Wellies and Westies. Cressida McLaughlin
brought her thoughts back to her bag, and what was inside.
‘I’m letting them in now,’ Alison said.
‘Won’t be a sec,’ Cat called as she hurried out of the room. Alison sighed loudly and flung open the double doors.
Cat’s handbag was on the floor, halfway across the office, and making progress towards the door.
What if Alison had seen it first? Would she have called the police? Thrown it outside? Cat knew then that her plan hadn’t just been stupid, it had been mind-numbingly ridiculous. She scooped the bag up, undid the zip further, and a black button nose snuffled to the opening, followed by a fluff of grey fur and then two dark eyes, looking up at her. Her heart stopped pounding and started to melt, as it always did when she saw Disco, her neighbour Elsie’s miniature schnauzer puppy.
‘Shhhh, Disco,’ she whispered. ‘We’re going in the other room now, so you’re going to have to be really still and really quiet.’ Cat followed her instructions with a treat from her pocket, knowing how futile they were. You didn’t have to be a dog expert to know that being still and quiet were two things that did not come naturally to a puppy. She put her handbag over her shoulder and, as casually as she could, went back into the classroom.
Alison was removing coats and hats, assisted by parents who were reluctant to let their young children go, even for a few hours, and she gave Cat a meaningful backward glance. Cat placed her handbag at the back of the craft area, as far away from the carpet as possible. The bag emitted a tiny yelp, and Cat stuck her hand in, ruffled Disco’s thick, warm fur and zipped it half-closed.
‘Cat?’ Alison called, her voice high and tight. ‘Any chance of some help?’
Cat hurried to the door and welcomed the children in, taking their outer layers off and helping them to hang them on the multicoloured coat hooks. Emma bent down to say goodbye to Olaf, and Alison appeared next to her, her short frame still imposing for a four-year old.
‘Come on, Emma,’ she said, ‘leave the dog now. Time to go inside.’
Emma’s mother put her hand on her daughter’s shoulder. ‘He’s called Olaf.’
‘Right,’ Alison said. ‘Well, we can’t have dogs inside – some of the children are allergic.’
‘You mean you’re allergic to fun,’ Cat muttered under her breath. Behind her Peter, three years old, let out a bubble of laughter, his blue eyes bright with mischief.
‘Shhh,’ she said, ‘don’t tell on me.’ She gave Peter a grin and sent him off to the carpet. Emma took off her coat and Cat could see she was blinking furiously, trying to force the tears back to where they’d come from. Cat resisted the urge to give her a hug – she knew Emma wouldn’t want that – and a stronger urge to let Disco out, delighting all the children and sending Alison into meltdown. She watched as the nursery owner let the last of her charges in, closed the door and ran slender hands over her hair and skirt, before turning to face the children and clapping her hands.
They assembled on the carpet, Alison at the front on one of the beanbags, Cat cross-legged in the middle with children clustered around her. She was wearing a red and white flower-print dress over leggings and boots, and had painted her nails the colours of Smarties, knowing that the children would love them. Sure enough they were soon pulling her hands towards them, running their fingers over the smooth, bright surfaces.
Alison took the register and explained that their activity was called ‘What’s that Sound?’ She started shaking a pair of pink plastic maracas. The children squealed and giggled, and reached out towards the box of instruments.
‘No, children,’ Alison said, holding up a finger, ‘I’m going to give you a musical instrument each, but you have to help me say what sound it’s making first. Right.’ She shook the maraca again. ‘What’s this?’
‘Snakes!’ Andrew shouted.
‘It sounds a bit like a snake’s rattle, doesn’t it? Excellent.’
A few of the children mimicked the noise. ‘Wwwhhsssssshhhhh.’
‘Good.’ She handed out maracas to some of the children.
‘It sounds like sand,’ Emma said.
‘That’s excellent, Emma,’ Alison said. ‘Can you think what might be a bit bigger than sand?’
Emma thought for a moment. ‘Stones?’
Alison nodded. ‘Small stones or seeds.’ She handed Emma a maraca. ‘Well done. The maracas are filled with seeds, or sometimes tiny stones, so that when you shake them they make a rattling noise. Now, everyone, what’s this?’
There was a chorus of ‘Drum!’ as Alison took out a tiny bongo drum and started tapping it. ‘And what do you do to a drum?’
‘Bang it! Hit it!’
Cat thought she heard a small yelp from the other end of the room, but a quick glance told her that her handbag hadn’t wandered. She began to relax, joining in with the drumming and handing out instruments.
Alison pulled the next item out of her box, and Cat froze.
‘Does anyone know what this is?’ Alison asked. She held the small metal item out in front of her.
The children looked perplexed, then Emma let out a gasp, her hand shooting up, fingers trying to touch the ceiling.
‘Yes, Emma?’
‘A whistle?’
Alison smiled. ‘That’s right, it’s a whistle. And what sound does it make?’
Emma shaped her lips into a tight ‘O’, preparing to whistle, and Cat shot from the carpet, nimbly jumping between the children to get to her handbag.
‘Cat? Where are you going?’ Alison’s tone was pleasant, but Cat heard the steel in it.
‘I – I just need to…’ She edged towards her handbag.
‘Please come and sit down,’ Alison said sweetly. ‘We’re having so much fun.’
Cat looked despairingly at the bag, then returned to the carpet and sat down slowly, wondering if she could delay the inevitable by freezing time. She planted a grin on her face.
Alison continued. ‘What sound does the whistle make, Emma?’
Emma made the shape with her lips and blew as hard as she could. What came out was a soft, wet raspberry noise. Emma looked surprised. ‘My mummy can do it,’ she said.
Alison nodded. ‘It takes a bit of practice, but you’re very close. Now this –’ she held up the whistle – ‘does it for you.’ She pressed it to her lips and blew.
Children shrieked, a couple put their hands over their ears and Tom shouted: ‘Dog!’
Alison frowned and gestured her palms towards the floor. ‘Dog?’
Cat risked a glance at her handbag. It was in the same place.
‘Dog!’ Tom shouted again, his bottom bouncing up and down on the carpet. ‘Dog!’
‘Well, yes,’ Alison said slowly, ‘lots of people use these to train dogs, but—’ She was interrupted by a quiet but determined yelp.
‘Dog!’ Tom shrieked again, and other children joined in. ‘Dog dog dog.’
Cat got onto her knees. If she crawled quickly, maybe she could get there in time. Children were imaginative; it would be dismissed as overexcitement. But then the little black nose, the grey fur and then the whole fuzzy, inquisitive head pushed out of the handbag’s opening, forcing the zip, and Disco was out. The puppy ran on her tiny legs towards Cat, knocking over three bottles of paint, and into the middle of the children, who erupted into delighted squeals.
Disco leapt and bounced and yipped and snuffled,