mind that too much, but when they change it to Snow White I phone up the Editor to complain.            

      “What are you doing to my girl’s name?” I say. “What’s wrong with Flo?”

      He didn’t pull his punches. “It ain’t showbiz,” he growls. “Think about it. Do you know any celebrities called Flo?”

      I had to admit, I didn’t.

      “Look,” he says, “trust me, it’s for the best, Snow White suits her. Haven’t you noticed how her skin is as delicate and white as snow?”

      “Of course it is,” I say, “yours would be too if you stayed up all night drinking vodka and pernod.” Why did I bother? Nothing I said was going to change things. They were in charge now, him and the Mirror, and didn’t they make the most of their little money spinner. On the day after she wins the Eastern Counties, they go into overdrive. ‘WHO’S THE FAIREST GIRL IN ALL THE LAND?’ asks the Mirror’s placards and the newspaper provides the answer, with blanket coverage down to page five.

      Life is now one big party for Flo and one she didn’t have to pay for. No wonder it got too much for her. I mean, she shipped enough booze to sink a battleship. With the Miss UK final coming up, the paper decides to book her into this place where she can dry out. No, it wasn’t me who arranged it. If it had been down to me I would have tied her to her bed and locked the door. On the day she’s due to be admitted I’m on holiday with Vince, my latest, so the Mirror has one of their reporters escort her to the Retreat, as they call it. The silly man didn’t have a clue, decides to change buses in Harold Wood and while he’s studying the timetable she does a runner into the local housing estate. By the time I get back, the paper’s going ballistic, the Miss UK contest is only two weeks away and their golden goose is nowhere to be seen.

      “Help us find her,” they demand.

      “Why should I?” I say. “You got yourself into this mess, you sort it out.”

      Eventually, we strike a deal and they agree to reimburse me for my not inconsiderable expenses should I find her. Two days later, the telephone rings and surprise, surprise it’s my little princess, all run out of money and asking for more. It turns out that she’s living in some dive with a guy she met in an off-licence and, what’s more, they’re in love and she’s not going back to Southend, no matter what. I pretend to go along with all this mush and arrange to meet her in The Wood. Yes, The Wood. No, I don’t mean Harold Wood, I mean The Wood in Harold Wood. It’s a pub. Yes I know it’s confusing, but that’s the way it was. Now do you want to hear the end of this story or don’t you? Okay then.

      Well I get there about midday and two Bloody Mary’s later in she comes with lover boy, who turns out to be a vertically restricted layabout by the name of Billy, except that she has all these pet names for him. One minute he’s Sleepy, the next Bashful and when he’s blowing his nose, he’s Sneezy. Were Happy and Dopey mentioned? Yes, them too, along with some others you’re probably not allowed to print. Anyway, I now have a problem. Billy’s mates are outside the pub and any hope I have of bundling Flo into a taxi and getting her back to Southend are dead and buried. So, it’s on to plan B. Has she, I say, tried an Apple Explosion?

      “What’s that?” she asks.

      “It’s the latest cocktail,” I say. “It’s all the rage; four parts cider, two of brandy and one each of rum and vodka.”    

      “Bring it on,” she squeals, so I go to the bar, order the wretched concoction and slip in a few pills for good measure. Figure that once she passes out I can get her into an ambulance and from there to Southend hospital.

      No, it wasn’t attempted murder! I don’t care what people think. Why should I try and kill my own daughter, when the newspaper’s paying me to find her alive? Of course, it makes sense. Now, where was I? Oh yes. Flo keels over, just like I thought she would, the ambulance arrives and off we go to the hospital, except that it’s Brentwood Hospital and not Southend. However, that’s not a problem because once she’s there I can phone the Mirror and they can come over and take charge like they always do. Even better, lover boy is clearly the worse for wear and hasn’t been allowed in the ambulance. So it’s all win-win and I’m on a nice little earner. Should have known it was too good to be true. Once she’s in the hospital she pukes over everything in sight and then goes limp, like a rag doll.

