A Bedtime Story.

A Bedtime Story.

“Please Mummy, read me a story,” pleaded Michael. “You said you would. You promised. I’ll be good tomorrow, cross my heart.” He peered up at her with wide-open, innocent eyes.

“Not tonight, sweetie,” she said, ruffling his hair. “It’s much too late and you’ve school in the morning.” With practised hands, Hazel tucked in the blankets. “Now off to sleep quickly, there’s a good boy.”

She bent to kiss him goodnight, but he turned away and pulled the covers up over his head.

“Daddy always read me a story.” She could hear him mumbling. “I can remember.”

Hazel sighed as she left Michael’s bedroom. She switched off the light, but leaving the door half open. He hadn’t forgotten his father. She smiled as she remembered how he used to shout, “Daddy, Daddy”, every time they saw a fire engine when they were out. It had been like a reflex action, uncontrollable. He still had for months after the accident. Those long, painful and very lonely months that she’d thought she’d never get through.

Hazel had heard about the accident on the news first. They had broadcast a special bulletin to announce a fire at the local fireworks factory had caused an explosion. With a wife’s sixth sense she had known, before the phone call came, that Peter wouldn’t be coming home.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

In the morning Hazel took Michael to school. She watched him race across the playground to join his friends. She was already forgotten. Walking to the bus stop she pondered on the problem of the bedtime stories. Michael could be very persistent and her excuses wouldn’t hold up much longer. It was difficult to explain to a five year old she didn’t read well enough to take Daddy’s place.

Hazel’s bus dropped her off on the High Street right outside Brodie’s Café. She’d worked there since Michael had started school. She enjoyed the company and the daily chit-chat of the regulars. It kept her hands busy and her mind occupied.

As Hazel opened the café door and walked in, the smell of toast and the clatter of saucers greeted her. There were already six tables occupied. Mrs Brodie was busy with the tea urn.

“Hello love.” Mrs Brodie shouted a welcome through clouds of steam. “Looks like you’re just in the nick of time. We could be in for a busy morning by the look of things, but you won’t catch me complaining though.” She laughed cheekily as she rubbed her hands together. “If you know what I mean.” The comment was accompanied with a sly wink.

Hazel laughed. “Let me get my coat off and I’ll be right with you.”

The morning passed quickly until Mrs Brodie called a halt. “Looks like that’s the breakfast rush over with, love. Come on sit yourself down and have a cup of tea. Oooh,” she complained as she eased herself into a chair, “my veins are killing me. I’ll have to put my feet up for a bit before the office lot come in for their lunches.” Mrs Brodie propped her lumpy legs up on a stool and sighed in relief as she sipped at her tea.

“Lovely,” she said, “can’t beat my tea even if I say so myself. Bottom will drop out of that cup in a minute if you don’t stop stirring it,” she looked at Hazel meaningfully, “and seeing as I can’t afford any new crockery, you best tell me what’s worrying you.”

“Oh I don’t know,” Hazel sighed “it’s so difficult to explain.”

“Well lass, I’m all ears, you know me.”

Hazel faltered, and then took a deep breath, “I can’t read very well and…”

“But what are you worrying about that for?” interrupted Mrs Brodie, “I told you when you started here that it didn’t matter. We understand each other and the customers like you, that’s what’s most important.”

“It’s not that,” it was hard to explain. “It’s Michael. He wants me to read him stories at bedtime and I just can’t do it.” Hazel was close to tears. “I used to make them up, but now he wants proper ones like the ones they have at school and I just don’t know what to do.” Her face was a picture of misery.

“Get yourself down to the library.” Mrs Brodie said matter-of-factly.

Hazel scoffed. “A fat lot of good the library is for someone who can’t read.” She snapped angrily, “Got anymore bright ideas?”

“Now, now, don’t be so touchy,” she soothed, “what I meant to say was they hold them special classes. You know, for adults, where they teach you things you didn’t learn at school. Why don’t you go and ask. Asking never hurt did it?”

“Maybe,” said Hazel as she took a drink of her tea, “maybe I just will go and ask.”

“Look out!” said Mrs Brodie as she heaved herself off her chair, “here come the office lot and off we go again.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Hazel got as far as the library steps before changing her mind and ducked into the phone booth just outside the door instead. I just can’t do it, she thought, it’s too embarrassing. I can’t march straight in there and talk to a complete stranger.
Her heart pounded as she picked up the phone and dialled the number for the library.

“Now don’t you worry,” the friendly voice on the other end of the line assured her, “you’re not the only one you know. You just come along on Thursday and Mr Taylor will get you started.”
As she put down the phone Hazel felt more confident. I can do it, she thought determinedly, and I will.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

On Thursday evening a trembling Hazel stood outside the library. Earlier she had left Michael at his Gran’s and he’d been far too occupied with a huge slice of homemade chocolate cake to worry about where she was going.
She braced herself and taking a deep breath to steady her nerves as she pushed open the library door. It seemed very quiet inside. There were a few people selecting books from the shelves and a couple of others seated at some tables with books open in front of them. A tall thin man was deep in conversation with the librarian who sat behind the desk.

