All stories

Plenty of things wrong with being a dwarf. Think you have it tough, bitching about armpit face on the Tube? Try going from Euston Square to Embankment in rush hour, when all that you see is an ocean of jean and tweed, and - oh God - the cycle shorts. And nights out, it was almost inevitable, hoisted up to perch on the bar by a drunk rugby team.

But Emma wouldn’t change it, not for all the diamonds in the world, or at least those she was stuffing into her shoulder bag at Dashwoods. The staff and rest of the customers were crowded at the front windows whilst across the street four schoolboys were kicking the shit out of a homeless guy.

She worked her way methodically along the counter, and to keep her nerves from overboiling she told herself the weight was nothing more than a handful of rusty chain, not diamond necklaces and tiaras studded with carmine. This place was full of cameras, but no one ever thought about the little people who could move, head held high safely hidden from sight be the counter tops and display cases.

When her bag was full to bursting she joined the throng that were mobiles out filming the schoolboys as they whooped and turned summersaults. Emma cursed inwardly. Of course, they’d overegg it, these were circus dwarves, which explained why each of the four had a comedy roman candle bursting with fire protruding from the top of their cap. It took no persuasion to get them involved – she told them the owner of Dashwoods was prejudiced against little people and so they had donned school uniforms for pride and beer money.

Emma joined the concerned onlookers who began to crowd around the homeless. He was sitting on the pavement, knees drawn to his chest, shaking his head to clear the in-sensibility. Emma caught his eye, and Gustav – the circus strongman – winked her way. She set off, glad that the lads hadn’t gone too with their distraction.

One last Tube ride, and she felt almost mournful at how quiet it was. She caught an over ground train next, and then walked for half an hour until she reached Mansfield Airfield. She made her way to the north hanger to meet her dear little Abe-y, her Mister Darcy. Before they met she was an abandoned ship, rusting on the shore, but now each night they docked and he went to town on her Lady Susan.

Abe was stood on a ladder polishing the cockpit glass of the plane he had built from scratch. It was a replica of something from the thirties, wide winged and fat bodied with tiny porthole windows. It was built perfectly to scale for her and Abe, and she paused, foot on the first step, hand on the rail. They looked at each other, but no words to be said because this was it, this was heaven. Stairs she could climb like anyone else, no need to twist to one side and swing her leg as though she was mounting a horse. Inside was more wonderful still – eight seats done out in sumptuous blue leather arranged in two rows of four with an aisle down the middle. She moved slowly down the cabin, stopping at each row to lay her arms across the top of the headrests on both sides.

Soon they would be up, up and away, free to wander and look down on the world below that was nothing but little people

Beebland provided you with an opportunity to re-create classic scenes from BBC serials. It was a telly-addicts paradise where visitors were invited to share “magical moments” with astonishingly detailed robots who exactly resembled the original actors. In short, as The Guardian sneered, it was “Westworld for elderly nostalgics”.

It had been enormously successful. Despite the jokes from comedians there had been no incidents with rogue characters from Last Of The Summer Wine running amok in tin baths. In fact, it had been the best attended visitor attraction in Britain every year since 2020.

Rhiannon Bennett, who was a steward in Sitcomland, hated her job. She smiled through gritted teeth in her Beebland Tabard as she helped pensioners who’d fallen through the bar in Only Fools and Horses back to their feet, or led them to the shop where they requested fork handles from robotic Ronnie Corbett. Personally she’d never found either sketch funny.

Next to Sitcomland was the most popular attraction in the whole park, Costumeland!

Here, hordes of randy grannies would queue for hours to meet a computerised Colin Firth with his shirt off, emerging from the lake in Pride and Prejudice.

He would ask them how their parents were (in most cases dead), before walking back towards a CGI stately home with them. The scene ended with Darcy leaning over this minute’s romantic pensioner and saying “Allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you!” before planting a smacker on the lucky Lady’s lips.

