The Stairs That Count

Molly lived in a tall thin house on Ladder Lane. The kitchen was at the bottom. The bedrooms were at the top. In between there were thirteen stairs, and the stairs could count.

When anybody stepped on stair one, it said, “One!” in a voice as small as a mouse. Stair two said, “Two!” a little deeper. Each stair was a little deeper than the last, all the way up. At the very top, stair thirteen said, “Thir-teen,” big and slow, like a bear getting out of a warm bed.

Molly knew the voice of every single stair. She could do the squeak of One, the wobbly Four and the proud Nine. Her best was Thirteen. She did that one with her chin tucked right down.

Tom was Molly’s baby brother. Tom said only one word, and the word was “Again!” He said it to the bath. He said it to his peas. He said it every time Dad sneezed.

Every night, Tom went up to bed holding Molly’s hand, one stair at a time, while all thirteen stairs counted him up. Getting Tom to bed was Molly’s job, and she liked to do it just right.

Tonight, Dad was doing the washing-up in his slippers. They were Molly’s slippers, the pink ones with rabbit ears, and his heels hung off the back. He never noticed.

“Bedtime, you two,” said Dad.

Molly took Tom’s hand, and up they went.

“One!” “Two!” “Three!” said the stairs. “Four!” “Five!” “Six!”

Tom stepped onto stair seven.

Nothing. Not a squeak.

“Eight!” said stair eight.

Tom stopped. He looked back at stair seven. Then he went bump, bump, bump all the way down on his bottom, and sat on the mat.

“Again!” said Tom.

So they went up again. “One! Two! Three! Four! Five! Six!” said the stairs. Then nothing at all. Then, “Eight!”

Bump, bump, bump went Tom, all the way down.

“Again!” said Tom.

Molly sat down on the bottom stair to think.

“One!” said stair one, underneath her.

Then she had an idea. When Molly had a sore throat, Dad gave her honey on a spoon. She went into the kitchen.

“Stair seven has lost its voice,” said Molly.

“Oh dear,” said Dad. He gave her the honey pot and a spoon.

Molly put a big spoonful of honey on stair seven. Gloop. Then she stood on it. Stair seven said nothing. But Molly’s sock stuck to the honey.

Tom licked the spoon. “Again!” said Tom.

“Perhaps it’s cold,” said Molly. She took off her long red scarf. She wound it round stair seven twice and tied it in a bow. Stair seven looked very cosy. Molly stood on it again.

It still said nothing at all.

When something was wrong, Molly listened to it.

So she lay down on her tummy on stair six and put her ear right against stair seven. Tom lay down on stair five, because Tom did everything Molly did.

“Shh,” said Molly.

She listened very hard. Very faintly, stair seven said, “Mmf.” It sounded just like Tom trying to talk with a mouthful of peas.

Molly felt along the edge of the carpet. At the back, something hard and round was squashed in tight. She wiggled it. She tugged it. Out it popped, into her hand.

It was a blue marble.

“My marble!” said Molly.

It had been lost since Tuesday. She had looked for it in her shoes, under her bed, and once, for some reason, in the teapot. Somehow it had rolled under the carpet, right on top of stair seven’s voice.

Molly stood up and put her foot on stair seven.

“SEVEN!” said stair seven. It said it so loudly that the spoons rattled in the kitchen. Then it gave a little hiccup. “Hic!”

Stair seven always hiccupped when it was very happy.

Tom laughed so hard his feet kicked in the air.

“Good old Seven,” said Dad, from the kitchen.

Molly wiped the honey off with a cloth. She left the red scarf on, just in case.

“One more time,” said Molly. “All the way up.”

She took Tom’s hand, and up they went.

“One!” “Two!” “Three!” “Four!” “Five!” “Six!”

“SEVEN! Hic!”

“Eight!” “Nine!” “Ten!” “Eleven!” “Twelve!”

“Thir-teen,” said stair thirteen, big and slow.

At the top, Tom looked back down at all thirteen stairs. “Again!” said Tom, just once. It came out mostly yawn.

Molly tucked him into bed and showed him the blue marble. Tom patted it with one finger and shut his eyes. Molly put the blue marble on the landing windowsill, where it would never get lost again.

Then Molly went to her own bed, across the landing.

* * *

Later, the lamps were off. The moon was in the landing window, next to the blue marble. Dad came up to bed. He was still wearing Molly’s rabbit slippers. He still had not noticed.

The stairs counted him up very quietly, so as not to wake anybody.

“One,” said stair one, as soft as a sock. “Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.”

“Seven,” said stair seven, in its smallest voice. “Hic.”

“Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve.”

“Thir-teen,” said stair thirteen, slow and sleepy.

Molly was nearly asleep. She heard every stair. Not one was missing.

Everything in the tall thin house was where it ought to be, except Dad’s slippers, and Dad didn’t mind.

Molly tucked her chin down and said, “Thir-teen,” very softly, just like the top stair. Then she was fast asleep.