beautiful navy-green eyes I could see the cogs whirring, wondering what I meant. “I'll be right back,” I said and turned on my heels. Dropping my bag on the bottom step, I made my way down the corridor and into the kitchen, and began opening cupboards and drawers until I found what I was looking for. And then I went back to the playroom, reentered with my hands behind my back, hiding what I'd found.
“So, Summer, do you want to know why you're going to wish I was your mumma in just under eight minutes?”
She stared at me, defiant, but curious: her eyes asked why even though her mouth wouldn't.
“Because, in about three minutes, I am going to use these.” I brandished my kitchen find—a roll of large black binliners. “You see, I know lots of kids who'd love thesethings,” I said, indicating the sea of toys and playthings at her feet. “They don't have toys, and even if they do, their toys aren't half as nice as these things.
“Now, if I was your mumma, I wouldn't think of giving all this stuff away because I would have spent hours and hours at work, earning the money to pay for them. She'd remember how much everything cost. She'd also remember how much you loved playing with that set of wooden dolls.” I pointed at the brightly painted set of Russian dolls that lay separated on the floor by her foot. “And your mumma would remember how you used to sleep with that rag doll, and how sweet you used to look, all cuddled up with her.” I pointed at the battered green and pink doll with black wool hair and a missing eye that lay splayed under the window. “And your mumma would know how much you loved to read that book before you went upstairs for your bath, even though you'd both pretended you were too old for it and she was the one who wanted to hear it.” I pointed at the book of childhood rhymes that had obviously been flung at the wall beside the door and bounced back, open, onto the floor. “Since I'm not your mumma, I don't know all these things. These toys mean nothing to me and I don't know what they mean to you. I don't know and don't care how much they cost, all I know is that they're a nice bunch of things that several other kids would appreciate. And would probably keep very tidy.
“So, Summer, I've taken two minutes to explain all this, so in about a minute—that's the time it takes to count up to sixty—I'm going to get down on my hands and knees and start packing this stuff up. Obviously, if they're all tidied up and put away, I won't be able to do that. But, as you said, I'm not your mumma, I can't tell you what to do, so I'm not going to ask you to tidy up. I'm just going to count to sixty and then start putting things in my bags. Either way, Ireckon that in under six minutes, this floor is going to be clear of toys.”
As I'd been talking, Summer's eyes had been growing wider and wider. She wasn't sure if I was pulling her leg, trying another way to upset her, or if I was serious.
“And, don't worry, I'm not going to count out loud or check my watch, I don't want to stress you out. I'm just going to count in my head and then start packing, OK?”
Summer looked to her father. He stood by the door, leaning on the door frame, and obviously wasn't going to intervene. Her gaze darted to her brother, who was also watching the unfolding scene.
“They're Jaxon's toys, too,” she informed me.
“I know.” I shrugged. “Your mumma would care about that. Your mumma would worry that Jaxon would be cross with you because you got all his toys taken away, but not me—I'm not like your mumma.” I unrolled the black bin-liners in my hand and snapped one off at the perforations, the sound ricocheting off the tense silence in the room.
In response, Summer threw herself onto her knees, started gathering up her toys, clinging to all she could in one arm, while trying to right the drawer nearest to her. Once it was upright, she threw stuff into it. She moved at lightning speed, her eye mask
“So, Summer, do you want to know why you're going to wish I was your mumma in just under eight minutes?”
She stared at me, defiant, but curious: her eyes asked why even though her mouth wouldn't.
“Because, in about three minutes, I am going to use these.” I brandished my kitchen find—a roll of large black binliners. “You see, I know lots of kids who'd love thesethings,” I said, indicating the sea of toys and playthings at her feet. “They don't have toys, and even if they do, their toys aren't half as nice as these things.
“Now, if I was your mumma, I wouldn't think of giving all this stuff away because I would have spent hours and hours at work, earning the money to pay for them. She'd remember how much everything cost. She'd also remember how much you loved playing with that set of wooden dolls.” I pointed at the brightly painted set of Russian dolls that lay separated on the floor by her foot. “And your mumma would remember how you used to sleep with that rag doll, and how sweet you used to look, all cuddled up with her.” I pointed at the battered green and pink doll with black wool hair and a missing eye that lay splayed under the window. “And your mumma would know how much you loved to read that book before you went upstairs for your bath, even though you'd both pretended you were too old for it and she was the one who wanted to hear it.” I pointed at the book of childhood rhymes that had obviously been flung at the wall beside the door and bounced back, open, onto the floor. “Since I'm not your mumma, I don't know all these things. These toys mean nothing to me and I don't know what they mean to you. I don't know and don't care how much they cost, all I know is that they're a nice bunch of things that several other kids would appreciate. And would probably keep very tidy.
“So, Summer, I've taken two minutes to explain all this, so in about a minute—that's the time it takes to count up to sixty—I'm going to get down on my hands and knees and start packing this stuff up. Obviously, if they're all tidied up and put away, I won't be able to do that. But, as you said, I'm not your mumma, I can't tell you what to do, so I'm not going to ask you to tidy up. I'm just going to count to sixty and then start putting things in my bags. Either way, Ireckon that in under six minutes, this floor is going to be clear of toys.”
As I'd been talking, Summer's eyes had been growing wider and wider. She wasn't sure if I was pulling her leg, trying another way to upset her, or if I was serious.
“And, don't worry, I'm not going to count out loud or check my watch, I don't want to stress you out. I'm just going to count in my head and then start packing, OK?”
Summer looked to her father. He stood by the door, leaning on the door frame, and obviously wasn't going to intervene. Her gaze darted to her brother, who was also watching the unfolding scene.
“They're Jaxon's toys, too,” she informed me.
“I know.” I shrugged. “Your mumma would care about that. Your mumma would worry that Jaxon would be cross with you because you got all his toys taken away, but not me—I'm not like your mumma.” I unrolled the black bin-liners in my hand and snapped one off at the perforations, the sound ricocheting off the tense silence in the room.
In response, Summer threw herself onto her knees, started gathering up her toys, clinging to all she could in one arm, while trying to right the drawer nearest to her. Once it was upright, she threw stuff into it. She moved at lightning speed, her eye mask
Similar Books
