thing to make you easter bright and gay; 1950
"Mum?"
"Yes, George?"
"Do we 'ave any cotton balls?"
The blonde turns her head from the stove, brows furrowing in bemusement. "Whatev'r would'ja need cotton balls f'er, luv? I thought you lot were colorin' eggs in thur."
Harrison's dark hues grow wide like saucers, as though the statement is a surprise to him-- before shuffling his Wellingtons on the kitchen floor.
"--- We are... I jus'... um. I wanted t'make mine a bunny. Y'know. With a tail."
The excuse seems plausible enough to Louise. Having been cleaning and baking all afternoon, the woman is tired. Not her usual, /cautious/ self. So, with trust she's never put in her seven year old before, Mrs. Harrison retrieves a few little balls of cotton, and holds them out to the little lad. Just as George goes to reach for the fluffy mound, however, dish-pan hands close over it.
"/Don't/ put these in y'er mouth-- y'hear me?"
Dutifully, the child nods. "Yes, Mum."
"Okay." And with that, the cotton is whisked away.
.................................................................
Only twenty or so minutes pass before Mrs. Harrison is made to regret her decision. Whilst stirring a pot of baked beans that are meant to go along with dinner, there is a loud cry from the lounge by none other than little Louise, her daughter.
"MUUUUUMMMM! TH'BOYS'RE /FIGHTIN/'!" Followed by Harry's cover, in a tight voice:
"NO WE'RE /NOT/! /Shuddup, Lou/."
Regardless, Louise (the elder) abandons her post at the stove in favor of surveying the situation. When she arrives at the threshold to the room, the woman pales.
The scene is fit for a nightmare. (One of her's, anyway.) Little Louise stood in the hall in her night gown, staring in horror across the way at the three boys. Eggs are strewn across the carpet, soaking their coloring into the white fabric. Some of the dye on the dye has spilled, too. Onto the coffee table, with run-off dripping onto the floor. Pinned on the edge of the table is her middle son, Peter; face red and angry-- tears welling up like he might cry. Standing over him is Harry, pressing his brother's biceps down to hold off any punches. But.... hang on. There's supposed to be another one.
"/Where's/ George?" Comes the bark that interrupts the entire event. Harry instantly straightens out, turning to face his mother with his hands behind his back. Peter rocks forward to sit on the edge of the coffee table, and before Louise has to ask again, he reaches down and yanks the littlest Harrison up from the ground-- who's tiny hands are coated in glue and little tufts of cotton.
Angry blues zero in on her youngest son, who is still wearing a bright smile despite the situation.
"--- What on God's bloody Earth is goin' on in 'ere?" Louise demands, hands on her hips.
"Well... Mum... I jus' want'cha t'know... It... It was all /George's/ idea." Harry starts, eyes on the ground.
"Y'take orders from a /seven/ year old?" Quickly followed up by another glare in George's direction. "Wha' we're you two doin' t'yer brother?"
Baby Harrison's grin only widens, glue coated hand slapping down on Peter's knee. "/Show/ 'er."
"Yeah, Pet'r. /Show/ me."
Reluctantly, the middle child stands. On the center of the back of his trousers sits the mound of cotton Louise handed George earlier. Azure hues glance back at the boy--- still grappling for an explanation.
"Peter /Cotton-tail/!" Is George's overzealous reply, before launching into the familiar Easter song she'd taught him earlier in the week-- hopping around the messy lounge.
Louise (the younger) simply rolls her eyes, before stomping back to her bedroom after a groan of frustration. Harry begins to pluck up the eggs from the floor. Peter only turns to stare at his little brother with a look that says he might strangle the little guy when they go to bed tonight.
And Mummy Harrison?
She covers her face with two sudsy smelling palms, wondering why in the hell the children always act like this when their father isn't home.