The Red Spade

Alice has a new red spade — today's, nobody else's, all theirs. And then three-year-old Gosha turns up at the sandpit, knocks the tower down without a word and reaches for the spade. Handing it over is the last thing Alice wants.

Alice has a new spade: red, with a shiny handle. The sand is damp and the tower comes out taller than the bucket. Then Gosha comes over to the sandpit — about three, no more. He takes hold of the tower edge without a word and it falls apart. Alice rebuilds it and says "do not touch". Gosha pulls his hand back and waits. The second tower is taller; Gosha reaches for the spade and Alice puts it behind their back. The third tower comes out neatest of all — and Gosha does not touch it at all now: he is digging the sand with his palms nearby, making a hole. His hands are sandy to the elbows. There is one spade, and it is Alice's. Something feels awkward inside. Alice holds the spade out to Gosha. He takes it in both hands right at the end and digs badly — half the sand lands back in the hole. Alice sits down and shows him how to hold it. Together the hole grows faster, and by lunch there is a whole trench.