Writing for Fun
August 2017
The Best Birthday Ever - Pete Norman
It was Scarlett’s birthday. She was seven and she felt really big. Daddy called her his big little girl but Mummy said she that no matter how big she grew she would always be her baby.
Her party was going to be at the weekend when six of her friends were coming round for an afternoon of crafts and then a sleepover. She really could not wait until Saturday, that was going to be cool but first, as today was her actual birthday, she had presents to open. When she had come downstairs this morning her presents were all piled up in the corner of the lounge. She carefully moved some of the parcels around, stacking them up until the pile was even taller than she was and there were still a few more small ones loose around the bottom that were odd shapes and fell off if you tried to stack them. There were so many presents – it would take forever to unwrap them all!
It did not take forever. It took half an hour and it only took that long because Mummy wanted to photograph her tearing the paper off to record her reaction to opening every single one of her presents.
She had made a list – every year she made a very comprehensive list – she had taken a Toys R Us catalogue and had cut out a picture of everything she wanted. She was sensible enough to know that she would never get everything she wanted, because Mummy said that this would cost far too much money and also that there was not enough room in her bedroom for ‘half the contents of a large toy store’. However, Scarlett thought that it was always possible that if the list was really big then she just might get more presents as a result – it could never hurt.
At the end of the half hour there was a much smaller pile of boxes scattered around the fireplace and the whole room was covered in a thick layer of light blue wrapping paper covered with pink flowers. The paper was gathered up and put in the recycling bin but the toys stayed where they were – as it was her birthday she was allowed the rare pleasure of having a room full of toys scattered around the floor without the usual instruction to, ‘Put away the ones you are not playing with.’
She had been really lucky this year. There was a giant cardboard Wendy house which was covered all over in pictures to colour in. It had taken a long time to put it together, even with Daddy helping but once the little square chimneypot had been fixed on the roof she had opened up a new pack of jumbo felt-tips and had made a start at colouring in the bit around the door.
She had also got a lot of new clothes – some of them quite grown up – there were some pool toys, some jewellery and a new school bag but her favourite thing of all was the box of Smiggle stationery – around the picture of the Smiggle she had put a thick black line and loads of stars so that she definitely got it.
The day had simply flown by and before she knew it Mummy was calling through from the kitchen, ‘I will be dishing up dinner in ten minutes, so would you start taking your presents up to your room, please.’ Then she popped her head around the door. ‘You can keep a couple of bits down but all the rest go upstairs, ok?’
Scarlett grumbled but she did as she was told and every time she climbed the stairs yet another armful of toys disappeared from the lounge until there were only her two favourite things left – the Smiggle stationery book and the Wendy house, which was looking more colourful as the day went on. She sat on the settee to start a new film on the TV but her foot caught on something on the floor. It was pushed almost completely under the bottom of the settee with just a little corner left poking out. She bent down to see what it was but all she could see was the plain paper it was wrapped in. She knew that all of her presents had been paper coordinated – all blue with pink flowers – so it could not possibly be one of her presents but she was still curious to find out what it could be.
She knelt down and tugged at the corner but the parcel would not move, it was firmly wedged. With one hand she grabbed hold of the bottom of the settee and with a huge tug she managed to lift it just far enough to be able to pull the parcel out.
It was heavy and looked book shaped. It was wrapped in plain brown paper and tied up with a piece of string. There was no ribbon, no bow and no name tag on it. She knew that it could not possibly be for her but still she spun it around searching for some clue as to who it did belong to. She turned it over and there, in one corner, in very faint pencil, was one single word: ‘Scarlett’.
From the kitchen came, ‘Up at the table, please.’
Scarlett pulled at the bow on the string and called back, ‘Coming.’
It was indeed a book, a very scruffy old book, almost the same dreary brown colour of the wrapping paper. There was nothing written on the cover, it was completely plain, but it looked old and battered and tatty. How could something like this possibly be for her birthday?
‘Scarlett!’
She dropped the book with her other presents and went through for a special birthday dinner.
After a fantastic meal she sat and watched a film with Mummy and then went off to get ready for bed. It was only when she came back downstairs to say goodnight that she remembered the old book. She tucked it under her arm and took it upstairs. She did not know why but she said nothing to anyone about the book – she thought she might just have a look through it first to see what it was all about.
She snuggled down in bed and pulled the duvet over her head to create a magical, secret little place to open her strange old book in. The first two pages were completely blank and her heart sank – surely it was not just a book to draw pictures and jot things down in – but on the third page was a simple message written in black ink with a shaky hand. It read:
Dear Scarlett, never, ever, ever tell anyone about this book. Read only one chapter each night, only ever one chapter each night I hope you are feeling very brave . . . you will need to be.