“I know, and I understand,” Peter Belden heard his wife say into the telephone as he entered the kitchen. “I wish it wasn’t that way, but I can see that you can’t do anything about it. We’ll look forward to seeing you on Christmas Day.”
Peter frowned at the obvious disappointment he could hear in Helen’s voice, but went about what he was doing nonetheless. The conversation continued for only a short time longer before she told the caller that she loved them and bid them goodbye. When she turned to face him, he could see the tear-tracks on her face.
“What is it?” he asked, setting down his newly-poured cup of coffee. “Was that Brian?”
She shook her head. “It was Bobby. He can’t come home until the last moment. After half-past nine on Christmas Eve, he thinks. And he doesn’t want to bother us that late, so he’s going to stay at Trixie’s.”
Peter took Helen in his arms and held her as she wept. He had wondered whether this would be the year that marked the end of the era. For each of the last thirty-four years, at least one of their children had awoken in the house for Christmas morning, but that time had come to an end. Their youngest son was now a college graduate and working his first full-time job several hours’ drive away from Sleepyside. Their other children were all married and had children of their own.
“We’ll still have a good day,” he promised, rubbing her back. “They’re all still coming to visit, aren’t they? We’ll have all of them together, just like always.”
“It’s not the same,” she complained. “And he doesn’t even understand why I was upset. He thought I would be happy that he’s finally being considerate of our need for sleep.”
Peter laughed softly and squeezed harder. “Considering the amount of time we spent chastising him for keeping us up, we should be happy.”
“I don’t feel happy,” she mumbled.
In that moment, Peter wanted nothing more than to make Helen feel better. Over the top of her head, he caught sight of the calendar and at once saw that there were twelve days until Christmas. She had always loved the song the Twelve Days of Christmas. A plan began to form in his mind for distracting her from the negative part of this new stage of their lives. He was glad that the song starts out with the number one, as he would only need one item for this first, unplanned day.
With a sigh, Helen pulled away and returned to the breakfast preparations that had been interrupted by the telephone call. As she began serving the food, Peter decided to put his plan into action at once. Telling her he would be right back, he strode upstairs to look for a couple of items he thought he could use. The first verse of the song called for a partridge in a pear tree and, while he had neither of those items, they brought to mind something that should be easily found.
Tucked away on the top shelf of the closet near the bathroom was a tea towel printed with pears. Peter’s mother had done the printing in a fit of creativity sometime in the mid-seventies, he thought. There were a number of items to which she had added those pears in green, brown and orange. He chose one which showed green pears.
Next, he entered the bedroom and reached into his special hiding place to retrieve the box of chocolates he had already bought Helen for Christmas. With fumbling fingers, he pulled off the outer plastic and selected one that in a pink foil wrapper with twisted ends. He frowned at it for a moment, before his face cleared. The rest of the box he returned to the hiding place, then he headed for the study, where he added a paper-clip to the twisted paper on one side of the chocolate, to represent the bird’s beak, while leaving the other side plain to represent the tail.
When he returned to the kitchen, with these two items behind his back, he found his wife looking at him quizzically.
“Where have you been, Peter?” she wondered. “Your breakfast is getting cold.”
“I’ve been on a hunting expedition,” he answered. “I suddenly found myself in need of a game bird and appropriate habitat.”
She raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to elaborate. With a flourish, he produced the towel, draped it carefully over the table next to Helen and placed the ‘bird’ on top, right between two of the pears. It fell face-down, but he shrugged and sat down once more, taking a bite of his breakfast.
“And this is?” she inquired.
“Would you believe, a partridge in a pear tree?”
There was a moment’s pause, during which Peter wondered if his idea was about to fall flat, and then Helen laughed. She picked up the bird and smiled at it, before returning to her own breakfast.
“Thank you for trying to cheer me up.” She smiled at him and patted his hand. “I do wonder, though, whether you’re intending to re-enact the rest of the song. Do I need to worry about what’s going to arrive next?”
He smiled. “To be honest, I don’t know what’s going to happen next, but I’ll try not to let the idea get out of hand.”
“I’ll look forward to being surprised, then,” she answered.
To Peter’s satisfaction a smile played across her lips.