“Excuse me,” Hazel interrupted, “could you tell me where to find the reading class, please.” She felt a warm blush on her cheeks. The man turned abruptly to stare at her and she felt her cheeks grow pinker.

“Sorry,” she stammered, “but I don’t want to be late and they’ll be starting any minute.”

“Not without me they won’t.” the man replied and he held out his hand as he introduced himself, “I’m Eddie Taylor,” he said “and I’m taking the class. It’s good of you to join us.”

Reluctantly Hazel shook his hand. Her palm felt hot and sticky against the paper dry warmth of his. He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder and guided her further in to the library, talking as they walked.

“We don’t really run this like a class,” he explained, “it seems to work much better on a one to one basis. Everybody goes at their own speed. We’ll sit down now and have a chat to find out what you know and then I’ll get you started.”
He steered her towards an empty table in a quiet corner of the library. “Hope I’m not going to fast for you?” he smiled at her as they sat down.

“No it’s fine.” Hazel felt at a loss for words.

Eddie sat comfortably, with his legs stretched out in front of him, as he chatted to Hazel. His hands moved fluidly as he spoke, hypnotizing her. She felt cramped and uncomfortable where she sat with her legs crossed and could only answer his question in nervous monosyllables. After fifteen minutes, which to Hazel had seemed like two hours, they rose and he helped her choose some books from one of the shelves.

“There,” he said, “these will get you started. I’ll be back in a few minutes and we’ll go over one or two things together. We break for coffee in an hour and you can meet some of the other pupils then.”
Cautiously Hazel opened one of her books and began her first lesson.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“Well?” The inquisitive enquiry came from Mrs Brodie at the café the following morning. “Come on tell me,” she demanded with impatient curiosity, “How did it go?”

“It wasn’t too bad.” Hazel replied, surprised that she felt reluctant to talk about it.

“Mmm…” Mrs Brodie mused, “I’ve heard the teachers quite a handsome chap. Is it true?”

“Oh he was okay.” She replied vaguely and, to avoid any more questions, dashed off to take an order from a customer.

Hazel attended the classes regularly and was surprised by how quickly she learnt under the guiding tutorage of Mr Taylor.Soon she thought,I’ll be able to read a story to Michael.There were plenty of children’s books in the library and she’d already practised with one or two, just to get the feel of it. Just a few more weeks and I’ll be ready

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

One Thursday when Hazel collected Michael from school he complained of feeling unwell. On the bus on the way home he was unusually quiet. They hadn’t been in the house for very long when Michael started to be violently sick.

“Oh dear,” said Hazel, pressing a cool, damp cloth to his sweating forehead. “We’d better get you into bed.”

“Does that mean I don’t have to go to school tomorrow, Mummy.” He asked in a shaky voice.

“We’ll see.” Hazel laughed.But no school for me tonight,she thought, deflated. She wouldn’t leave Michael when he was sick, not even for a short time.

A slight temperature, and vomiting during the night, had kept him awake and Michael still wasn’t better in the morning. It was a very tired Hazel who called Mrs Brodie to say she wouldn’t be going in to work that day. Exhausted, Hazel flopped into a chair next to his bed and dozed fitfully as he slept the morning away.


She staggered, dishevelled and sleepy, to answer a knock at the door.

“Oh!” she gasped in surprise, her hands automatically trying to smooth her mess of hair.

“I’m sorry if I disturbed you, but when you weren’t at class last night I…” he tailed off abruptly, “is everything alright? He asked concerned, “you look worn out.”

“Yes. No. I’m fine really.” She mumbled confused with drowsiness. “It’s just Michael is…”

“Quick Mummy, come quick.” The shout came from the bedroom, “I want to be sick again.”

“Excuse me.” Said Hazel and rushed quickly to Michael’s room.

“There, there sweet.” She soothed, as the small boy lay back trembling in the bed.

“Mummy,” he said, in a small pitiful voice, “Please read me a story and make me feel better.”

“Alright darling,” She agreed, not knowing how to refuse him. Well, there’s no time like the present,she thought as she chose a book from the shelf next to his bed, the books that had been untouched for so long.

“Once upon a time…”

She read slowly, but Michael didn’t seem to notice. Soon he dozed, and as she continued with the story, his eyes closed and he slept. Lovingly she straightened the rumpled blankets. Hearing a noise at the bedroom door she turned, just quickly enough, to catch a glimpse of a jacket disappearing.

“Maybe we might just,” she whispered, smiling down at Michael, “live happily ever after, after all.”

THE END