When Emily picked up little Alfie from nursery, her husband Oliver could tell right away something was off. His wife had that peculiar, flustered look about her, like she’d just seen a ghost in broad daylight.
“Something wrong, love?” Oliver asked, his brow furrowing.
“Wrong? Oh, its all gone pear-shaped,” she muttered. She grabbed his wrist and dragged him into the next room, away from young Alfies ears. “Theyre threatening to kick him out of nursery.”
“Come again?” Olivers face went slack. “That cant be right. We pay the fees on time, dont we?”
“I dont know if its right or not, but the headmistress pulled me aside and saidin no uncertain termsif we dont get Alfie under control, hell be out faster than a cork from a champagne bottle.”
“She actually said that?”
“Word for word. Quietly, mind you, just between us. And on top of that, she said the other parents are drafting a formal complaint. To the police, Oliver!”
“Blimey!” Oliver gaped, struggling to reconcile the image of their sweet, giggly boy with whatever mischief he’d supposedly caused. “What on earth for?”
“Because Alfies been walloping the other kids.”
“Our Alfie?” Oliver nearly laughed, then caught himself. “That scrawny little tyke? Hitting everyone?”
“Yes! Thumping them left and right, according to the headmistress!”
“Even the girls?”
“How should I know?” Emily hissed, wringing her hands. “I was too stunned to ask! The moment she told me, I grabbed Alfie and bolted. Oliver, if they expel him, what do we do? Where do we send him? Ill have to quit my jobor you will! And then how do we pay the mortgage? Im losing my mind just thinking about it”
“Hold your horses, love,” Oliver cut in, rubbing his temple. “First, lets figure out whats got into our boy.”
“I asked him on the way home, but he wouldnt fess up. Just clammed up and puffed his cheeks out like a blowfish.”
“You asked him. Now its my turn.”
When Oliver marched into the playroom, Alfie was sprawled on the floor, happily pushing toy lorries around as if nothing were amiss.
“Right, Alfie. We need to have a proper chat,” Oliver said firmly.
“Mhm,” Alfie mumbled, not looking up from his game. “Go on, Dad.”
“First, stop playing,” Oliver said, sharper this time.
“Oliver, dont bark at him!” Emily called from the doorway.
“Yeah, Dad, dont bark,” Alfie parroted, still rolling his lorry.
“Tell mehonestlywhy are you hitting the other children at nursery?”
Alfie froze mid-push, his fingers tightening around the toy. He stared at the carpet, silent.
“Do you hit the girls too?”
“No,” Alfie mumbled. “No point hitting girls.”
“So the boys deserve it?”
“Course they do…”
“And whys that, if you dont mind sharing?”
Alfie scowled, glancing between his parents.
“What if its a secret?”
The look in his sons eyes made Oliver falter for a second, but he rallied quickly.
“Alfie, youre my son, arent you?”
“Suppose so.”
“Then we dont keep secrets. Not between us.”
“From you, maybe,” Alfie grumbled. “But Mum…”
“What?” Emily gasped. “Youre keeping things from me?”
“Uh-huh.”
“But why?”
“‘Cos theyre bloke stuff.”
“Ah, bloke stuff,” Oliver said, winking at Emily. “Sorry, love, but if its proper mens business, best leave us to it.”
“Fine,” Emily huffed, stomping out.
“And no eavesdropping!” Oliver called after her. Then, leaning in conspiratorially, he whispered, “Alright, mate. Spillwhyre you thumping those boys?”
Alfie sighed dramatically, then muttered, barely audible, “Theyre crowding her.”
“Who?”
“The boys…”
“Crowding who?”
“Miss Abigail.”
“Whos that?”
“Our nursery assistant. She pats their heads, and they hug her. Really tight.”
“And?”
“I dont like it.”
Olivers eyebrows shot up.
“Why not?”
“Because Im the only one who should hug her.”
“Says who?”
“Dad,” Alfie whined, looking genuinely wounded. “Youre the only one who hugs Mum! Well, and me, but Im her son. Other blokes dont get to hug her!”
“But Mums my wife,” Oliver said, biting back a grin.
“Miss Abigails gonna be my wife,” Alfie whispered. “When Im big. See? Ill marry her…”
“Oh, I see,” Oliver said, struggling to keep a straight face. “So youve… gone sweet on her, eh?”
Alfie nodded miserably.
“And youre jealous.”
“You get jealous of Mum,” Alfie shot back.
“Me?”
“Yeah! You and Mum argue about it all the time.”
“Blimey, son,” Oliver sighed, rubbing his forehead. “Guess it runs in the family. My dad was the same, and his dad before him. All us blokes suffer with it…”
“Suffer?” Alfie blinked.
“You bet. Jealousys a nasty bit of business. So what do we do? Cos if you keep clobbering those poor lads, youll get the boot.”
“Dont care! No one touches her!”
“But if youre expelled, youll never see her again. They wont let you back in.”
“Never?” Alfies voice wobbled.
“Afraid not. Look, Alfie, I get it. But walloping kids isnt on. And usually, the lady gets to choose who she hugs.”
“But she doesnt choose. She hugs everyone. And its not fair.”
“Miss Abigails job is to hug all the kids. Its in her contracthas to do it a few times a day. Understand?”
“In her contract?”
“Exactly. She hugs you, doesnt she?”
“Yeah…”
“There you go. Same for the others. If she stops, shell get sacked. Then youll never see her again. So youll have to put up with it.”
“She really has to? Because they tell her to?”
“Dead serious. They make her.”
“Swear?”
“Cross my heart.”
Alfie sighed, then gave a grudging smile. “Alright, fine. She can hug em. Does she have to kiss them too?”
“Probably,” Oliver said quickly.
“Blimey,” Alfie muttered, less heartbroken now. “What kind of job is that?” He shrugged. “Well, maybe Ill think twice about marrying her, then.”
From that day on, no more complaints about Alfie came from the nursery.
