George,” shouted Molly. “Help!”
George trooped downstairs wondering what his mother wanted. In the kitchen he could smell turkey stew. He smiled as he remembered Fred’s face after the third day of eating up the leftovers.
“George,” Molly shouted, this time more urgently. “I’m in the sitting room. Help!”
He found Molly standing on a chair, holding a Christmas wreath in her hand and using it to swat something.
“Mum,” he said warily. “What are you doing?”
“Nargles, George,” she whispered. “They’ve infested the tree.”
George looked at his mum curiously; either she’d been drinking or something was seriously wrong.