Bea's Midnight Mission

The little girl is not good at lying, or any sort of deception really, but she's going to try her best. Her rounded face is too open, her chocolate eyes too expressive. Like many three year old children, she has zero impulse control.

For example. Picture the scene: her mother goes to collect her at nursery. Bea is windmilling towards her, curls bouncing, excitement frothing palpably. She's made something for mummy for Mother's Day. Do you think she can hold on to this surprise for all of two days?

Of course not. But this? This is important.

It's difficult, then, when Daddy comes to check on her, to lie still under the covers. She is not even sure what she looks like when she's asleep, but she has a vague idea that she should be still with her eyes closed. Her fist is bunched almost painfully tight, tucking the blanket under the apple of her cheek. She can feel his eyes. Staying super still and quiet while he tucks the bedding more snugly and plants a kiss on the top of her head. Then he's gone.

She listens very hard, her ears practically twitching, to make completely sure Daddy has left the room.

Her eyes ping open aggressively. She holds them open wide, staring into the dark. Mustn't sleep! Mustn't!

She listens to the house-y noises. Splashing noises from the bathroom. That's big brother Shaun getting ready for bed. Mummy's voice. Daddy's. They're saying things like have you seen and I'm sure it was on the hook. They sound a bit frustrated and cross, but at last they give up. The telly. Baby sister, Lula, cries a bit, and then stops. Footsteps creaking. Doors open, close. Light switches click.

At last, it's all gone quiet. Dark. Bea waits a bit more. Just to be sure.

She sits up, grinning gleeful in the dark. This feels naughty. This feels terrific.

This fizzing rebellious feeling only grows as she swings her legs out of her big girl bed. Her chubby fist opens at last to reveal the thing Mummy and Daddy were looking for: the key to the attic.

Bea leaves this trinket next to her bed and peeks out on the landing, which is illuminated by the light from the bathroom. Mummy always leaves that on in case Bea needs the Toylut. The boxes stuffed with tinsel and fake holly are still stacked there, waiting for Daddy to put them away.

Grinning, and barely containing and excited squeal, Bea tiptoes to Shaun's room and gives him a poke.

"Hey!" A shouty-whisper, and a big finger-poke on the duvet-lump. "You 'wake? Come on!"

The lump moves, and there's Shaun's face, his eyes glittering like shiny black coal in the glow from his nightlight. He looks nearly as excited as Bea feels.

They work very hard, and as quiet as they can, stringing tinsel along the bannister and jamming the holly around picture frames.

It takes a long time to drag the tree back downstairs, piece by piece, and put it together like a big prickly jigsaw. Shaun drapes the lights haphazardly over the bottom half, and Bea, with intense concentration, hangs as many baubles as possible on a small cluster of branches to the lower left. There are beads and paper chains. Bea hangs them wherever she can reach, which isn't very high, and Shaun flings them as high as he can, grinning.

"This will work, won't it," Bea chatters contentedly.

"Sure," says Shaun.

Bea fetches the stockings from the box, and orders Shaun to hang them by the fireplace.

"He won't come, probably, if you don't,"

Shaun abandons his throwing game, and stands on tiptoes to reach the hooks. He keeps his face looking away and says,

"Hey, Bea, he might not come anyway."

"Yes, he will," she says. "He will think it's still Christmas and he's missed a house and he will give his raining deer some oats and..."

She's rubbing her eyes. It took a long time to re-Christmas the house, and she is, after all, very small.

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Thank you for reading!

Based on a true story.