“Get Out of Here, I Said! Go On, Off with You!” — Mrs. Gladys Beech Slams Down a Steaming Plate of Freshly Baked Sausage Rolls Under the Old Apple Tree, Shoves the Neighbour Boy Away, and Frowns: “Why Are You Lurking About? Off You Go! When Will Your Mother Start Looking After You? Lazybones!” Skinny as a Beanpole, Little Jack—known only by his nickname “Grasshopper”—casts a nervous glance at the stern neighbour and slinks off towards his own front steps. The sprawling old house, split into several flats, is only half-occupied. Really, just two and a half families call it home: the Parkers, the Smiths, and the Carters—Kate and her boy, Jack. The last two are that “half”: generally ignored unless someone needs something. Kate’s not considered important, so people don’t bother with her. Other than her son, Kate has no one—no husband, no family. She muddles through on her own, best she can. People look at her askance, but seldom bother her—except to chase Jack off, calling him “Grasshopper” for his gangly limbs and head that looks a tad too big for his skinny neck. Grasshopper isn’t much to look at—awkward and easily frightened, but kind-hearted. He can’t pass a crying child without trying to help, which often earns him a scolding from anxious mums who want “that odd-looking boy” nowhere near. He only found out what “Scarecrow” meant after his mum gave him a book about Dorothy and the Yellow Brick Road, and he realised his neighbours were calling him after that character. Surprisingly, Jack didn’t mind—he figured they must at least know Scarecrow was loyal, clever, and brave, and in the end, ruled the Emerald City. Kate let him believe that. There’s enough bitterness in the world, she thought; let him keep some innocence for now. She loves her boy unconditionally. Forgiving Jack’s father his uselessness and betrayal, she clung to her newborn fiercely—snapping at the nurse who whispered he was “not quite right”. “Don’t talk rubbish! My boy’s the handsomest in the world!” “Sure—though clever, he will never be…” “We’ll see!” Kate crooned, stroking her baby’s cheek, sobbing quietly. For his first two years, she shuttled him round doctors until someone took real notice. Old coaches and worn prams rattled through the village, Kate holding her well-wrapped son tight. To pitying looks and busybodies, she was ice: “Put your own in care if you like. No? Then keep your advice! I know best for my boy!” By two, little Jackie nearly caught up—healthier now, if not handsome, still a touch awkward: big, flattened head, stick-thin arms, and legs Kate struggled to fatten. She sacrificed everything to give her boy the best—he was her purpose. In time, doctors all but stopped warning her, shaking heads in awe as elf-like Kate cuddled her Grasshopper. “Mums like you—one in a million! He was nearly disabled, and now—look at him! A little hero! Smart as anything!” “…It’s not about Jack, love—we mean you, Katie! You’re a star!” Kate only shrugged—what mother wouldn’t fight for her child? By the time Jack started school, he could already read, write, and count, though he stammered; it undid all his skills. His first teacher, Mrs. Fielding, grew exasperated: “Thank you, Jack, that’s enough!” Aloud, she’d say he “seemed nice, but his reading—impossible.” She lasted two years before marrying and moving away; a new teacher, Miss Hardy, took over the class. Miss Hardy, an old hand with a fierce love for children, quickly saw what Jack needed. She had a quiet word with Kate, suggesting a speech therapist, and let Grasshopper hand in his work written. “You write so beautifully, Jack! I love reading your answers!” Jack glowed; Miss Hardy read his work aloud with pride. Kate wept with gratitude, desperate to thank the kind teacher—who simply waved her off. “You’re daft, woman! It’s my job—and your son’s wonderful! He’ll be just fine, you’ll see!” Jack skipped to school—literally. The neighbours giggled: “Off he hops—there’s our Grasshopper! Maybe it’s shift change for us too! Shame on nature, leaving a child like that behind. Was there ever a point?” Kate heard the whispers, but never stooped to argue—if God hadn’t given a person a heart, she thought, no power on earth could make them act kindly. Better to spend your time making a prettier home or planting another rose bush. The big front garden, all flowerbeds and a tiny orchard out back, was unmarked by fences; each family’s porch had its “patch”—Kate’s was brightest with roses and lilacs, and her steps she’d mosaicked with broken tiles from the village hall’s renovation, pieces glinting like treasure in the sun. When the director teased her about carting home “rubbish”, within weeks neighbours gasped to see her tilework blossom into a work of art—folk came just to marvel. Kate didn’t care what they thought; the only praise that mattered was from her son. “Mum, it’s so beautiful…” Jack would sit tracing the mosaic with his finger, beaming with joy while Kate welled up again—her boy was happy. Such moments were rare for Jack: a