During his lunch break that day, Peter sat down with a sheet of paper and pen to figure out the rest of the plan, an undertaking complicated slightly by his difficulty in correctly recalling the order of the gifts. Some of the days would be very easy, he considered, while others would require a lot more thought. At the end of half an hour he had the entire campaign planned, though he still needed to find or obtain a number of props and to gain the assistance of various family members and friends. He smiled to himself and got back to work.
“Good morning, dear,” Helen greeted the following morning. “You’re early this morning. Breakfast will be ready in just a couple of minutes.”
“Fine, fine,” he answered, giving her a kiss on the cheek as she stood at the stove.
He turned to the table and, glancing to make sure she still had her back turned, set down two items next to her place setting. That task completed, he sat at his own place and waited, a serious expression on his face. A short time later, Helen placed a steaming plate of bacon and eggs in front of him and he sniffed in appreciation. She turned back to the stove to serve her own breakfast, then returned to the table, stopping short at the sight of Peter’s gift of that morning.
“Did you leave these here?” she asked, gazing at them in delight.
“Me?” he asked.
Helen picked up one of the items and considered it. “When Diana makes caramel turtles, she doesn’t usually add paper wings.”
“They’re turtle doves,” he explained, keeping his face straight with supreme effort.
His wife laughed. “How did you manage this?”
“I called Di yesterday and asked if she’d made a batch yet, and if I could possibly have a couple.” He smiled. “She was happy to help and she added the wings for me.”
“I didn’t think they were your handiwork.” She leaned over to kiss him. “Thank you, Peter. They’re lovely. I’ll enjoy eating them, too.”
“Both of them?” he asked, eyeing the turtles.
She smiled. “I might be convinced to share.”
On the third morning, his preparations made Peter a little late for breakfast. In the days where they kept chickens, he might have been tempted to use real hens in some capacity, but they had given up keeping them after Bobby went off to college. As he got ready, he considered that perhaps this was a good thing; real chickens would have been very troublesome in the kitchen and would likely make a big mess.
So it was that he carried three stuffed animals, two with cardboard beaks attached, down to the kitchen. A call around their three older children had failed to produce any toy chickens at all, but one of the three toys was a duck. The other two were a yellow teddy bear and a white cat, for which Trixie had made beaks.
“What do we have today?” Helen asked, smiling, as he entered.
“French hens.” He held them out to her, one by one.
“French?” she asked. “How are they French?”
He pointed to pieces of paper, which he had forgotten to attach until the last moment. Helen unfolded each one, smiling to see the handwriting of their three youngest grandchildren bar one, who happened to be the owners of the three toys.
“They’ve each started their message with ‘Bon Jour’,” she noted, still smiling.
“That’s because they’re French hens,” Peter pointed out.
“And Lucy has spelled Christmas as C-r-i-s-m-s,” she added, referring to Brian and Honey’s five-year-old. She sighed. “They’re growing up so quickly.”
Alarmed at this turn toward being melancholy, Peter tried to turn the attention back to something lighter. “I did consider giving the hens a pair of French knickers each, but thought you might like a note from three of the grandchildren instead.”
She nodded and turned to her breakfast, after carefully setting the toys on the table. “You might hold onto that thought for later,” she told him demurely. “Notes from the grandchildren are probably best for now, considering the things I need to get done this morning, but your other idea might have its place yet.”
He smiled and started on his breakfast.
“No props this morning?” Helen asked, as Peter entered the kitchen empty-handed.
He shook his head. “You might have to wait a little while for today’s item. It will be coming in four parts.”
She raised an eyebrow, but did not comment, instead setting out their breakfast and beginning to eat. They had almost finished when the telephone rang. Peter allowed her to answer it and was pleased to see her smile when the caller identified him- or herself. His smile widened when he heard her ask the caller – who was apparently Brian – whether he knew what she was to expect that day. Brian, it seemed, did not elaborate, for the call ended and she returned to the table with a thoughtful expression.
“You’re not going to give me any hints?” she asked, just as the telephone rang again. She gave it a look of annoyance at being interrupted, but went to answer it nonetheless.
Peter poured himself another cup of coffee and smiled into it as Helen conducted another conversation, this time with Trixie. This time when the call ended, she stayed by the telephone and waited, giving Peter a glance or two as she did so. Her patience was rewarded as it rang a third time. He watched the surprise flash across her face as she found herself talking to Dan. She gave him a quizzical look as the conversation continued. When it ended, she turned to him.
“You didn’t ask Bobby to call?” she asked, even as the phone began ringing again.
