JOHN MARTIN'S TALES

I wrote this 26 years ago. From my book Jack and the Jellybean Stalk.

We were batching and four-year-old Jack woke me early on a Sunday morning looking thoroughly distressed.

“I think I swallowed a spoon,” he announced.

“When did this happen?” I croaked, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.

“Last night.”

“I think you probably dreamed it,” I said.

Dreams are funny things. Have you ever woken convinced you’ve done something dreadful, something guaranteed to upset your wife, like putting too much washing in the dryer and creating a mountain of ironing?

“But I did swallow a spoon,” Jack insisted, opening his mouth as wide as it would go.

I peered inside but couldn’t see anything. That may have been because I wasn’t wearing my glasses.

Normally this sort of early-morning medical emergency would have fallen to Katherine, who has excellent eyesight and is far more alert before breakfast. Unfortunately, she was away and I was flying solo.

A few days earlier Jack had demanded pancakes for dinner.

“Mummy makes them,” he argued.

“Yes, but Mummy knows how,” I replied.

“Why didn’t you watch her?”

It was a fair question, but not one I intended answering honestly.

Instead I struck a deal. If he was good, I’d take him to McDonald’s for hotcakes on Sunday morning.

To keep him motivated, I drew up a reward chart on the fridge. Good behaviour earned stars. Bad behaviour lost them. Ten stars meant hotcakes.

Friday went beautifully. By bedtime he had six stars.

Saturday was less successful. By mid-morning he was down to two, and I spent the rest of the day inventing reasons to award enough stars to finish on seven.

That left me needing to find three more stars before McDonald’s stopped serving breakfast.

At 6.30 on Sunday morning, Jack wandered into my room convinced he had swallowed a spoon.

“I’ll tell you what,” I said. “I can’t see a spoon anywhere. If you go downstairs, watch television quietly and let Daddy have another hour’s sleep, that’s worth three stars. Then we’ll go for hotcakes.”

“Oh, great, Daddy!”

He disappeared happily.

True to his word, he entertained himself while I caught up on some desperately needed sleep.

I awarded the final three stars and we headed off to McDonald’s.

Oddly, though, Jack barely touched his hotcakes.

“I’ve got a tummy ache,” he said sadly.

“Oh dear,” I said. “That spoon isn’t bothering you again, is it?”

“No,” he replied. “I think I already ate too much.”

While I had been upstairs sleeping, my model son had raided the refrigerator and polished off an entire tub of yellow jelly.

The spoon, it seems, had been innocent all along.