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  Well, talking of heads, unfortunately for the King, his head is only the size of a small melon. When he wears the precious jewel-encrusted crown (which he must do for all state occasions), it slips down over his eyes, and the only way he can see is to tip his chin into the air. This is not a good look for a leader as powerful as the King, so I, the Knave of Hearts, must accompany him throughout the day with a crown upon my crimson cushion.

  At tea, the King always serves the Queen. This can make things rather . . . tense, and this afternoon was no exception.

  ‘A cup of tea, my dear?’ the King asked Her Majesty as he lifted one of the pots using his two very small hands.

  The Queen smiled and nodded, and the King began to pour the tea into her golden cup. Some of it sploshed into the saucer, and her face changed in an instant.

  ‘BE CAREFUL!’ she screamed. ‘YOU’LL DROWN ME IN TEA!’

  The King began to tremble, and the tea splashed everywhere as he placed the pot back on to the table.

  I sighed as I stood between them as motionless as possible.

  ‘Milk, my majesty-darling?’ said the King.

  The Queen smiled and nodded again, but then she snarled as the milk splashed on to the table cloth.

  ‘Six lumps?’ said the King, picking up the sugar tongs.

  This time, the Queen grabbed the tongs from his hand and pushed him back on to his seat.

  ‘Six lumps? Of course it’s six lumps! IT’S ALWAYS SIX LUMPS!’ she cried.

  The King cowered in his seat.

  I watched, holding my breath as the Queen delicately plopped three sugar lumps into her cup. She struggled to get a hold of the fourth lump with her tongs, and her nostrils began to flare as she snorted like an angry warthog. Her tongue peeped out of the side of her mouth as she concentrated, but she couldn’t do it. She screamed in frustration and tossed the tongs high up into the air. The Two of Spades rushed forward, his arms out, ready to catch them. They spun around and around and around, until falling right into his hands. He breathed a huge sigh of relief, then ran back to his position and stood to attention while hiding the tongs behind his back.

  This happens every single day at afternoon tea. Last week, the Seven of Diamonds dropped the royal tongs and . . . well . . . let’s just say he has been relieved of his duties.

  And his head.

  The Queen grabbed three more lumps with her sausage-shaped fingers and threw them into her cup with such force that most of the tea splashed up and over into the saucer. She then sat back into her throne with a huff and adjusted her crown. Her head was much larger than the King’s, and her crown sat tall and proud.

  ‘STIR!’ she snarled through a curled lip.

  The King leaped up and began to stir what was left of her tea with a silver spoon.

  ‘Are you looking forward to the Ceremony of the Flamingos later today, my lovely one?’ asked the King, his voice wobbling slightly.

  The Queen had a great scowl upon her face until she heard the word ‘flamingos’.

  ‘Ah . . . the flamingos!’ she said, going all soppy. ‘Strong necks and straight legs. That’s what a croquet mallet needs! Strong necks and straight legs!’

  The King clapped his hands together.

  ‘Yes, indeed!’ he cried. ‘I’m sure there’ll be a fantastic selection, my wonderful-ness.’

  The Ceremony of the Flamingos happens once a year and is quite a grand affair. A new batch of salmon-pink birds are paraded up and down in front of the royal couple so that they can be assessed for their croquet-mallet potential. The Queen will point to the birds that she wishes to keep in her personal flock. It is an official state occasion, so the King always wears his oversized crown, tipping his head back to see where he is going.

  Now, those that are clever among you will have noticed that earlier I said that I accompany the King throughout the day with ‘a spectacular crown’ on my cushion and not ‘the spectacular crown’. First, congratulations on your observational skills; and, second, what I am about to tell you could put your own head at risk. When you learn this fact, you must immediately bury it away in the deepest part of your brain, and you are not to go digging it up one day and letting it escape out of your mouth. Are we clear on that?

  Good.

  Then I can tell you this:

  The crown that I bear on my cushion is not the real one.

  Not in any way, shape or form.

  This is because the King once lost the crown. It caused an almighty panic until the Five of Spades found it dangling on a rose bush in the palace garden.

