Chapter 7 #2
“We’re the twins’ grandparents,” Roslyn explains, nodding toward the redheaded duo now engaged in what appears to be a very serious game of tag with Finn. “We’re looking after them this summer. And as much as we love them both, they’re full of energy. It’s going to be a long six weeks.”
Donald chuckles. “We’re hoping they tire themselves out at the park.”
“Finn’s dad, Lachlan, is friends with our son, Douglas,” Roslyn adds.
“Oh!” I perk up. “Is that the Douglas who lives on Braeview Drive, in the house with the beautiful climbing roses?”
“Aye, have you met him?”
“Well, no, actually, but...” I explain about the photograph, about Granny growing up in that very house, about my quest to find it on my first day in town.
They don’t remember Granny—which makes sense, given she was older and left when she was sixteen—but that doesn’t stop them from being fascinated by the connection.
Soon we’re deep in conversation about old Ardmara, about how the town has changed over the decades, about the families who’ve come and gone.
The sun warms my shoulders as I listen to their stories while watching Finn tear around the playground with his friends. Gus has settled at my feet, panting contentedly in the shade.
I’m getting paid for this. To sit in the sunshine, chat about my granny, and watch a happy kid play with his friends.
Despite my earlier doubts about working for Captain Grumpypants, this might actually be a pretty sweet job.
Back at the house, I set Finn’s lunch in front of him at the kitchen table. It’s a bowl of tomato soup and a cheese sandwich, cut diagonally because apparently even sandwiches have rules in this house.
“Careful not to spill on your pants,” I say, settling into the chair across from him with my own food.
Finn, who’s just taken a sip of water, chokes on it, nearly spraying it across the table. “Why would I spill on my pants ?” he gasps between giggles.
I blink at him. “Um, because you’re six, and statistically six-year-olds are a high-risk group for lunchtime disasters?”
He shakes his head, his grin so wide it shows every gap in his smile. “But... that’d mean spilling on my underwear.”
“Your what now?”
“My pants.” He pats his legs for emphasis. “These are trousers. Pants go under.”
“Oh. Right.” I give him a sheepish smile. “Cultural translation issue. Don’t spill on your trousers. Or your pants, for that matter.”
Finn dissolves into fresh giggles, and I can’t help but laugh too. Note to self: add British clothing terminology to my rapidly growing list of things I need to figure out.
We’re still working our way through lunch—Finn happily dunking his sandwich in his soup while I try not to cringe at the soggy mess—when there’s a knock at the front door. Gus goes into full alert mode, bounding toward the sound with a woof.
“Who’s there, boy?” Finn jumps from his seat and follows after him.
Ah. Could this be the neighbour, Flora? And if so, what’s she going to think about the fact we’re behind schedule? Because Finn and I should really be onto “quiet time: reading or drawing” by now.
I follow Finn down the hallway to the front door and open it up to find an older woman—seventies, maybe—with silver hair pinned in a neat bun, kind eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses, and her left arm tucked into a sling.
“Hello, dear,” she says to Finn while patting Gus with her good hand.
“Flora! Blair told me not to spill on my pants.” He cracks up again. “That’s really funny, right?”
Flora’s eyes crinkle with amusement. “Oh my, that is funny. Though I suppose Blair’s not wrong—spilling soup on your pants would be quite the catastrophe.”
So this is Flora. No clipboard, no stopwatch, just warmth. Thank God.
“Hi. I’m Blair, the new nanny. Well, trial nanny. We’ll see how it goes.” I step back to let her in.
“Lovely to meet you, dear.” She comes into the hallway and reaches into a small bag, pulling out a pack of colouring pencils. “I brought these for you, Finn. Thought you might like a few new colours for your drawings.”
“Brilliant!” Finn takes them reverently. “Thank you, Flora. Look, Blair, there’s even a gold one.”
“Wow, that’s really special.” To Flora I say, “Please, come through to the kitchen. I’m afraid we’re still eating. We’re a bit behind schedule...”
Flora waves away my apology. “Finn seems to be getting on just fine: he’s laughing and having a ball.
I don’t think the schedule being a wee bit off is likely to cause him any issues.
” She leans in conspiratorially. “Between you and me, Lachlan can plan things in a little too much detail sometimes.”
“You have no idea how glad I am to hear that.”
“Oh, aye. Don’t get me wrong, structure is good for bairns, but there’s such a thing as being too rigid about it.”
In the kitchen I gesture toward an empty chair at the table. “Can I get you a tea? Or coffee?”
“Oh, really, I don’t want to impose. I just wanted to pop in and give Finn his pencils.”
“Please,” I insist. “We’d love your company. Wouldn’t we, Finn?”
He nods eagerly.
“Well, in that case, a tea would be lovely, thanks.”
A few minutes later we’re all seated at the table, Flora now with a steaming mug in front of her.
“So you were supposed to look after Finn over his summer vacation?” I ask before taking another spoonful of soup. I’ve already apologised for eating in front of Flora, but she insisted I eat away.
“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, Gus gave 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.
“So you hurt 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’s really good 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 selected The Gruffalo from 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.”
“Well, I do. Two friends, actually.”
“Who?”
“Ellie—and you, of course.”
The smile that spreads across Finn’s face could power the entire town.