Darcy;s Lake even out-performed smuggling up to a bare-chested Poldark on an abandoned Cornish wreck.

The only thing Rhiannon liked about Beebland was Shy Liam her Costumeland counterpart.

Liam viewed the droid Darcy as a sort of mentor. Robots, unlike people, never varied from the script which was comforting for Liam whose conversation skills were poor. He was also in awe of Darcy’s way with women and had learned his chat-up lines carefully should the opportunity ever present itself precisely enough.

Rhiannon had the habit of sneaking out of the back of her own set for a fag and to ogle Liam from behind a plastic tree.

She was there watching one day when Liam tripped over a mislaid codpiece and fell head first into the lake.

She darted from her hiding place to help.

As he rose, brushing plastic waterlilies from his person, his eyes met hers.

“Miss Bennett” he stammered taking his chance at last, “I didn’t expect to see you here! How long have you been in this part of the country?

“I’ve worked here six years” she replied confusedly.

“I hope your parents are well and all your sisters?

”I haven’t got any sisters”

“And where are you staying?”

“At my mum’s house”

“Yes, of course, well if you’ll excuse me” said Liam, disappointingly departing for the staff room to change tabard.

It was another two years before he was able to tell her how ardently he admired and loved her and kiss her on the lips.

Miss Fanny Breakwind stared out of the rain-lashed windows wondering if Captain Adams was thinking of her, or if, indeed, he would ever return to her at all. It had been several weeks since his last letter and Fanny was beginning to wonder what had become of him. Would he ever return from France to marry her and release her from the confines of her mother’s house?

Mary was labouring through something dreary on the pianoforte, Lydia was polishing fork handles and suddenly Fanny found she simply couldn’t bear it. She had been trapped inside for three days by this dreadful weather with these ghastly people and all the while knowing nothing of her love’s fate. It would not do!

She stood and calmly walked out into the hall, whereupon she threw herself into a frenzy of activity. Running in her sprigged muslin to the kitchens she found the cook’s boy and slipped a shilling into his hand and a whisper into his ear. He nodded once and darted to the stables.

Fanny ran to her room and began dragging the ringlets from her hair. A tap at the door! It was cook’s boy with a damp bundle. He flashed a gap-toothed smile and scurried below stairs.

Inside the package were some trousers, a cap and a ragged shirt and jacket. Fanny threw the sprigged muslin to the ground and donned her the threadbare garments. She twisted her hair up into the cap and stared at herself in the glass. She barely recognised her reflection. Splendid. Then, without giving herself time to think, she ran out into the pouring rain, liberated from the trappings of her dress and filled with heady exhilaration.

She’d go to Captain McGrew. He’d find her passage to France as a ship’s boy. She ran all the way to the dockyard, stepping fearlessly over broken chains, coils of rope and mysterious puddles of matter. The air smelled thick and briney and gulls swooped overhead.

At Captain Dick McGrew’s office Fanny rapped sharply on the door. She heard movement inside and waited.

“Uh, just a minute” called Captain McGrew, but Fanny couldn’t wait. She turned the handle and stepped inside:

“Sir, I’m just a ‘umble lad looking for some ‘onest work and a bit o’ travel…”

Fanny trailed off. There, in nothing but their shirt tails, stood Dick McGrew and none other than her own dear Captain Adams engaged in some very unsavoury activity. She gaped, open-mouthed.

“Fanny, is that you?” shouted Adams fastening his britches. “By God you look marvellous in that outfit - much better than that sprigged muslin.”

Fanny blushed and smiled, despite her shock.

“Fact is Fanny I decided to abandon the ship and make a go of it with old Dick here, but now that you’re here looking so devilishly handsome I’ve half a mind to bring you with us. What do you say Dick?”

He didn’t wait for Dick to answer, who was too busy wrestling with his own britches, but stared appealingly at Fanny. Remembering the dull tedium of her mother’s living room she agreed in an instant and the three of them set sail for India the very next day...