Pigtails
Emily Lestrade was in a terrific strop. The screen slammed behind her as she entered the house, then trembled in righteous indignation. Greg poked his head around the corner of the kitchen, verbally chasing her up the stairs as she took them, stomping, two at a go. "Oi!" he called, brandishing his spatula (a useless gesture; there was no one to see), "you get back here and close that door properly, young lady!"
The pounding ceased for one blissful instant, then experienced a renaissance as Greg's eldest clomped back downstairs. He finally got a look at her when she passed back through the tiny dining room her rucksack hung dejectedly from the crook of one elbow, her bright yellow jacket following dangerously behind. She'd pulled the front of her dishwater hair"Just the hangy-down bits. back that morning with a blue ribbon, but wisps were now making a desperate bid for freedom.
She looked a right mess.
"Sorry, Da," she mumbled, pulling the screen to. It clicked securely and when she turned, her face (so very unlike her mother's, Greg often mused with some strange pride) was bunched up in the middle as though someone had fastened a string there and pulled.
"What's the matter?" Greg turned the stove-top down to simmer at least, he thought he did; he had a bad habit of getting it just a notch too high. The curry place down the street knew him by name. He wiped his hands on a tea towel, tossed it over his shoulder, and crossed his arms, hoping his tough-copper routine would, just this once, eclipse his podgy-daddy image.
Emily looked at him, forlorn in a way that only eleven-year-old girls can manage."Nothing."
He'd had daughters long enough that he almost spoke their language. That "nothing" carried a whole kettle of something. He gave her his best "now see here" look, and when she heaved an almighty sigh and deposited her rucksack on the floor, he knew it had worked. She slid into her chair and laid her palms flat against the tabletop, spreading her fingers and examining them with undue intensity. Finally she admitted, "It's a boy at school."
Several things in Greg's brain fired off at once. He managed to quash his initial instinct to demand the boy's name and go straight to his house armed with tar, feathers, and wrath. Instead, he lowered himself (relatively) calmly into his own chair and propped his elbows on the table, folding his hands. Deep breaths, Inspector. "What boy?"
"Terry Hodges. She said it as though that explained everything and slumped down fractionally, patting out a thoughtful fingertip tattoo. "He won't stop pulling my hair," she added.
Greg took in a breath through his nose. He'd always promised himself that, when it came to parenting, he wouldn't be the sort to go off his head about the tiniest things. But this wasn't tiny, of course it wasn't tiny. This was his baby girl, and someone was hurting her. He tried to put it into perspective and found himself failing miserably. "Did you tell Mrs. Leeds?" he asked, keeping his voice as even as possible.
Emily nodded. "I did, and she told him to stop it, but she never caught him doing it. I couldn't prove it." If she hadn't looked so miserable, Greg might have smiled. If his girls had learnt anything, it was that proof beyond doubt had to exist before someone could be locked up. And lock him up Greg would like to, this Terry Hodges, whoever he was. What sort of little monster goes about
Oh.
Memories of being a grammar school bastard flooded into Greg's mind with alarming speed. "Pull it hard, does he?" he hedged, testing a theory. Emily shook her head. Her ribbon swayed.
"It never hurts," she said. Her jaw set, lower lip pushing out in a brave gesture."It's just annoying.
Greg nodded and felt relief wash over him. This was an area he knew a thing or two about, and his murderous rage at Terry Hodges was beginning to quell."Only," he began, not sure what she'd think of the idea, "sometimes, boys bother girls like that when they fancy them. Emily's head jerked upward and she pinned a gaze on him that was equal parts horror and terrible understanding.
"Lou said Terry fancies me," she admitted. She looked back at her fingers, frowning deeply. "Why do boys do that?" she asked, sounding for all the world as though she was questioning a serious tragedy like genocide or extinction. "If he fancies me, why can't he just say so?"
Greg was reminded, rather a bit unexpectedly, of two boys in particular of words like barbs thrown about at crime scenes, followed by gazes so white-hot he'd half-expected them to burst into flame. He thought of screamingly obvious devotion, tempered by idiot, sociopath, a dozen other terms of anything-but-endearment. He scratched his ear.
"Because boys are mad," he said. "And a bit stupid." Emily giggled and he grinned. "Listen, next time he goes to pull your hair, just…" He made a vague, strangly sort of gesture. "Thump him one. It'll stop him fussing you." Emily cocked her head. "Stop him fancying you too, I reckon." Or make him worse than ever, he thought, considering the pair he had in mind. Something occurred to him and he narrowed his eyes. "You don't fancy him, do you?"
Emily's eye-roll nearly had audio. "No, Da."
"Good." He stood and pulled the tea towel from his shoulder. "Go wash up and get your sisters, dinner's nearly on." Emily hopped up, retrieved her rucksack, and went on tiptoe to place a swift kiss on his cheek before scampering back up the stairs.
Greg shook his head. Well, that's that sorted, he mused. Maybe if I sat down with those gits, I could sort them too. He didn't like his chances, but the sauce he'd been attempting hadn't burned after all, and for just a moment, Greg Lestrade felt like he could do anything.
He'd talk with John tomorrow.