The Bear Who Was Not Sleepy

The bear called Clive was not, he said, the least bit ready yet for bed. He said it twice. He said it slow. He yawned so wide his ears went low.

The fox said, “Clive, you yawned. I saw.” Clive said, “I didn’t.” Then his jaw went wide, then wider, with a squeak. “That’s just,” said Clive, “the way I speak.”

The fox had come to tuck him in. Said Clive, “I’m fine. I’ll just begin to sort the cupboard. Paint the stair. I’ll…” Then he settled in his chair.

The fox said, “Clive, your eyes are shut.” Said Clive, “I’m concentrating. But it’s easier with both eyes closed.” And then he snored. Not much. He dozed.

He woke. He said, “I wasn’t. No. I’m fresh as frost. I’m good to go. I’ll build a shed. I’ll climb a hill.” He hugged the cushion, very still.

The fox warmed milk and brought a cup. Clive said, “I’m staying, staying up.” He drank it slow. His head went down. He wore the blanket like a gown.

“A story?” said the fox. “Just one?” Clive said, “I’m far too old for fun like that.” He yawned. His paw went flat. “Go on then. Just the one. The cat.”

The fox read on. Clive said, “I know,” and, “Mm,” and, “Yes,” and, “Oh,” and, “Oh,” and once, quite clearly, “Not asleep,” and once, less clearly, “Counting sheep.”

The fox put down the book at last. Clive said, “Good ending. Bit too fast.” He meant too short. He’d lost the word. “I’m not asleep,” he said. “Absurd.”

The fox turned down the lamp a shade. Clive said, “I saw the move you made. I’m watching you. I see it all.” The lamp went dim. The room went small.

“I’m not,” said Clive, “asleep. I’m not. I’m thinking hard of what I’ve got to do tomorrow, which is… which…” His paws gave one small sleepy twitch.

The fox turned off the lamp, and stayed a while, and watched the shadows fade, and tucked the blanket round him tight. “Not sleepy,” said the fox. “Quite right.”

The fox went out. The door went click. The clock went tock. The clock went tick.

And round the house, and through the wood, the night came down the way it should.