A slender little hand reaches through the wire fence, stretching toward the ripe strawberries. I pretend not to notice, keeping busy weeding the onion bed.
“Hello, Auntie Alice,” calls a tiny voice.
“Hello, sunshine,” I smile, lifting the sagging wire. “Come here and help me pick some strawberries.”
In steps my Angel—that’s what I call little Alfie. Behind him, huffing and puffing, squeezes his enormous dog, Bruiser, nearly twice the boy’s size. I set a big bowl in the middle of the strawberry patch, and Alfie picks the largest, ripest berries. He’s fair-haired, blue-eyed, with sharp little shoulder blades that stick out like wings. That’s why I call him Angel. He’s five years old—curious, kind.
“Alfie, why was your mum cross this morning?”
“Oh, she wanted to paint the stools, and I spilled the paint,” he admits. “I was trying to paint Bruiser’s kennel and knocked the tin over.”
“Well, that’s no trouble. We’ll have tea, then buy more paint.”
My little Angel washes his hands without being told and settles at his favourite spot by the window. He chooses strawberries with milk and a still-warm scone dusted in sugar. Soon, his top lip wears a white, sugary moustache. On the mat by the door, Bruiser lies patiently, knowing the rules. He gets a cheese scone, eyeing it mournfully before glancing at us as if to say, *Is that it?* We laugh, and I set down a bowl of stew for him. Forgiven, he tucks in.
An hour later, the three of us return from the shop with two tins of paint—white and green. The sky is blue, the sun high and hot. I duck home to change, packing the leftover strawberries and scones into a bag. On Alfie’s porch sits his grandmother, blind these past two years. My little Angel carefully adjusts her headscarf, tucking back a loose strand of hair. I place a bowl of strawberries in her lap—her favourite.
On the open veranda, Alfie and I paint the stools white, then Bruiser’s kennel green. Alfie’s pleased; Bruiser couldn’t care less.
Ella, Alfie’s mum, returns from work. She praises his handiwork and invites us all inside. Alfie takes his grandmother’s hand, leading her to the table before feeding her rice pudding, slow and gentle. She sips tea on her own, a caramel melting on her tongue. She moves through the house unaided, knowing which floorboard creaks where. Ella works at a roadside café two miles away. If she’s on the late shift, she returns after dark. Most days, Alfie’s her right hand.
I watch him scarf down porridge loaded with butter, gulp sweet tea, then trot off to watch cartoons. A child, yet already a man. Or perhaps a man, still a child?
He sweeps floors, washes dishes, helps his grandmother dress, carries firewood (two logs at a time), fetches water (in a little pail). He adores his dog and sometimes cries bitterly when scolded unfairly. He laughs wildly when splashing in the river, droplets glittering like diamonds in the sun.
Ella walks me to the gate. I tell her not to shout at Alfie. *He’s a man—don’t shame him. Protect him. Find reasons to praise.*
She sighs about her hard life—her blind mother, her small wages.
I reply: *Your own home, your mother alive beside you, work, a helpful son, your health. Cherish what you have—don’t measure by others.*
She smiles and waves me off.
My lessons with Alfie aren’t wasted. At five, he reads *The Snow Queen* fluently to his grandmother. On still evenings, we tramp to the river with fishing rods. The sun, a golden sunflower, sinks slowly into the trees, casting its last warm glow. Clouds turn to gilt, the world hushed, resting. The fish aren’t scared off by our chatter, and soon a couple gleam in the bucket. Dinner for my cat is sorted.
…Today, my Angel visited. He’s grown—forty-two now, a respected surgeon. Every year, he tends his mother and grandmother’s graves, then arrives at my door laden with treats. The world calls him Dr. Alfred Nicholson, but I know—he’s still my Angel. Broad-shouldered, kind. Any season, he brings a basket of strawberries, sits by the window, and smiles as he sips tea with warm scones. He smokes a cigarette on the step, and when he leaves, he hugs me with two great, warm wings.