“He wasn’t ever a Bob-White,” Peter explained, seeing the enlightenment in Helen’s eyes. “I wanted four calling birds.”
She picked up and greeted the fourth caller, who was Mart. After a warm conversation with her second son, she put the phone down and turned once more to Peter.
“That was a lovely idea. Thank you for arranging it.”
He set down his cup and drew her into a hug. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
“I did,” she answered. “And I’m looking forward to finding out what comes next.”
For the fifth day, Peter needed to think laterally. The budget did not allow for real gold and he had never been frivolous enough to spend more than was necessary in any case. Instead, he had made an excursion around the house – and the houses of both Trixie and Brian – in search of a substitute. He found what he was looking for in Brian and Honey’s dining room and had borrowed the items for a few days.
The five shiny, gold-tone curtain rings made a fair representation of the line from the song, but Peter wanted to add something to them, especially since he needed to give them back afterwards. In the second drawer of his desk had been a paper packet of reinforced manila tags. He thought they must have been purchased by his father, as he was sure he had never needed them for anything. Taking five, he had written a memory on each and used the stiff, white twine in the packet to tie each one to a ring.
While Helen was busy in the kitchen with the breakfast preparations, Peter busied himself in hanging the rings from various places around the house. He entered the kitchen with a spring in his step and a look of mischief on his face. As he sat down, his wife turned and gave him a look of mingled anticipation and enquiry.
“You’ll have to go searching today,” he told her.
She smiled. “I look forward to it.”
They spent a companionable breakfast and, after clearing the table and promising that he would get to the dishes in a few minutes, let his wife wander the house in search of today’s items. At first she did not seem to know what to expect, but in a short time the most obvious ring came into view and she snatched it from the seat of the sofa with a low cry of satisfaction.
“A gold ring! ‘Do you remember the time we snuck out for a picnic by the lake while our kids were busy working on one of their projects?’” she read, a slow smile travelling across her face. “Why, yes, Peter – I do remember that.”
He watched for a few moments as she fingered the tag, lost in thought, then prompted, “There are still four more to find.”
Helen nodded and set to work searching. In a short time, she had located a ring hanging from the light fitting in the dining room, one tucked onto the top of a family portrait and another tied to the railing of the stairs. Each held a reminder of a special time between the couple.
“One more,” she mused, looking around with a determined expression. “Now, where could it be?”
Peter strolled in the direction of the last ring and positioned himself carefully. He watched as Helen walked around, peeking here and there as she tried to find it. After a few more minutes, she turned her attention to him.
“It is here, isn’t it?” she asked.
In answer, Peter glanced upwards at the mistletoe under which he waited. Helen followed the hint and looked up. She strolled up to him with exquisite slowness and Peter felt his breath catch. Their lips met for the briefest moment.
“Will you get it down for me?” Helen requested. “I’d like to see what it says.”
He obliged, handing it to her in silence. A faint blush tinted her cheeks as she read. When she finished, she leaned in for another kiss.
“I remember that, too, Peter,” she told him in a low voice. “It might be fun to try it again, too.”
He smiled at her. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
“It’s just a pity that you need to get to work,” she continued, smiling at him in a way that made it hard for him to think straight.
Tearing his eyes away from his beloved wife’s face, he glanced at his watch and saw that she was right – and that he should, at this moment, be finishing the dishes.
“Go,” she urged, a laugh barely suppressed in her voice. “I’ll clean up the kitchen. Don’t stay late at work tonight, though, will you?”
“Not a chance,” he answered, kissing her once more.
By the sixth day, Peter was really enjoying himself. He got down to the kitchen early once more and had soon set up a display on the table with a dozen eggs still in their carton and half a dozen balls of white, feathery yarn to represent the geese. Honey had assured him that they would be useful for making scarves and would not be wasted, so he had splurged on them. At her suggestion, he had poked a piece of a tongue-depressor into the end of each one for a beak. She had even added a pair of googly eyes to the top of each for him, stuck onto card so that they were at the right angle.
Helen entered the kitchen just as he was finishing and laughed in delight.
“Do I get to keep these?” she asked, picking up one of the ‘geese.’ Its eyes rolled around in a comical way, before its beak popped out and dropped onto the table.
“Naturally,” he answered.
“Maybe there’ll be enough to knit something for each of the little girls. I’ll have to get to work if I want to finish in time for Christmas.” She set down the ‘goose’, still smiling. “Thank you, Peter. A little project is just the ticket, I think.”