  After that, the White Rabbit came up with an idea. ‘Why risk losing the real crown when a fake one is perfectly practical?’ he said, when he visited one day for afternoon tea.

  His nose twitched as he looked at the Queen, waiting for her to reply. She stared at him blankly for a moment, but then she got distracted by the arrival of the jam tarts, grabbing at them with both hands. The rabbit nodded to himself and ticked his ‘To Do’ list with a swish of his pen:

  * Change His Majesty’s real crown for a fake one

  And that decided it. For, once the White Rabbit ticked anything on his list, then whatever he ticked would happen. The real crown was hidden away and only used when the King actually needed to wear it for state occasions, and the crown that I would bear on my cushion would from that moment on be a worthless fake.

  Nobody needed to know.

  As the King and Queen continued with their afternoon tea, I looked down at the fake crown on my crimson cushion. My nose slowly curled upwards. The real crown is solid gold, with diamonds around the edge, and a heart at the top, which is encrusted with hundreds of tiny rubies that twinkle in the sunlight. The crown that I now carried on my velvet cushion was made of tin and painted to look like gold. The jewels were made of glass, not diamonds, and the heart at the top was decorated with jam, not rubies. It was a monstrosity.

  The Queen of Hearts slurped at her tea and stuffed a jam tart in her mouth as she reached for more. The King had a tart in each hand, while two more bulged in his cheeks. He looked at me and nodded towards the fake crown on my cushion.

  ‘Remember to have my crown ready for the Ceremony of the Flamingos,’ he said, showering crumbs everywhere. A lump of jam slowly made its way down his chin.

  ‘Yes, Your Majesty,’ I replied, keeping my gaze lowered, because the King and Queen don’t like to be looked at directly. (I also prefer not to see jam tarts being mauled in such a way. I do admire the royal couple in all of their splendidness, but I do wish they would treat the tarts with the respect that they deserve. One should nibble at a jam tart, not stuff.)

  ‘Yes, yes, Knave of Hearts,’ piped up the Queen. ‘You must do your royal duty well today. The crown must be entirely spectacular!’

  I nodded towards her.

  ‘Yes, Your Majesty,’ I replied. ‘The crown shall be fit for a king.’

  The King began to laugh until the Queen slapped her hand on the table and told him to shut up.

  When afternoon tea finished, the royal couple rose to retire to their chambers to get ready for the ceremony. I scooted around the vast table to catch up with the King, walking a few paces behind him so that the ‘crown’ was always close by. He scuttled off down a long corridor and, although he has little legs, I had to trot to keep up with him. His attendants were waiting to greet him, and he quickly turned to me.

  ‘You go and do . . . what you need to be doing . . .’ he said, tapping the side of his nose.

  The royal couple, the White Rabbit and I are the only ones who know about the crown, and we all need to be discreet. If anyone found out that the crown I carried each day was a fake, there would be an outrage in Wonderland.

  ‘Yes, Your Majesty,’ I replied, with a deep bow towards him.

  With that, the door to his chamber closed, and I skipped off towards the royal kitchen.

  When it had first been decided that the real crown should be replaced with a fake, the big question was where shoul
d the real crown be hidden? The palace has plenty of dungeons with armed guards and other protected areas, but I suggested that the best place to hide it should be somewhere a thief wouldn’t think to look.

  ‘We need to be clever, Your Majesty,’ I had said to the Queen all those months ago. ‘We need to be one step ahead of the criminal mind and hide the crown where they would least expect it. How about . . . the royal kitchen?’

  The Queen shook her head vigorously.

  ‘No, no, no . . .’ she said. ‘That’s no good. NO GOOD AT ALL!’

  She paused for a moment and frowned and tapped her cheek with her finger.

  ‘I’ve got it!’ she cried, making me jump. ‘How about . . . the royal kitchen? Yes! That’s where it should go!’

  I opened my mouth, and then closed it again, quickly nodding. Her Majesty is rather skilled at making all her own decisions.

  ‘What a fine idea,’ I replied. ‘You are so wise and yet humble in your extremely clever cleverness, ma’am.’

