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The other eighteen snails were sliding around in a slow bewildered way. They weren’t taking much notice of the selection of leaves Colette had put in for them. Snail number four had climbed up the wall of the box and was nearly at the top.
‘I’ll have to make you a lid,’ Colette told them. ‘With holes in, so you can breathe.’
A bit of cardboard from her junk collection should do the trick. Colette took the box inside the house.
‘Stupid centipede!’ Stephen called after her, but half-heartedly. He had recovered from his fall and was now sitting on the seat of the lawn mower, fiddling with the controls. The lawn mower was brand new. It was gleaming and enormous. It even had a trailer. For Stephen it had been love at first sight.
As soon as she stepped into the house Colette heard Dad’s voice.
‘The basin is full of stamps!’ he shouted.
She put the snail box on the kitchen table and ran up the first flight of stairs. Dad was standing in the bathroom doorway looking fed up.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Colette. ‘I’m just soaking them off their envelopes. Can’t you wash your hands in the kitchen?’
As Dad opened his mouth to reply a feather fell on his nose.
‘Bird flying!’ came another voice, from above them. Colette looked up. Her little sister Poppy was lying on her tummy on the top landing, throwing feathers down between the railings of the banisters.
‘Stop! That’s my feather collection! You’re such a pest, Poppy!’ Colette ran on up, her footsteps loud and furious.
But even louder and more furious was the voice which now rang up the stairs.
‘Colette! Come here! Now!’ It was Mum.
Colette grabbed Poppy’s fistful of feathers and slunk back downstairs, past Dad who was still muttering about stamps. She opened the kitchen door.
‘Look at them! They’re everywhere!’ Mum pointed at the table. The snails were slithering around among the crumbs from teatime, leaving slimy trails behind them. One had reached the rim of a jar of honey and an even more adventurous one (number four again) was climbing up the spout of the teapot.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Colette yet again. She put the feathers down and started to pick up the snails and put them back in the box. ‘I was going to make them a lid but …’
But Mum didn’t want to hear any buts. ‘This is one collection too many,’ she said. ‘Put them back outside. Now.’
‘Birds!’ said Poppy, coming into the kitchen and spotting the feathers on the table. But Colette’s big box was even more interesting. Poppy trailed after sister and box, out into the garden.
‘Don’t start collecting anything else out there, whatever you do!’ Mum called after them.
And Colette didn’t. Not that day, anyway. But this wasn’t because she was obeying her mother. It was because she was about to be collected herself.
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