      “Give her a slap,” I yell, “that will bring her round,” but oh no, they rush her off to intensive care and inside five minutes she’s attached to more tubes and leads than you’ll find under the bonnet of a Mercedes Benz. By the time the newspaper guys arrive, she’s in a coma and no one knows when she will wake up again.

      “What the hell do we do now?” says the Editor, “it’s a week ’til Miss UK.” So they try everything they can think of to bring her back to life; they play her favourite music, have her visited by crooners, film stars and a faith healer from Clapham, but nothing they do makes any difference. The Miss UK contest comes and goes and the newspaper guys are in deep despair. Then one of them has an idea and they all cheer up.

      “What’s going on?” I ask. At first, they don’t want to tell me, but the next day the Editor says they’re going to set up this special clinic in Southend, just to make it easy for me to visit her. So like a fool I fill out the discharge form and a private ambulance takes her off to Southend, while I’m left to get the bus. By the time I catch up with them, Flo’s in this pavilion on the pier, and the Mirror’s charging everyone to come and gawp at her.

      At first, I’m hopping mad, but after they cut me in for ten per cent I see their point of view, maybe Flo does need sea air and a constant stream of well wishers. Anyway, that’s what we tell everyone and when visitor numbers increase to thirty thousand a day we all feel that the right decision has been made. Come August the queue to see her is two miles long, and, what with merchandising, we’re pulling in over twenty grand a week. Parenthood is a demanding business, Mr Reporter, but don’t let anyone tell you it’s over-rated. 

      For the first time in my life, I’m living the dream and when Disney sends a telegram saying he’s interested in buying the film rights to Flo’s story it seems that things can only get better. Then, overnight, it all goes bums up. Loverboy, Billy, appears on the scene and demands to see her, but we get Security to throw him off the end of the pier. Problem over, we think; unfortunately, it’s low tide. The same day, after we shut down for the night, the devious little ratbag breaks into the pavilion and, by morning, Flo is not only awake but grinning like a Cheshire Cat whose had more than cream for breakfast. When Billy’s solicitors arrive we decide that maybe he’s not quite so dumb after all, and we cut them both a piece of the action, providing he keeps his mouth shut and she acts like she’s still in a coma. But, oh no, I forgot, they’re in love. Not only that, but they’ve seen this film about Shangri-La, and think it’s a real place. All they want to do is go there and live forever in paradise, so if we give them a suitcase full of money, they’ll be on their way and won’t press the lawsuit they’re planning on taking.

      Well, what can we do? Not much, so we have them sign a legal agreement, with a confidentiality clause and smuggle them out of town in the back of a van. Disaster! total disaster! but not quite. The newspaper guys have another bright idea. “Okay,” they say, “we’ve lost the freak show but we still have the film company. If we can give them a happy ending they’re bound to buy the film rights.” So that’s what happens. The Mirror prints a special edition, with the sensational news that a love-smitten Prince, from a part of the world where they don’t have telephones, has woken up Snow White with a single kiss. It’s the whirlwind romance to end all whirlwind romances: he’s proposed, she’s accepted and they’ve gone off to this foreign place, where they’re bound to live happily ever after. The news is greeted with national rejoicing. Everyone and I mean everyone, is out on the street, waving flags and organising street parties, church bells are ringing and the Government, not to be left out of it, gives everyone a day off work. Best of all, the film company makes an offer for the film rights and after a negotiation or two, the deal is done. Two years later the film’s showing in the States and Disney’s first full length cartoon becomes a smash hit. Even after all these years, it’s still pulling in the punters. But then, if you’ve done your research you’ll know all that better than me.

      You’re quite right, Mr Reporter, the film isn’t much like the real story, but that’s Hollywood for you - who’s complaining? not me. Seventy-six years on, I’m the oldest millionaire in the country. Hooray for Hollywood, that’s what I say, who needs reality when you’ve got Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.

      What did you say? What happened to Flo? Did I ever see her again? Well, that’s another story, an even longer one. Come back tomorrow and we’ll talk some more.’

 

Copyright Richard Banks