  And so it was decided by . . . Her Majesty . . . that the priceless crown should be placed deep within a container filled with flour and hidden at the back of the pantry in the kitchens.

  When I got to the royal kitchen, the workers all stopped what they were doing and stood to attention. The staff have a great deal of respect for the authority I have over them.

  ‘I am here on royal duties,’ I said loudly. ‘I am here to inspect the royal pantry to ensure that the jam tarts are being made using the finest ingredients in all of Wonderland.’

  ‘Of course we’re using the finest ingredients, you great nincompoop!’ shouted Cook. ‘You’re just down here tryin’ to steal the jam tarts again! Ain’t ya?’

  The rest of the staff began to laugh. Sometimes they get a bit overexcited and forget how to behave.

  ‘No! No, no!’ I shouted above the chatter. ‘That is not right at all. I was found completely innocent of that crime. I have never, ever stolen any jam tarts ever, ever, ever.’

  ‘Yes ’e ’as!’ shouted a pot-washer from the back of the room. ‘’E’s always got jam around his moosh!’

  I instinctively wiped at my mouth with my sleeve, and the laughing got louder.

  ‘Look at ’im! ’E’s trying to hide the evidence!’ called the pastry chef from under his puffy white hat. ‘’E finks we’re as fick as the Queen!’

  Everyone fell into deathly silence as they stared at the pastry chef. They blinked at each other, waiting for a screeching voice to cry, ‘Off with his head!’ but, after a few moments, there was no shout, and everyone relaxed.

  ‘I am not a thief, and I am not stealing the jam tarts!’ I cried. ‘I am here on official royal duties, and you should all get back to your posts immediately, or I shall . . . I shall . . . I shall become very angry indeed!’

  I stamped my foot, and the crown fell off the cushion and on to the floor with a clatter.

  ‘Look at ’im!’ said Cook. ‘’E can’t even keep the crown on ’is cushion!’

  I quickly picked it up, relieved it was not the real one.

  ‘Get back to your work!’ I shouted, with a quite impressive amount of firmness. ‘If you don’t, I will tell the Queen about you, and your heads will all come off! Every single one!’

  ‘Well, that ain’t gonna ’appen,’ said a small, weedy woman, who began to spoon great dollops of jam into tart cases. ‘The Queen ain’t gonna want to risk losing us and not ’aving any afternoon tea, is she?’

  The rest of the group grumbled in agreement, but they each turned back to their work. There is no doubting my authority here. They all realize how superior I am to them, and they always treat me with a great deal of respect.

  While they were busy, I headed to the pantry – a great big cupboard with five large shelves. This is where the flour, sugar, eggs and jam are kept. I put my cushion down, stood on my tiptoes and reached for a jar of flour hidden at the back on the very top shelf. It was heavy, and I needed two hands to ease it out and on to the floor. I prised the lid off and pushed my fingers into the soft flour. They immediately felt something cold and hard. The crown! I carefully pulled it out and shook the flour off. The heart at the top, which was decorated with rubies, glistened in the daylight. The row of precious diamonds twinkled as I blew the white flour off them. It truly was spectacular. I took the fake crown and stuffed it into the jar, scooping flour over the top to hide it from view, and placed the real crown on top of my cushion. Then, straightening my back and pointing my nose into the air, I left the kitchens.

  The Ceremony of the Flamingos was a splendid occasion. As usual, the Queen insisted that the birds parade up and down, up and down, and she clapped her hands and grinned as she pointed to those she wanted for her flock. Eventually there was just one bird left. Its feathers were sticking out all over the place, and its beak was crooked. As it walked, it swayed its head from side to side like it was listening to music that only it could hear. The Queen clapped her hands again and pointed towards the bird.

  ‘And I’ll have that one too!’ she said. ‘Yes! I definitely want that one!’

  She was supposed to choose the best birds for her flock, but she always picked every single one.

  The ceremony had gone on for hours, and the King had fallen asleep on his throne, the royal crown slipping down over his eyes as he slumped further and further into his chair.

  ‘WAKE UP, KING!’ cried the Queen.

  He jolted upright, and the crown dropped down round his neck like a ring round a coconut. I rushed over with the cushion and presented it to him, ready to receive the crown. He eased the crown up over his little head, and then huffed as he plonked it down on to the cushion.

