Ladybirds on the Garden Gate

Poppy found a ladybird on her nose.

Then she found one on her sleeve. Then one on her wellie. The whole garden was full of them, red and shiny and moving.

"Gran!" said Poppy. "I'm going to count them all!"

Gran sat down on the wobbly stool with her cup of tea. "Go on, then," she said. "I'll watch."

Poppy squatted by the lavender. "One, two, three..." A ladybird walked up a leaf and out of sight. "Oh! Where did that one go? One, two... was that three?"

She started again. The ladybirds would not stay still. They climbed. They hid. They crawled under petals and over the watering can.

"One, two, three, four," said Poppy. "Oh, bother!"

She tried again, and this time she counted very fast. It made no difference. A ladybird opened its wings, went zzzt, and flew straight into her hair.

Poppy sat on the grass. Her cheeks were hot.

Then she noticed something. Every ladybird was going the same way, along the fence, up the post, to the top of the garden gate.

"Gran, they're all going to the gate!"

"So they are," said Gran, and sipped her tea.

Poppy tiptoed over. The flat top of the gate was covered in ladybirds, sitting close together, warm in the sun. They were hardly moving at all.

"Now you can't run away," Poppy whispered.

She counted slowly, pointing with one finger and not quite touching. "Five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten... eleven... twelve!"

Twelve ladybirds. Twelve little red spots on the grey wood.

"Twelve!" Poppy shouted.

Zzzt! One ladybird flew off. Then another. Then she felt a tiny tickle on her finger, and there was a thirteenth, walking along her thumb.

Poppy held very still.

"Thirteen," she said softly. "And this one wants to be counted twice."

The ladybird sat on her thumbnail, warm as a crumb of toast, and slowly opened and closed its wings.