The Daydreamer by Ian McEwan Page B

me someone!’ he shouted. ‘Someone do something!’ But what came from his lips was a succession of clumsy ‘shhh’ sounds. His tongue wouldn’t go where he told it, and he seemed to have only one tooth.
    Tears were pouring down his face, and he was just drawing breath to fill his lungs and bawl out his sorrow when something powerful clamped under his armpits and he shot fifty feet into the air. His mouth hung open, he was dribbling in his amazement. He was staring into his Aunt Laura’s face which was as sheer and colossal as a cliff. She looked like one of those American presidents carved out of a mountain.
    Her voice, as rich and musical as a symphony orchestra, thundered about his head. ‘Five o’clock. Teatime, bath-time, and bed!’
    ‘Put me down, Aunt Laura. It’s me. Peter.’
    But what came out was, ‘Aaa, agooo amama.’
    ‘That’s right,’ she said encouragingly. ‘Tea, bath and bed.
    Did you hear him?’ she said to someone far away. ‘He’s trying to talk.’
    Peter began to kick and struggle. ‘Put me down!’ But now he was flying across the room at terrifying speed. Surely he would be smashed to pieces on the door frame. ‘Eeeek!’ he squealed. Just in time they changed direction, and he was whisked through the kitchen and tipped into the high chair.
    Afternoon sunlight pouring through the garden trees made shifting patterns on the wall of such beauty that Peter forgot all else.
    He pointed and shouted, ‘Aark!’
    Aunt Laura was humming softly to herself as she tied a bib around his neck. Well, at least he was in no danger of falling to the ground now. He would be able to inform her that he was the victim of a cruel magic trick. So, he said in his most reasonable voice, ‘Ing ing eeen,’ and he would have said much more if his mouth had not been suddenly stoppered by a spoonful of boiled egg. The taste and smell, the colour and texture and squelching sound overwhelmed his senses and scattered his thoughts. Egginess exploded in his mouth, a white and yellow fountain of sensation shot upwards through his brain. His whole body lurched as he tried to point at the bowl Laura held. He had to have more.
    ‘Aark,’ he shouted through his mouthful, spraying his arm.
    ‘Aark, aark, aark!’
    ‘Yes,’ his aunt said soothingly. ‘You like egg.’
    Until the egg was finished, Peter could think of nothing else. When it was done, and before he could remember what he was meant to be talking about, a beaker of orange juice distracted him with its itchy tangy noisy taste. Then mashed banana started arriving in his mouth. This food was so good he was proud to wear it in his hair, and on his hands and face and chest.
    Finally he reeled against the side of the chair. He was so full he could hardly blink. But he knew he had to speak out. He took it slowly this time, using the tip of his tongue to press against his single tooth.
    ‘Aunt Laura,’ he said patiently. ‘I’m not actually your baby, I’m Peter, and it was Kate who …’
    ‘Yes,’ Laura agreed. ‘Agoo agoo is quite right. Look at the state of you. Head to toe in egg and banana. Bath time!’
    Now Peter was in Aunt Laura’s arms and flying up the stairs. On the landing they flashed by Kate.
    ‘Waaah!’ he shouted at her. ‘Waaah waaah!’
    ‘Cooeee!’ she called back, holding up the magic wand.
    Minutes later he was sitting in a bath the size of a small swimming pool, wavelets of warm water lapping round his chest. He knew he should be talking to his aunt, but for the moment he was more interested in smacking the surface of the water with his open palms. How intricate and unique each splash was, with droplets separating out as they rose in the air, and tumbling back to make patterns and ripples. It was so wonderful, so hilarious.
    ‘Wow, look at this,’ he found himself shouting. ‘Eee ink aark!’ He was so excited that his arms and legs shot out straight and he tumbled backwards. Aunt Laura caught him gently with a cupped