'I Told Mummy Real Elephants are Gentle Creatures' by Alva Holland

Mummy says there’s an elephant in the room. Can you see him? He stalks the dusty corners of our shack, ducking when he passes the window. Clever he is, for an animal his size – knowing when to stay out of sight. He dashes daytime hopes, night-time dreams.

You’d think an elephant wouldn’t fit into this tiny house with its skinny door, its tiny grimy window, but Mummy says the elephant lived here before the door closed our fear inside.

The giant creature is fed with dread, pessimism, vulnerability, inability to communicate. When he feeds, we get the scraps. Is this why Mummy doesn’t talk? Sometimes, I hear her whimpering, like I think a baby elephant might.

I’ve become resigned to living with him because I love Mummy, but he cannot fit inside the tiny scullery where I crouch under the wooden sill and stretch my hand up to wave my dolly’s blue dress, hoping that someone might see; hoping that someone will break down the red door, tranquilize the giant creature and carry him far away to a place where he belongs, with others of his kind.

I don’t want the elephant dead, just out of our house.

Then, Mummy will be sad because she’ll be on her own again, with just me, but I think we can do better than a stalking, scary elephant, and when he’s gone, I might be allowed to open the door, carry my dolly and my plastic tea-set outside and play at the garden table again.