“Gardening? Mum, you’re kidding! Children don’t garden! This is child labour!”
The indignation in Dylan’s voice is unmistakeable.
“No, I’m not kidding. Have you forgotten about the ice cream? And the porkies you told me?”
Dylan looks sheepish. He knows he is in the wrong.
“So…. Soil. Dig. Plant. Bulbs. Now! If we do it together, we’ll get it done quickly.”
Dylan’s tummy is feeling much better now, and he knows from the look on his mother’s face that there is no point arguing. He has to accept his penance and turn over a new leaf. He starts to dig in the soil with the trowel. Six inches, she had said. One bulb per hole, and then cover it back up. Dig. Plop. Dig. Plop… He actually quite enjoys it. And then he puts his hand on it. Small. Hard. Greyish white. Smooth. He picks it up, and his eyes widen with sheer excitement.
“Mum. What’s this?”
(to be continued)
© Vicky Newham 2012. All rights reserved.