Isla and the Missing Spoon

In the flour bin, Isla found a tiny hole, round as a plum.

She was the baker on Pudding Lane, and she was up before the sun, as she always was. "Up before the sun," she said, and yawned. The rolls had to be ready when the market bell rang. The kitchen clock ran five minutes fast on market day, and nobody minded, because everyone knew.

She tipped flour into the big bowl and reached for her wooden spoon. It was not on its hook.

"Oh dear," said Isla. "No spoon, no dough."

She tried a fork. The dough stuck to it in lumps. She tried a whisk. The dough wrapped round it and wouldn't let go. She tried her hands, and then her hands were so sticky that she couldn't open the drawer.

"Up before the sun," she said, more quietly. "But where is my spoon?"

Isla stood very still and looked at the floor. There, in the flour she had spilled, were tiny footprints. They went across the tiles, round the table leg and behind the big warm oven.

Isla crouched down. Behind the oven lay her wooden spoon. In the round part, curled up like a bean, slept a small brown mouse.

"Oh," whispered Isla.

The mouse sniffed. It had come in from the cold, and the spoon was the best bed it had found. Isla could not just tip it out. That would be unkind.

Then she had an idea. She fetched a clean tea towel and folded it into a nest. She set it down beside the spoon, close to the warm oven. Very slowly, she slid the spoon's handle along until the mouse rolled, soft as a sleepy pudding, onto the towel.

Plop.

The mouse sighed and curled up again.

Isla washed the spoon and stirred the dough. Round and round it went, smooth and shiny. Soon the rolls were in the oven, and the kitchen smelled of butter and toast.

Behind the oven, something small began to whistle in its sleep.