Mo and the Very Long Stairs

Mo always said “Nearly there” long before she was.

She said it at the bottom of Button Lane, which is the steepest lane in the world, with the whole lane still to climb. Her house was at the very top. It was tall and thin, and its stairs went round and round and round, three times, past a round window full of stars.

Tonight Mo was in bed, with the light off and the door open a crack. And she sat straight up.

“The card!” said Mo.

She had made Dad a birthday card. On the front was Dad, with his blue cup that had a chip in it. She had folded the card seven times, so it would be a surprise. Then she had put it in her coat pocket and forgotten all about it.

Dad’s birthday was in the morning. Mo wanted the card to be leaning on Dad’s blue cup when he came down for breakfast.

Now, this house had one rule, and it was a kind one. If a child got out of bed after lights-out, they went small. Small as a thimble. That way their feet were too small to wake anybody.

Mo knew the rule. But the card was for Dad. She got out of bed anyway.

Her toes touched the rug, and Mo went small.

Her bed was as tall as a house. The rug was as wide as a field. Her coat lay on the floor, as big as a hill.

“Well,” said Mo. “That’s all right.”

She climbed into the coat pocket and found the card. It was as big as a door. But because it was folded seven times, it was fat and stiff and flat underneath, just like a sledge. Mo took hold of one corner and pulled.

The card slid across the rug, shhh, shhh.

“Nearly there,” said Mo.

She was not. She had hardly started. The rug went on and on. At last she pulled the card through the crack in the door and onto the landing.

The landing was bright with stars from the round window. Under the window, on his cushion, lay Pudding.

Pudding was a big orange cat, and he did not climb stairs. He was far too lazy. Every night Dad carried him up, like a big orange loaf. But going down, Pudding had his own way.

The stairs went down and round, and down and round, and down and round again. They looked like a mountain.

“Nearly there,” said Mo.

She was not. She was right at the very top.

Pudding opened one eye. He looked at Mo. He looked at the card. Then he got up, stretched, and lay down flat on his tummy on the top step.

Mo knew what that meant. She pushed the card onto his back, climbed on after it, and held on tight to his warm orange fur.

Off went Pudding, down the stairs on his tummy.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

He went round once. Thump, thump, thump. He went round twice. Thump, thump, thump. He went round three times, like a sack of potatoes, all the way to the bottom. It was the best ride Mo had ever had.

Mo pulled the card over to the table, and Pudding came too. The table legs went up and up, like four tall trees. Somewhere at the top was Dad’s blue cup.

“Nearly there,” said Mo.

She was not. She tried to climb the table leg, and she slid straight down. She tried again. She slid straight down again.

Then Mo saw Dad’s sewing basket by the door. In it was a reel of blue thread, the very same blue as Dad’s cup.

And Mo knew something about Pudding. Every night, when everyone was asleep, Pudding jumped onto the kitchen table and slept in the bread bin. He was not allowed. Nobody was supposed to know. Mo knew.

She rolled the reel out of the basket. She tied one end of the thread to Pudding’s collar. She tied the other end to the card.

“Bedtime, Pudding,” said Mo.

Pudding jumped. Up he went onto the table and into the bread bin, flump. The blue thread went up with him and hung all the way down the table leg to the floor.

Mo took hold of the thread and climbed. Hand over hand, foot over foot, up and up the long blue thread. At the top she sat down and puffed. Then she pulled and pulled, and up came the card.

She untied it, dragged it to the blue cup, and leaned it there, right against the chip.

“There,” said Mo.

And this time, she was.

* * *

Mo looked back at the stairs. They were very far away, and very tall, and she was very tired.

Next to the cup sat the tea cosy. It was red and woolly, and to Mo it was as big as a tent, and much warmer. Mo crawled under it, curled up, and fell asleep.

In the blue early morning, while the stars went pale in the round window, the house made Mo her own size again. It did it quietly, so as not to wake her. And it set her down in Dad’s big chair, tea cosy and all.

Then Dad came downstairs, yawning, for his breakfast.

He found his blue cup. He found a fat card leaning on it. He found Pudding in the bread bin. And he found his girl, asleep in a heap in his chair, with a tea cosy on her head.

Dad unfolded the card. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. There was Dad, and there was his blue cup, and it said HAPPY BIRTHDAY DAD in big wobbly letters.

“All that way,” said Dad, “and you only the size of a thimble.” He was so glad and so proud that he read it all over again.

Then he picked Mo up, tea cosy and all, just the way he carried Pudding every night. He took her round once, round twice, round three times, past the round window, and into her room.

He took the tea cosy off her head and tucked her in.

“There,” said Dad.

Downstairs, the card leaned on the blue cup. Pudding snored in the bread bin, and because it was a birthday, nobody minded. And upstairs, at the very top of Button Lane, Mo was all the way there at last, fast asleep in her own warm bed.