any case, he didn’t believe that his mum did love him just as much. If she still loved him, then why didn’t she take any proper notice of him any more? Why did she spend all her time with the baby? Feeding it, changing it, slobbering over it. She obviously loved the baby far more than she loved James.
James ran into the kitchen and pulled open the back door. He was going to do something bad. Something really bad.
He stomped down the path and found a big stick. Then he stomped back up again and slashed with the stick at Mum’s flowers. That would teach her! Now she would have to take notice of him.
When they were ten weeks old, Ginger and his brother and sisters were turned out of their nice cosy basket. They were taken away from their mum and the big furry cat and put in a pet shop, to be sold.
Poor Lucy was a bit bothered, just at first, wondering where her pups had gone. She ran round the room, looking for them, and couldn’t understand why they weren’t there. But then she was taken for a good long walk in the park where she met some of her old friends that she hadn’t seen for ages, including her boyfriend, the great swaggering Jack-the-lad who was the puppies’ dad. They all raced around and chased one another, and did rather a lot of barking, and by the time she got back home Lucy was quite happy to be on her own again, with only the cat for company.
Puppies were so exhausting! It was good to be able to curl up nose to tail, just her and the cat in the basket, without six little nipping, yipping, biting, troublesome pups crowding you out.
In any case, the pups were growing up fast. It was time they went to new homes.
James Colin was supposed to be growing up. Sometimes, just lately, it seemed to his mum that he was becoming more and more childish.
She said, “You’re a big boy, now! You’re eight years old! Why are you behaving like a baby all over again?”
James couldn’t explain to her that there was a part of him that would have liked to be a baby all over again. He had so much looked forward to being eight years old! But now that he was, he wasn’t enjoying it one little bit. You didn’t seem to get much attention when you were eight. When you were a baby you got all the attention in the world. You were cuddled, you were crooned over, you were sung to, you were rocked, you were admired, you were washed and dried and powdered.
None of that happened when you were eight years old.
But he couldn’t say all this to his mum. It was just too – well – babyish. You were expected to be a big boy once you got to be eight. Big boys didn’t cry. They didn’t get kissed better if they hurt themselves. They certainly didn’t get washed and dried and powdered. Even James squirmed a bit at that.
What big boys did, they slashed at their mum’s flowers and broke them. Just to show her!
James’s mum was really upset when she found her flowers all battered and bent.
“James!” she said. “Was this you?”
Slowly, watching his mum from under his eyelashes, James nodded.
“How did it happen?”
“Don’t know,” said James.
“You must know! Were you playing?”
James frowned, as he thought about it. He scuffed his feet on the grass.
“I won’t be angry with you,” said his mum, “if you just tell me the truth. Was it an accident?”
James drew a breath. Deep, and quivering. He shook his head.
“You mean, you did it on purpose?”
There was a long silence.
“Did you?” said his mum.
“Couldn’t help it,” mumbled James.
“What do you mean, you couldn’t help it?”
“It just happened.”
“You mean, you walked into the garden and you thought, ‘I’ll break down all Mum’s lovely flowers’. Is that what you’re saying?”
James rubbed a finger over his forehead.
“Well!” His mum looked at him, reproachfully. “That wasn’t a very nice thing to do, was it? To break my flowers? It seems to me the sort of thing a four-year-old might do… not an eight-year-old! I would have thought an eight-year-old would have known better. I would have thought an eight-year-old would enjoy seeing beautiful flowers.”
Eight-year-olds were big boys. They did what they had to do. Breaking flowers was nothing to a big boy!
“I haven’t yet heard you say a certain little word,” said Mum. She tipped the big boy’s face towards her. “Sorry?” she said.
“I couldn’t help it!” roared James. “It just happened!”
And he went racing back into the house and up to his bedroom. The bedroom door slammed shut behind him.
His mum was left standing there, with all her broken flowers. The big boy watched her, from behind his bedroom curtain. Why didn’t she come upstairs and wallop him? He was a big boy. He could take it!
But his mum just sighed and put the poor broken flowers on the compost heap. Then she went back to the shop, where Dad was serving customers with newspapers and sweets and the baby was being admired in his carry cot.
“I don’t know what we’re going to do about James,” she said.
“Been naughty again, has he?” said Dad.
“I think he’s feeling a bit insecure. He thinks we love the baby more than we love him.”
“Well, we don’t!” said Dad. “We love them both the same. We’ve told him over and over!”
“Yes, I know.” James’s mum sighed. “But he asked me the other day if he could have a puppy and I said not until the baby’s older. So naturally he blames Alexander.”
“It’s hardly Alexander’s fault,” said Dad. “James will have to learn… he can’t always have everything just when he wants it.”
“He’s only little,” pleaded James’s mum.
“He’s big enough! He’ll learn. Don’t worry, it’ll be Christmas soon… his gran will sort him out!”
There
