Aceson moved to Amsterdam on a soft grey day. His suitcase went bump-bump over the cobbles, and the canal beside him went lap-lap, like it was whispering hello.
Bikes zipped by with ting-ting bells. Tall, narrow houses leaned close together, as if they were sharing a secret. Wow, what a place!
Mama stopped at a skinny red door. “Here we are,” she said. Aceson looked up, up, up at the house, then pressed his blue bunny under his chin.
Inside, the stairs were steep and twisty. The boxes fitted. The lamp fitted. The little chair fitted with a scrape and a squeak.
But Aceson’s bed did not fit.
Oh dear!
The bed stuck on the stairs with a soft thump. Not forward. Not backward. Just stuck, like toast in a toaster.
⁂
A kind mover pointed outside. “Amsterdam houses have hooks at the top,” he said. “When the stairs are too narrow, the bed goes up in the air.”
Aceson peered out. High above the window was an enormous black hook. Below it, the canal sparkled and wiggled.
The mover tied the bed with thick ropes. The machine went whirr-whirr-whirr. Aceson’s toes curled inside his socks.
“It will go slowly,” said Mama. “You may stand with me at the window.”
Aceson wanted to hide behind the boxes. His fingers squeezed bunny’s ears. Then he took one small step, and another, until Mama’s hand was warm around his.
“Steady bed, sleepy bed,” he whispered.
⁂
Up went the bed, creak-creak-creak. Up past the red door. Up past the window boxes. Up towards Aceson’s new room.
Then, plop! A pigeon landed on the pillow.
The mover blinked. Mama covered her mouth. Aceson stared.
The pigeon puffed up like a tiny grey king and went coo-coo, as if the bed belonged to him.
“Oh no,” said Mama, very softly. “The king is comfortable.”
Aceson’s knees gave a little wobble, but he leaned towards the open window. Not too far. Just enough.
“Please hop off,” he called. “That is my bedtime bed.”
The pigeon tipped its head. Aceson held out one crumb from his snack. The pigeon hopped, flap-flap-flap, onto the sill.
The bed slid through the window with a gentle whoosh.
⁂
At last, Aceson’s bed stood in the new room. His blanket was tucked in. His blue bunny sat on the pillow, guarding the cosy corner.
Outside, the canal made hush-hush sounds. Far away, one bicycle bell went ting, then another answered ting.
Mama pulled the curtain. “In Dutch, people say welterusten at bedtime. It means sleep well.”
Aceson snuggled down. “Welterusten, Amsterdam,” he whispered.
The house creaked kindly. The water whispered. And in his very own bed, in his very new room, Aceson closed his eyes while the city softly sang him to sleep.