He glanced from the day’s gift to his wife and back again. “You mean to say this is more welcome than… for example, yesterday’s?”
A steaming plate of food was set in front of him and he could not help but to inhale in appreciation. When he looked up, Helen was watching him with a bemused expression.
“Some of your gifts have been a little more lasting than others,” she noted. “This will keep me busy – which is a good thing. Yesterday was distracting in another way.” She smiled and turned back to get her own meal. “Variety is the spice of life, after all. I think that’s what’s making this so enjoyable.”
“And just think,” he added, “we’re only half-way there.”
“Maybe Trixie got her curiosity from me after all, because I’m feeling very curious about what you’ll do next.”
“Time will tell,” he answered, and they shared a smile.
“You might need to use some imagination, today,” Peter told Helen as he entered the kitchen. She had looked up in anticipation as he arrived, apparently after checking for anything of note.
“Today, I’m expecting seven swans,” she answered. “I hope they’re as elegant as in my mental image.”
Peter gulped. “Make that, you’ll need a lot of imagination.”
“Well, where are they?” she asked.
He glanced around. “They’re swans a-swimming, remember. You didn’t expect me to put in a pond in the kitchen, did you? Though, I can see where that would be useful, on very hot days.”
“I’m quite sure it would not be useful, even on the hottest of days,” she countered.
“Perhaps you’re right.” He shook his head to clear away the mental image which had formed. “So, in light of the lack of ponds in the kitchen, your gift for today awaits… elsewhere.”
His wife raised an eyebrow as she served out the breakfast and set it on the table. “Elsewhere? That’s all the clue I get?”
After a moment’s thought, he relented a little and gave her a clue. “I set it up this morning, and I haven’t been out of the house.”
Helen nodded and began to eat. After they had both finished, she headed for the stairs and went straight into the bathroom. Peter followed along, seeing that she had guessed correctly. He was pleased to hear her laughter when she saw what he had put in the bathtub.
“And you claim to have grown up on a farm,” she teased, picking up one of the wind-up toys that floated there. “These are not swans, Peter, they’re ducks.”
“They’re as close as I could get.” He picked one up and wound it up, so that its webbed feet moved back and forth. He set it back in the water to swim around, then plucked out another to repeat the process. “Don’t you like them?”
“I’m wondering just what I’ll do with them,” she answered, though her smile softened the words.
From the top of the bathroom cabinet, he took down an eighth wind-up duck. “One for each of the grandchildren,” he explained. “They won’t know that we tried them out first.”
Helen smiled and kissed his cheek.
Peter crept into the kitchen as his wife stood at the window, peering intently outside. He placed a hand on either side of her waist, making her jump in surprise.
“What were you looking for?” he wondered, as she relaxed into his arms.
“Cows. I don’t see any, though.” She turned to face him. “What do you have planned for today?”
He raised an eyebrow. “You were expecting me to do something?” Before she could phrase her reply, he continued. “As it happens, I do have a plan. I had a feeling that real cows might be a nuisance, so I’ve improvised slightly.”
Helen smiled. “How slightly?”
“Moo?” asked a voice from somewhere out of sight.
To Peter’s delight, his wife laughed.
“That doesn’t sound much like a cow, Peter. I think that one might be a bull.”
“Shh, Moms!” the ‘cow’ directed, as he came into the kitchen. “There are children present – mine, to be precise – and I don’t think it’s time, yet, to be explaining some of those concepts to them.”
“Hello, Mart,” Helen greeted him, giving him a kiss on the cheek and adjusting the set of cow ears and horns he wore. “Thank you for dropping by.”
“Hi, Grammy! Wha‘ a concept?” their youngest grandchild asked, while tackling her around the legs.
Helen picked up the two-year-old and gave him a big hug, while Mart turned his eyes heavenwards and groaned. “It’s an idea,” she explained, while suppressing a smile at Mart’s antics.
“So, I thought I should expect eight milkers today. So far, I only have three.”
“Sorry I’m late,” Honey called, as she entered the kitchen with her two children in tow, as well as Trixie’s three. She, too, wore a set of ears and horns. “Things were a little chaotic at the Frayne household when I got there and I had to wait for them to find the keys to their van so that I could take it.”
Mart rolled his eyes and muttered about some things never changing, but Helen paid little notice; she was too busy hugging children and asking them questions.
