Page 50 of A Manny for Christmas

‘He’s so noisy!’ she hisses.

‘Maybe we should leave him to sleep,’ he suggests. ‘Maybe he’s tired.’

And just like that, my heart fractures a little. Toby the caregiver strikes again.

‘No. Want pancakes.’

I laugh to myself. Daisy’s altruistic streak is still nowhere to be seen. She knows what she wants, and there’s no way she’s letting a sleeping man stand between her and breakfast. I fucking love it.

She pokes me in the shoulder, and I let out a sleepy but dramaticouch.

They giggle again.

Somebody pulls up my eyelid, and I spot a blurry Daisy peering into my face. ‘Wake up, Max,’ she says in a sing-song voice, and I pretend to shift sleepily before sticking my arms out and grabbing her before she has a chance to react, tossing her into the air and throwing her down on the bed beside me.

She’s shrieking and laughing the house down as I pounce, my hands ready to tickle.

‘Who dared to wake me up?’ I ask in a deep, menacing voice as I go for her armpits.

‘I did!’ she gasps while Toby dances from foot to foot, laughing in delight. ‘I’m hungry!’

‘Hungry, are you?’ I growl. ‘Well, I’m hungry too, and I eat little girls for breakfast!’

I lower my mouth to her neck and blow out a giant raspberry on her skin, and she screams. ‘Again! Again!’

I oblige before pulling away in mock disgust. ‘Ugh. You’re not juicy enough for me. I’m having pancakes.’

I high-five Toby as I swing my legs out of the bed. ‘Good morning, mate. Ready for pancakes and cartoons?’

‘Yesss,’ he hisses, and I laugh. ‘After you.’

They clatter down the stairs in front of me. Toby’s in his Star Wars pyjamas, his battered old teddy tucked under his arm, and Daisy has one pyjama leg cuffed somewhere around her knee. I wouldn’t be surprised if birds have taken up residence in her hair. The two of them make such a funny little pair.

I turn on the small kitchen TV, which has the instant effect of making both kids sit at the table to watch it, and shut the door through to the hallway so our Saturday morning hijinks don’t wake Molly.

I heat the pancake pan on the AGA top as I whisk up the batter.

‘Do you guys know when you’re getting your Christmas tree?’ I ask them.

‘When it’s December,’ Toby says with authority.

‘Newsflash, mate. It’s the third of December today.’

They look at each other in apparent amazement. ‘Is it?’ Daisy asks.

‘Yep.’ I jerk my thumb at their advent calendar. ‘That’s what your advent calendar means. You’ve each had a chocolate so far this week, haven’t you? That means we’ve already had the first and second of December.’

‘Oh yeah,’ Toby breathes, like I’ve just solved the meaning of life for him.

‘So we should get a tree soon, no? Has your mum mentioned it?’

‘Daddy always taked us,’ Daisy says matter-of-factly.

‘Yeah,’ Toby agrees. ‘He used to take us for hot chocolate and to choose a tree and a wreath, and then when we got home we’d all decorate the tree together with Mummy.’

‘Ah,’ I say. ‘I see.’ And I do see. I look at each of them, and I suspect I understand why Mummy hasn’t mentioned getting a tree so far this year. Because it’ll be another reminder, for her as well as for the kids, of how utterly her useless fucker of an ex has failed all three of them.

‘I don’t know if you know this,’ I tell them, holding my arms up and flexing my biceps, ‘but I’m super, super strong. I’m very good at carrying trees to the car. So maybe, when you guys get a tree, you’ll let me come along and be your ox?’

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