But the mother was barely listening. She took her child home, and loved her and cared for her, just as she had promised the Winter Queen. Time passed; the child grew with magical speed; snow-white and sloe-black and beautiful as a clear winter’s day.

Then spring approached; the snow began to melt; and the Snow Child grew increasingly dissatisfied. She wanted to go outside, she said; to be with other children; to play. The mother refused at first, of course. But the child would not be cajoled. She cried, grew wan, refused to eat, so that finally, reluctantly, the mother gave way.

‘Stay out of the sun,’ she warned the child. ‘And never take off your hat and coat.’

‘All right,’ said the child, and skipped away.

All that day, the Snow Child played. It was the first time she had ever seen other children. She played hide-and-seek for the first time; learnt singing games and clapping games and running games and more. When she came home she looked unusually tired, but happier than her mother had ever seen her before.

‘May I go out again tomorrow?’

With a heavy heart, her mother agreed – as long as she kept on her hat and coat – and once more the Snow Child was out all day. She made secret friendships and solemn pacts; skinned her knees for the very first time, and once more came home with a gleam in her eye and demanded to go out again on the morrow.

Her mother protested – the child was exhausted – but finally agreed once more. And on the third day the Snow Child discovered the exhilarating joys of disobedience. For the first time in her short life she broke a promise; broke a window; kissed a boy; and took off her hat and coat in the sun.

Time passed. When night fell and the Snow Child had still not returned, the mother went in search of her. She found her coat; she found her hat; but of the Snow Child there was no sign, nor ever again, but a silent pool of water where no pool had been before.

Well, I never liked that story much. Of all the stories my mother used to tell, that was the one that frightened me most; not for the tale itself, but for the expression on her face and the tremor in her voice and the way she held me painfully tight as the wind blew wild in the winter dark.

Of course, then I had no idea of why she seemed so afraid. Now I know better. They say that childhood’s greatest fear is that of being abandoned by one’s parents. So many children’s stories reflect it: Hansel and Gretel; the Babes in the Wood; Snow White pursued by the evil queen—