This was a storybook hedgehog, the jolly sort who wore big green shoes and strode jauntily across flower-spangled meadows, humming a merry tune and waving cheerfully to his woodland chums. “Highland chums,” I corrected, eyeing the kilt. The kilt was made of red, black, and blue tartan, and fairly bedraggled. The pleats were limp, the fabric was grubby, and the hem was frayed. The hedgehog, too, had seen better days. His brown button eyes were scratched and dull, his bristling plush hide lay flat in places, and a formerly fluffy forepaw had been rubbed smooth, as if a child’s hand had clutched it over the course of many years. I recalled the odd smile that had played about Miss Beacham’s lips when she’d whispered, “Hamish. I miss Hamish.” The same fond, self-conscious smile would touch my lips if I ever spoke of Reginald to someone I didn’t know very well indeed. Grown women do not, as a rule, advertise such infantile affections. I had no doubt that Hamish was a relic from Miss Beacham’s childhood, a companion who’d been as dear to her as my pink flannel bunny was to me.
What do You think about Aunt Dimity And The Next Of Kin?