“I’m sorry to interrupt the festivities,” Mart explained a short time later, “but some of these kids need to get to school.”
His announcement was met with groans from the six eldest children. Honey and Mart exchanged car keys and, after a confusion of goodbyes, Mart left with the majority of the kids. Helen, with one of Mart’s kids on each hip, offered Honey a seat at the table and something to eat and drink.
Honey politely declined breakfast. “I’ve already eaten, thank you. I should be getting out of your way, too. I promised Di that I’d mind these two today, so she can get a few things done.”
Before Peter knew what was happening, Helen had convinced Honey to stay, handed her some coffee and settled the two children at the table as well, each with a drink and a small snack. By the time he was ready to leave for work, he knew that Helen would be fully and happily occupied for the day. He sighed in satisfaction at a job well done.
“Today, you’ll need to wait to find out what I have planned,” Peter informed his wife as he came into the kitchen. He had been pleased to see the light of interest in her eyes, but sorry that she might be disappointed.
“Did you forget?” she gently teased.
“Forget? No.” He tried to feign offence, but did not feel that he had pulled it off. “I have something planned; I just thought it would suit the evening better than the morning.”
Helen turned and faced him, worrying her bottom lip for a moment. “I have to wait until evening?”
He nodded and gave her a kiss. “I think you’ll enjoy it, though.”
She smiled. “In that case, I will cherish a little more anticipation.”
When the evening meal had been consumed and the dishes done, Peter led his wife into the living room and guided her to a chair opposite the television. He made sure that everything was switched on and that he had the correct remote control before taking a seat next to her and pressing ‘play’ on the DVD. A quick glance at the screen assured him that the disc had started at the place he intended, so he turned to watch Helen’s face.
Curiosity was soon replaced by a small smile. He noticed one index finger waver as she silently counted, then she glanced at him in confusion.
“But Peter, there are ten dancers.” She waved at the screen, where Brian and Honey’s eldest daughter danced in a ballet recital. “Today is the ninth day.”
“That’s right,” he answered, “but it calls for nine ladies dancing. One of those dancers is a boy.”
Helen smiled at him, then returned her attention to the screen. “You weren’t so concerned with the gender of yesterday’s so-called cow – or the maids.”
“I have to work with the material available,” he answered. “Sometimes it’s easy and sometimes it’s difficult. This was the closest I could get.”
“They do get a little more difficult as they go along,” she agreed, considering. “I hope your plans for tomorrow aren’t too messy.”
“My lips are sealed.” He had to laugh at the disgruntlement on her face as he spoke. “Look on the bright side: today’s delay brings tomorrow’s surprise so much closer.”
She smiled and turned back to the television, where the dancers were leaving the stage. “Only a few more days, now. I’m beginning to think I’ll miss this when it’s over.”
Peter put an arm across her shoulders and drew her closer. “All the family will be here after that. You’ll be too busy to even notice.”
“I like being busy. I don’t think I’m busy enough any more.”
He gave her a squeeze, knowing that this was the cause of this entire sequence of events. “You’ll find things to keep you busy. And just think: I’ve only got nine years until retirement. We’ll have plenty to do then.”
She laughed. “In the next nine years, I’ll have so filled up my days that I might not have time for you!”
“I’ll have to bear that in mind.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Whatever happens, I’m sure we’ll sort it out together.”
“What have you got there?” Helen asked, as Peter entered the kitchen the next morning. “I thought today was the day for lords?”
Peter cleared his throat. “Well, lords were in short supply, so I’ve had to substitute.”
“Frogs?” She raised a sceptical eyebrow. “You’re substituting frogs for lords?”
He set down the plastic bowl he held at the opposite end of the table to that where they would be eating and scooped out the ten frogs. They consisted of bright red, yellow, blue or green plastic and were made in such a way that if you pressed down on them, they jumped.
“If kissing a frog sometimes turns him into a prince, it stands to reason that slightly inferior frogs might turn into lords, doesn’t it?” He gave her a winning smile and tried to hop a red frog into the bowl. It missed.
Helen chose a blue frog and flipped it expertly into the bowl. “You may be right. They do leap in the song, and these seem to leap quite well, too.”
Peter had three more attempts, none of which went anywhere near the bowl. “Not when I try them,” he grumbled.
With a smile, his wife took the five remaining frogs and had each of them leap into the bowl.