  ‘Pesky thing!’ he said. ‘Take it back, Knave!’

  I bowed deeply as he got up, and then I quickly trotted across the lawns towards the palace.

  It was a puzzle to me that he couldn’t see the beauty in the crown. It was a thing of wonder, of amazing workmanship, and it was – of course – incredibly valuable. The kind of valuable that could change a life forever.

  I returned with the crown to the kitchens. The cook was the only person there now, and she looked up at me with a grunt and a huff but didn’t say anything.

  I went to the pantry and took down the jar with the flour and removed the fake crown. It looked so dull and pathetic to my eyes. Was I the only one who appreciated the beauty of the real crown? I sighed, put the jar back on to the shelf and headed back to my quarters.

  My room is plain but good enough for my needs. In it, I have a bed, a chair, a wardrobe and a suitcase.

  I am the Knave of Hearts, and my heart was truly pounding in my chest as I looked around my room and thought about what I was about to do. I took a deep breath, then reached for my suitcase from underneath my bed and opened it up. I went to my wardrobe, removed my clothes, folded them and placed them in a neat pile inside the case. Then, tossing the dented fake crown on to my bed, I picked up the crimson cushion and placed it on top of my clothes.

  It was such a plain, simple cushion that had accompanied me on all of my duties, but it also had a hidden secret. While I had been alone in my room in the quiet evenings, I had ‘improved’ the cushion with the use of a needle and cotton.

  Hidden on the underside of the cushion was a pocket. A pocket that I have stitched with absolute precision – each stitch so tiny it can barely be seen, even by the most curious of eyes.

  A pocket that has been so effective for making things ‘disappear’.

  Like jam tarts, for instance.

  I’ve stolen at least three hundred now, enjoying their delicious jamminess within the privacy of my room and eating them with the delicacy and refinement they deserve. The trial was a bit of an inconvenience, but fortunately that strange girl Alice decided to grow as large as a house right there in the court. In the chaos that followed, the charges against me were all forgotten.

  I slid my hand inside the secret pocket of the cushion and took out the crown. The real crown w
ith its rubies and diamonds.

  ‘You’re coming with me,’ I said, swallowing as I stared at the exquisite twinkling gems. A jam-tart thief? How boring that seemed now. I hid the crown back inside the cushion and closed my suitcase with a click and a clunk.

  I turned and faced my room for one last time and then opened my door.

  Will I lose my head? I doubt it. By the time the Queen realizes I have stolen the King’s crown, I will have reached the edge of Wonderland and arrived at the sea. They will spend days searching the palace grounds before they even think about looking further. I’d been surrounded by idiots for so long. I couldn’t wait to escape their dull, tiny brains.

  I closed my door and sneaked through the dark shadows of the corridors until I emerged on to the palace steps. I ran across the moonlit forecourt and past the guard snoring into his belly.

  As I skipped down the road with my case, I grinned to myself. I’d never seen the ocean before, and I was excited to hear the roar of the waves. What excitement would be waiting for me there, I wondered? I’d heard there was a rather murderous Walrus who lived by the sea, and I couldn’t wait to meet him. I think that maybe we could be friends.

  How the Cheshire Cat Got His Smile

  by Piers Torday

  Like millions of children before and after me, I was captivated by the surreal, hilarious and occasionally alarming madness of Lewis Carroll’s Wonderland when I first encountered it, my already overactive young imagination aided by John Tenniel’s classic illustrations. But of all the many talking, singing and downright peculiar creatures to be discovered down the rabbit hole, none intrigued me more than the Cheshire Cat.

  Wonderland can seem frenetic, with dashing rabbits, arguing playing cards, people changing size all the time – and this enigmatic, eerily grinning oversized cat draped over a branch perplexed me. Where had he come from? Why was he almost more smile than cat? Some say the phrase to ‘grin like a Cheshire Cat’ comes from cats delighting at the abundance of milk and cream to be found in dairy rich Cheshire, others that Carroll found inspiration in an old church carving. But I had a rather different idea . . .