“Aye, that was the plan. I’m retired now but I spent thirty-odd years at Ardmara Primary School. Never had children of my own, so I’ve always loved spending time with the wee ones.”
Gus nudges at Flora with his nose, tail wagging, hopeful for some more attention.
“Oh, you’re being nice to me now, are you?” Flora says, scratching behind his ears. “After you gave me this injury, you daft dog?”
“Wait,Gusgave you your injury?”
“Aye, that he did. In all his excitement to get out for his walk, he knocked me clean off my feet. Down I went, right onto my wrist.”
I stare at the golden retriever, who’s now sitting prettily beside Flora’s chair, looking like a poster dog for good behaviour. Yesterday he nearly dislocated my shoulder dragging me down the hill to the beach. Might’ve been nice if Lachlan had warned me Gus literally put Finn’s last caregiver out of action.
We chat easily over tea, Flora asking about my impressions of Ardmara and sharing stories about the town’s quirks. She’s got the kind of gentle humour that comes from years of managing kids, and I can see why Finn adores her.
When she finishes her tea, she stands to go. “Right, I should leave you two to get on with your day.”
“There’s no rush,” I say. “Stay as long as you like.”
“That’s very kind, but I don’t want to get in the way of you two having fun. Besides, I’ve got some errands to run.”
After I see her out, I turn to find Gus sitting in the hallway, tail thumping against the floor.
“Soyouhurt Flora’s wrist?” I put my hands on my hips. “And what do you have to say for yourself?”
Gus just pants back at me, tongue lolling out. But Finn says, “I feel bad about Flora getting hurt. Also, she’sreallygood at baking. She used to bring me biscuits and shortbread and things, but now she can’t because of her wrist.”
“Well, I know it’s not in your dad’s plan for the day, but how about we do a little baking for Flora? We could make cookies and take them over to her house?”
Finn’s face lights up. “Really? We can do that?”
“Why not? It’s a nice thing to do for someone who’s been so kind to you.”
Not exactly “quiet time: reading or drawing”, but surely even Captain Grumpypants can’t object to us doing something nice for his neighbour. Right?
An hour and a half later, the cookies have cooled, been packaged up, and delivered to Flora along with a drawing Finn made of Gus looking appropriately sheepish, holding a sign that says “SORRY” in wobbly letters.
Now we’re back in Finn’s colourful bedroom for story time, a good bit later than Lachlan’s schedule dictated, but I’m choosing to focus on Flora’s reassurance that being a “wee bit off” won’t cause any disasters.
Finn has selectedThe Gruffalofrom his bookshelf, and we settle into the cosy corner of his room, on a beanbag big enough for both of us, with Gus curling up at our feet. I crack open the familiar picture book, clear my throat dramatically, and begin.
I start off in my normal voice, but when the fox talks, I drop my tone to a sly, wheedling whisper. Finn giggles so I lean into it. For the mouse, I go tiny and squeaky; for the owl, high and hooty; and for the snake, I add a ridiculous hissing lisp. By the time I get to the Gruffalo himself—complete with a growly monster voice that makes Gus lift his head in alarm—Finn is cracking up, clutching his sides and giggling so hard he can barely catch his breath.
I’m not sure this is the “quiet time” Lachlan had in mind, but honestly? I haven’t had this much fun in months. There’s something pure and joyful about sharing a story like this. No marketing meetings, no target demographics, no worrying about whether it’ll perform well in the marketplace. Just the simple magic of words and voices and a kid who thinks you’re the funniest person alive.
It reminds me of those long summer afternoons with Granny in Toronto, curled up on her couch while she read to me in different voices. She used to make the Three Bears sound like a gruff Scottish family, and her Little Red Riding Hood had a very posh English accent. I’d beg her to read the same stories over and over because I loved the way she brought them to life.
Maybe that’s what Finn and I will do this summer. Maybe we’ll build our own tradition of stories and silly voices.
When we finish the book, Finn smiles contentedly. “I really like that story.”
“I could tell. Have you read all the stories on your bookshelf?”
He nods. “Loads of times. Da reads to me every night, but he doesn’t do the voices like you do. He just reads them normally.”
Of course he does. I can’t imagine Captain Grumpypants doing a squeaky mouse voice.
“It’s nice to read a story you already know you’re going to love,” I say, “but it’s also nice to read something new. How about tomorrow we swing by the library, see my friend Ellie, and borrow some new books for you to read? Sound good?”
Finn’s eyes light up. “Aye!” Then: “I didn’t know you had a friend in Ardmara.”
