He was five. It was immensely, tremendously old. Yesterday he had been only four, and before that, ever so long ago, he had been just a tiny boy. Even before that there was a time of which Mother told funny stories, a time when he had been a baby not even able to walk. He was not sure if that were true; perhaps it was only one of Mother's make-up stories. One never could be quite sure. Sometimes, when it sounded real, she would laugh and say:

"That's only fun, old chap. I didn't mean it." 

But to-day that was all past. Five was important; boys started school at five. He knew that; had not Alan and Philip down the road started when they turned five, and did they not go past every morning by themselves like big boys? He was to start next week, his mother said. 

 "Funny that you have to wait for a Monday," he thought. "Why isn't Wednesday a good day?"

But then perhaps it was better to wait. A birthday, with its presents and party, was more fun than school. 

There had been lovely things this morning, engines and puzzles and real pencils to write with, ready for school, and chocolate -- but that must not be eaten all at once -- and real letters that the postman brought, and his mother had given him something so surprising, that he had not quite understood all she said. He must go and look at it again. 

He had seen it first when he awoke, standing in the corner of the room that he shared with his big brother -- a tiny wardrobe all to himself. Hitherto, his clothes had fitted into the corners that Robert did not want, he had found his shoes thrown out with: 

"Here, young Kit, I can't have your shoes mixed up with my shirts." 

He had had to beg Robert or Mother to hang his coats up for him, the pegs were so high.- But this was his alone. Mother had shown him the little drawers and talked about keeping things tidy. He had not listened much to that, for he was running his fingers down the shiny wood and feeling the knobs. There were six little drawers, he could count them, and six knobs for pulling out; that was up one side, and on the other side there were pegs for coats and a shelf for hats and a little rack down below for shoes. 

It had all been so strange to understand when Mother had shown it to him, and there was the new engine waiting, that he had left it unexplored. Now time hung heavy, for Mother was making cakes for to-night's party, and thought she would let you help with the decorations , she got cross if you bothered while she was mixing. It would be a good time to go up and see that wardrobe again. 

He mounted the stairs slowly, half afraid it would not be real after all and, opening the bedroom door, peeped round. Yes, there it stood against the wall -- his own cupboard. He opened the two doors, revealing the set of drawers and the place for hanging. 

No, the knobs did not untwist, but the drawers came out. Carefully he pulled them out one by one, placing them on the floor behind him. It would be fun to put things in them -- the smallest one could hold his torch, and perhaps a handkerchief , that one with the engine in the corner. Where was that now? He turned out Robert's box on the floor, and sorted the contents through. Funny, it ought to have been there; perhaps Mother's box.... Ah, there it was, and there were others which looked attractive, with coloured borders and flowers in the corners. He gathered them up and carried them back with him. 

Now the torch lay on a bed of handkerchiefs, but the other drawers were empty. Perhaps some shoes..? He scuffled in Robert's corner and brought out his own, but as he arranged them in a drawer something made him pause. What had Mother said about a shoe rack? 

He straightened up and considered the wardrobe. Yes, there certainly was a shoe-rack in the hanging part. His eyes travelled up to the row of shiny pegs, and shoes were forgotten. These pegs were obviously for hanging things: it would be fun to fill them. 

Carefully he carried a chair across the room and unhooked his coat from Robert's pegs, then he hung it up on his own peg, and took it down again. His dressing-gown would hang up too - he  tried it, and perhaps his knickers. He dropped coat and dressing-gown and sought his best knickers but they proved strangely obstinate about hanging up. try as he would they slipped off the peg and fell on the floor. 

"If they had a piece of string, then they would hang up," he said, and went purposefully downstairs for the string-bag. It hung on the back of the kitchen door, and as opened the door, a smell of warm cakes flowed out to greet him. There they stood, rows of them brown and good. Breathlessly he pulled his mother's apron. 

 "Could I stick on the pretty things?" 

She touched a cake with a tentative finger and nodded, and he climbed on a chair to watch her arrange the little piles of cherries, violets and silver balls, which he was to pop in place as she spread the sweet, soft icing. 

Some hours later, just as the party was due to arrive, his mother called him up to the bedroom. She seemed unhappy about something. 

"I thought you were big enough to keep your things tidy," she said, reproachfully. "I thought you would like a cupboard of your own." 

His puzzled eyes passed over the array of drawers and clothes, the scattered handkerchiefs and tumbled shoes, and came to rest on her face. Like it? Why, he loved it, of course he did. That was just why .... oh well, — didn't Mothers understand anything ?.