“Where did you learn that?” he asked. “I tried them out yesterday and only got one in the bowl in about twenty tries.”
“You should do more babysitting,” she advised. “You learn the most useful skills.”
“So it seems.”
The final two days of the song had seemed by far too noisy for Peter’s tastes, so he had done some lateral thinking. On the eleventh morning, he went down to breakfast with a box that he had carefully hidden the day before. He placed it on the table while Helen had her back turned and gently eased off the lid.
When she turned, Helen’s eyes lit up in delight and she laughed. “They’re wonderful! Who made them for you?”
Peter tried to look offended. “What makes you say that? I could have baked them myself.”
Helen raised an eyebrow and picked up one of the sugar cookies, cut with a gingerbread man cutter and then altered so that he seemed to be playing a pipe. “You’ve never baked in your life, Peter. I don’t imagine you’d be as good as this if you started now – though, I could be surprised.”
With good grace, he gave in. “Actually, I didn’t bake them; it was Honey. And, look – she piped the features on, too. They’re piped pipers piping.”
“Very clever,” she answered, smiling. “And useful, too, if we get some visitors today. I hope we do.”
“I think that could be arranged.” He smiled at her and took her hand. “If they don’t turn up of their own accord, we’ll make some calls and see who we can attract.”
Helen smiled.
The morning of Christmas Eve was clear and cold, though it seemed that fresh snow had fallen overnight. Peter knew that not only would Helen be very busy today with preparations, she would also be inclined to fretting over the emptiness of the house. He had also known that the family would not be able to help much, since they would also have much to do. With that in mind, he had planned the final day of his campaign to unfold gradually through the day.
As it was a Monday, he needed to be at work, so he took the time to hide eleven of the twelve drummers around the house, in places that he expected Helen to visit in the course of the day. He took the twelfth with him to the kitchen and placed it by his wife’s plate.
“Only one?” she asked.
She picked up the figure made of rolled up cardboard, with stapled-on cardboard arms and legs and a smiling face drawn in felt-pen by a child’s hand. Attached to its front was a cardboard drum. As she handled it, a piece of paper dropped from inside its body. She picked it up and read the note with a smile.
“There are eleven more around the house,” he explained, “and each has a note from a different person inside.”
“To last me all day?” she asked, understanding at once.
He nodded and gave her a kiss. “Yes. So, don’t go and try to find them all at once.”
“I won’t,” she promised. “I will look forward to uncovering them one at a time.”
When Peter awoke the following morning, he found that Helen was still in bed with him – a rare occurrence. A glance at the clock showed that it was nearly time for her to get up, but he decided to take advantage of the few minutes she would still be there and snuggle up next to her. The soft sigh she gave and the way she leaned into his embrace suggested that his effort was appreciated. Outside of their room, the house was silent.
“There’s no one telling me to get up,” she whispered against his neck. “All those years I wished they wouldn’t and now that they don’t, I miss it.”
“They’ll all be here later,” he promised, in the same low tones. “And, since they’re not telling you to get up, it must mean that you don’t have to.”
Helen laughed and, glancing at the clock, pulled away from him to get out of bed. “It doesn’t work that way. I still have lots to do and it needs to start right now.”
With a sigh, he watched as she pulled on a warm robe and slippers and got started on her day. He settled back under the covers with the intention of staying there for another ten minutes. This plan went out the window when he heard Helen cry out from somewhere downstairs. Not knowing whether it was in delight or horror, Peter jumped out of bed and threw on his own robe and slippers before racing downstairs, still tying the robe around himself. What he saw at the bottom of the stairs made him stop short.
There, right in front of him, was his wife in the arms of a tall, broad-shouldered man. At that moment, the young man looked up and smiled at him.
“Hi, Dad. Trixie kind of threw me out when I woke up her kids at a quarter to four. Well, actually, she made me keep them in line for an hour or so, then she threw me out. You don’t mind my being early, do you?”
“Not at all,” Peter replied, resuming his walk down the stairs. He reached his wife and ran a soothing hand down her back. “I’m sure your mother can find something for you to do, to keep you occupied. We don’t want you getting up to any mischief, now, do we?”
Bobby put on his most angelic look. “Me, Dad? I’m no trouble at all.”
Peter shook his head and looked stern, while internally delighting in the happy look on Helen’s face. “That’s what they all say.”
The End