Toby stood before her wearing his permanent angelic look of innocence on his little face. The blonde haired, blue eyed boy that would have made the perfect poster child for the Aryan race had he been born in 1930s Germany. The precise blue of his eyes had always been a point of discussion to anyone caught entranced in their glare like the proverbial deer caught in the headlights. It gave his mother great consternation that her son's eyes brought with them such attention from anyone who entered his tiny little orbit. It wouldn't have surprised her to learn that there would be some people in the world who'd have happily prized them out like precious jewels given half a chance and left her little boy blind. Mr Ahmed that owned the little supermarket on the precinct told her that his eyes were like the blue in a mosque he'd visited in Turkey and a gift from Allah. She'd just smiled at him quite unsure of what to say at that juncture. Mrs Bell at number 32 reckoned they were like the crystal blue of the water in the Maldives. She'd joked with Mrs Bell that she'd have to take her word for it unless Mr and Mrs Bell fancied taking her and Toby away to see for themselves. Mrs Bell had promised her that if they won the lottery jackpot they'd do just that and ruffled Toby's hair as if some form of a legally binding contract.
She looked at her wall newly adorned with crayon, back at Toby with his permanent look of innocence, back at the wall and sighed loudly as her shoulders dropped and her head slunk forward under the burdensome weight of her budding Picasso. If Mr Ahmed was here he'd say it was a talent given to the boy from Allah himself. If Mrs Bell ever does win the lottery she'd get the chance to see if his eyes really did match the Indian Ocean before she drowned the little bastard in it for his latest in an ever increasing list of misdemeanours.
“Are you cwoss with me mummy?” He asked somewhat perceptively even though she'd not yet said a word.
“Yes,” she replied now having said a word.
“Oh,” Toby replied and his blue eyes glazed over with sadness.
Silence ensued.
She couldn't hold his gaze, simply unable to take the sadness now written all over it. Instead she looked back at her new piece of uncommissioned artwork. Maybe sensing a moment of weakness he moves to the wall and points his little index finger on his left hand at the taller or two stick people and says “This one is you mummy, look I spelt your name m u m m y. This one is me,” he continues and points to the smaller stick person and then to the letters beneath “t o b y,” and then finally at the last image “and these are flowers but I couldn't spell flowers.”
There followed a brief pause.
“I'm sorry...”
Then another brief pause.
“... that I couldn't spell flowers,” which for some reason made her laugh and the sadness instantly vanished from his eyes and he giggled before instantly trying to catch it with his hand in case she changed her mind and stopped laughing. Well in fairness it did look a bit like her and he had spelt both words correctly and not being able to spell flowers meant one less thing to have to wash off the wall. Besides it was a long time since any male had given her flowers and sometimes you have to take love wherever you can find it.
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