A Note From Home
The Baker Street family has made it a policy to keep no more secrets. Little Rosie Watson is a sharp and resilient child, which comes in handy when she has to deal with a less than adequate teacher.
"Ooh, that's lovely," trilled the teacher, a six foot Canadian with feet like canoes, as she glanced at the note. "So who is getting married?"
"My dad and my Aunt Molly," replied the child Rosie.
The teacher blinked. "Your dad and you aunt?"
"She's not really my aunt."
"I see." But she didn't see at all. On the first day of school, little Rosie had been accompanied by two men, one of them tall and haughty, the other smiling kindly. Miss Delacroix had assumed that she understood the situation, but then that delightful woman had turned up at parents evening. "Was she the one who came to parents evening, or was that your mother?"
"My mother died when I was a baby."
"Oh, sweetie, I am so sorry." The teacher's voice sank. "Cancer?"
"Gunshot."
"Oh, how dreadful! Was it a terrorist attack?"
Rosie shook her head. "No, crime. She was trying to save my Uncle Sherlock. Because she loved him."
"You mother loved your Uncle Sherlock?"
"Yes, but she loved my dad more."
Miss Delacroix looked again at the note. "So your Aunt Molly…?"
"She's kind of Uncle Sherlock's wife, but they're not married."
"But now she's marrying your dad?"
"Yes, so she can adopt me." The child furrowed her brow. "I'm not quite sure, but I think afterwards she's going to marry Uncle Sherlock. She'll have some practice by then."
"Is Uncle Sherlock your dad's brother?"
"No, they just live together."
"You live with your dad and your Uncle Sherlock?"
"And Aunt Molly, and Aunt Martha."
"Aunt Martha?"
"She's kind of my granny, only not really. Her husband was ex-xe-cutted; that's why I don't have a kind-of grandad."
The teacher took a deep breath, and then another one for good measure. "I see."
"I don't think you see," said Rosie. "You've not lived in this country long. You don't know about my family."
"What should I know?"
"My dad and Uncle Sherlock are in the crime business. And we want Aunt Molly to adopt me in case something happens to them."
"So your Aunt Molly isn't…in the crime business?"
"No, she just sorts out the dead bodies."
Miss Delacroix swallowed. Then she swallowed again.
"Tell me, Rosie…has the police ever been to your house?"
"Oh yes, all the time."
"You poor child," the teacher whispered. Her gaze drifted to the telephone on the desk. Definitely a case for child protection. "Is there anything else I should know about?"
"I'm getting a Guinea pig for my birthday," Rosie offered.
"Oh, that's nice."
"But I'm not allowed to do experiments on it, and neither is Uncle Sherlock."
Miss Delacroix was at her wit's end. She closed her eyes and reached out a hand to steady herself against the wall.
The class had followed the whole exchange in breathless silence, but now one little boy piped up from the back:
"You've really gotta read that blog, Miss!"
Needless to say, the teacher is terribly unprofessional, asking all these leading questions and conducting the conversation in front of the whole class. But anything for a bit of silliness.