A Hug Before Sleep

Little Bear was not sleepy. She had brushed her teeth. She had put on her pyjamas - the blue ones with the stars, not the stripy ones, because the stripy ones were in the wash. She had chosen a book and listened to the whole thing without wriggling, which was a personal best. But she was not sleepy. Not even a tiny bit.

'I think,' she said to Daddy Bear, 'I need one more hug before I can sleep.' Daddy Bear smiled. He knew about hugs. He knew about all kinds of hugs. He had been giving them since before Little Bear was born, practising on cushions and on Mummy Bear and on the cat, who did not appreciate it.

'What about a squeeze hug?' he said. He wrapped his big arms around Little Bear and squeezed, just tight enough to make her giggle. Her feet came off the floor. Her ribs went squish. She squeezed back, as hard as she could, which wasn't very hard because she was small and he was enormous. 'That was nice,' she said, when he put her down. 'But I'm still not sleepy.'

'How about a rock-a-bye hug?' Daddy Bear picked her up and rocked her gently from side to side, like a little boat on a calm sea. Left, right, left, right. The room swayed. The lamplight swung back and forth across the ceiling. Little Bear's eyes closed for a moment, and the world went soft and blurry. Then they popped open again. 'Nearly,' she said. 'But not quite.'

'A spinning hug?' Daddy Bear stood up and spun in a slow circle, Little Bear clinging to his neck, her feet flying out behind her. The room turned - bookshelf, window, door, bookshelf, window, door. She laughed so hard that Daddy Bear had to stop, because spinning hugs are not really bedtime hugs. 'That one woke me up more,' she admitted.

'All right,' said Daddy Bear. 'A whisper hug.' He held her close and whispered into her ear - just sounds, no real words, soft and warm like a breeze in summer. Little sounds that meant nothing and everything. Little Bear relaxed a little. Her arms went looser. Her head rested on his shoulder, heavy and warm. 'Mmmm,' she said. 'That's a good one. But I need one more.'

Daddy Bear thought for a long time. He looked at the window, where the curtains were still open. He looked at the armchair - the big green one that had a dip in the cushion from all the times they'd sat in it together. Then he carried Little Bear to the chair, sat down, and settled her in his lap. He wrapped his arms around her. He didn't squeeze. He didn't rock. He didn't spin. He didn't whisper. He just held her. Steady and warm and completely still.

Outside the window, the moon was rising over the trees. It was round and white, like a night-light that someone had hung in the sky. The garden was silver and shadow. A fox walked across the lawn, stopped, looked up at the window, and padded on.

Inside, the room was quiet. The clock on the shelf ticked softly. The floorboards creaked once, then settled. Little Bear could hear Daddy Bear's heartbeat - slow and deep and solid, like a drum playing just for her. She could feel the warmth of his arms through the wool of his jumper. She could smell the jumper itself, which always smelled like toast and the outdoors and something else that was just Daddy.

'What kind of hug is this one?' she asked. Her voice was smaller now, and slower, like a music box winding down.

'This one doesn't have a name,' said Daddy Bear. 'It's just a hug that says I love you, and I'm here, and everything is all right. It says you don't have to do anything or be anything. You can just be Little Bear, and that's enough.'

Little Bear nodded. Her eyes closed. This time, they stayed closed. Her breathing slowed, each breath a little longer than the last, until it matched the rhythm of Daddy Bear's - in and out, in and out, like two clocks that had found the same time.

The moon climbed higher. The fox came back across the lawn and lay down under the hedge. The house settled around them, warm and safe and full of the particular silence that only happens when everyone in it is exactly where they should be.

After a while - a long while, because Daddy Bear was in no hurry - he stood up carefully, carried Little Bear to her bed, and tucked the blanket around her. He placed her stuffed rabbit beside her, because the rabbit would worry if it wasn't there. He kissed her forehead, very gently, so as not to wake her.

'Goodnight, Little Bear,' he whispered.

She didn't answer. She was already dreaming - of warm arms and slow heartbeats and the smell of toast. Wrapped in the warmest hug of all: the one she carried with her, even in sleep, that no morning could take away.