“Mum! Evie wants to watch that creepy show again.”
I hang up the tea towel and begin negotiations. Freddie has a point—Evie always chooses The Wolly Show. But that’s what toddlers do, right? It’s not as if I allow the kids a lot of screen-time. This programme seems harmless—all “flobby-jobble billy-bobble” and a grinning clown who twirls round handing out lollies and asking everyone to be his friend. Freddie’s never been into that happy-clappy stuff—he’s more of a free spirit. Likes to do his own thing. For Christmas, Evie gets a plastic Wollycobble toy (voice-activated; six AA batteries not included). It sways and spins on its shiny hemispherical base, talking that jibber-jabber nonsense and scooting across the floor. It has the most annoying laugh. Doesn’t seem to have an off-switch. Seriously, who designs these things? The cat runs away from it--so funny! The rumours don’t bother me. Some recall of products in Europe. I’m glad we don’t have all that bureaucratic crap anymore. Then there’s the awful business at Wollyland. I’m sure the little boy didn’t mean to push his sister under that whirly-giggle thing. Obviously a tragic accident. But nutters spread bullshit about a curse. Schools ban kids from doing the twirly-wobble dance in the playground—panicking about accidents, or odd behaviour, or something. And they took away the ride-on from the supermarket, after that silly girl managed to get her fingers crushed. It’s a right pain. Evie used to behave all through the shopping if I promised her a spin in Wollycobble’s car. She takes her toy everywhere. After a while, I realise it doesn’t just talk, it sings, too. All the old nursery rhymes, but with the words changed to gibberish. Evie joins in with it. Sometimes she says things like “belly-biggle jelly-jiggle”, looking up intently, as if she expects me to understand. So sweet! Evie’s sitting under the table and burbling to the toy when my sister comes round. She gives me her disapproving look. “Don’t you think she’s a bit too fixated on that clown? It’s unnatural.” I tell her to butt out. “Evie’s been sleeping through the night, ever since she got it,” I say. “It does its special bedtime song, and she’s out like a light. Finally, I get a decent rest—thank god. Or rather, thank Wollycobble.” Under the table, Wollycobble laughs. Evie insists on taking it to nursery, but the next day the staff ask me to keep it at home. Say it “scares the other children”. What rubbish! I’m not paying those extortionate fees for them to deny my child her source of comfort. I tell them straight: where Evie goes, her clown goes. Then Freddie complains, “That thing keeps me awake, whispering to Evie. You should throw it away!” “Don’t be silly,” I say. But after Evie’s asleep, I carefully lift it from under her arm and put it in the spare room. In the morning, it’s beside her bed again, rocking gently from side to side. I must have left the door ajar. Freddie says it was talking all night. “It’s not gobbledegook, Mum, it means something.” When I ask him what it means, he says he doesn’t know. The next day, I hear Evie crying and hurry in. Freddie is smashing Wollycobble with his toy hammer, as hard as he can. He says it changed the channel on the TV; it won’t let him watch anything except The Wolly Show. I tell him lying is wrong, and send him for a time-out. The clown’s body is kid-proof, barely a scratch on it. But I can’t find the head anywhere. Evie is inconsolable. “Sorry baby,” I tell her, “I’ll buy you a new one, I promise.” Then I hear a muffled voice from under the sofa: “Coo-ee… Hidey-findy!” She wants a Wollycobble-themed birthday, of course. My mum makes the cake. There’s something—I can’t quite put my finger on it. She’s copied the face so carefully. But the big black eyes and scarlet mouth just look a bit… Anyway, the party goes brilliantly. The star attraction is perfect. He must have wheels under that shiny round outfit, because he wobble-spins across the community hall, just like on TV. The kids are mesmerised. Except Freddie. He hides behind my legs. Hasn’t done that since he was four. Evie goes up to Wollycobble and starts chattering in that twiddle-twaddly way, and he’s great, playing along as if they’re really having a conversation. Soon she starts looking fractious—her lip’s trembling. She must be tired; it’s a lot of excitement and she hasn’t had a nap. But just then a boy pukes all over himself (and a bit on my shoes) so I have to deal with that. When I look back, there’s Freddie, yelling at Wollycobble and pulling Evie away from him. I’m about to wade in when Wollycobble reaches into his stripy shirt and pulls out an enormous lollipop—one of those old-fashioned flat ones, with bright swirls of blood-red and white. He holds it out to Freddie and says: “Lolly-gobble?” Freddie’s face lights up—well, obviously. I hardly ever let him have sweets. I say, “Go on then,” not that he’s listening. All he can see is that lolly. Wollycobble has saved the day. Such a pro. Evie’s staring at the lolly too. I guess she’s jealous, because she starts tugging hard on Freddie’s T-shirt, going, “Nolly-nomble! Feddy nolly-nomble!” He takes the lolly and licks it slowly. His lips go as red as Wollycobble’s, his eyes wide and round. His voice is singsong as he turns to the clown. “Pally-chumble!” Wollycobble claps his hands, and Freddie starts to spin, turning slowly on the spot. The lolly falls to the floor. Freddie spins faster and faster, until his face is a pale blur. Wollycobble’s smile grows wider. He claps, and claps again. The other children watch in silence, as if frozen. All except Evie. She screams and screams and screams. |