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