compliment at school or a treat from Mum were his only real joys. He had few friends—couldn’t keep up—and much preferred reading anyway. Girls were strictly off-limits; especially thanks to neighbour Gladys, who with three granddaughters (five, seven, and twelve), guarded them fiercely. “Don’t you dare go near them!” she’d threaten with a fist. “They’re not for you, lad!” What went on in Gladys’s perm-frizzed head was a mystery, but Kate told Jack not to get under her feet or near her girls. “Why make trouble? The poor soul might fall ill…” Jack agreed, keeping well away. Even when Gladys was busy for a party, he was only passing by—not angling for an invite. “Oh, my sins!” Gladys muttered, covering her pastries with an embroidered cloth. “They’ll say I’m stingy. Wait!” She picked out a couple of sausage rolls, caught up with Jack, and thrust them at him. “Take these! And I don’t want to see you in the yard! We’re celebrating today! Keep to yourself till your mum gets back from work, got it?” Jack nodded, mumbling thanks. But Gladys was too busy with guests—today was her youngest and favourite granddaughter’s birthday, little Sophie, and she wanted everything just so. That scrawny, big-headed “Grasshopper” was the last thing she needed hanging about—no need to frighten the children! Gladys had long since told Kate to give Jack up: “Why bother? He’ll just end up a drunk in the gutter—child’s got no future!” She scorned Kate’s pride, but Kate stopped even greeting her after that. “What are you angry for, fool? I only meant well!” Gladys would mutter as Kate waddled by, heavily pregnant. “What’s good for you stinks to me!” Kate retorted, stroking her belly. “Don’t worry, little one—no one will ever hurt you.” Jack never told his mum who said what—he didn’t want to upset her. If something hurt badly, he’d cry alone, then forget it, pitying those grown-ups who didn’t understand how life was simpler without spite or grudge. Gladys no longer scared Jack—but he didn’t like her much. Whenever she scolded or insulted him, he’d disappear; if she asked, she’d be surprised to hear he pitied her, for wasting so many minutes on anger. Jack cherished every moment—he’d learned young how much time mattered. Everything else could be fixed, but you never get time back. Tick-tock, the clock says. And it’s gone. You can’t buy it back, not for all the best sweet wrappers in England. Adults, though, never seemed to learn. Sitting in his window, munching his sausage roll, Jack watched Sophie—bright as a butterfly in her pink dress—flitting on the lawn among the children ready for her party. The adults seated by Gladys’s porch, children darted off to kick a ball near the old well out back; Jack, guessing their destination, ran to his mum’s bedroom for a better view from the window. He watched until dusk, clapping as they chased the ball, pleased for their fun. After a while, some drifted home, new groups started other games, but Sophie lingered near the old well, catching Jack’s attention. Kate had often warned him never to approach it—years of rot had left it unsafe. “The beams are rotten, love. No one uses it anymore, but the water’s still there—fall in, and you’re done for, without a sound! Never go near, Jack, you promise?” “I promise!” Jack missed the moment Sophie vanished—distracted by the boys clustering elsewhere. Glancing back, his heart froze—the pink dress was gone. He shot outside. It took him only a second to realise Sophie wasn’t with the adults at the table, either. He’d never know why he didn’t think to call for help; he simply bolted, flying across the garden as Gladys shrieked behind him, “I told you to stay inside!” The other children carried on, oblivious to Sophie’s absence or Jack’s dash to the well. Spotting something pale far below, he called down: “Press yourself against the side!” To avoid landing on her, he swung himself onto the rim, dangled his legs, and slid inside—coated in moss and splinters. He knew Sophie couldn’t swim—he’d seen her struggle while sulking at the beach, never mastering it, never trusting Jack thanks to her grandma. Yet, clinging to his narrow shoulders now, Sophie gripped him with all her might. “It’s alright—don’t be scared, I’ve got you!” Like his mum had shown him, he held her up. “Just hold on—I’ll call for help!” His hands slipped on the slick, slimy beams, Sophie pulling him down, but he gulped air and screamed as loud as he could: “Help!” He had no way of knowing how long rescue would take, or if anyone could hear. But this much he knew: this silly, wonderful girl in her pink dress had to live. There’s little enough beauty and too few precious moments in the world. His cries didn’t carry at first. Gladys, bringing out the roast goose, searched for Sophie and stiffened with dread: “Where’s Sophie?!” Guests, already tipsy, reacted only when she dropped the dish and howled so even passers-by paused on the road. Meanwhile, Jack managed a last, hoarse, desperate cry: “Mum…” Kate, hurrying home from work, suddenly broke into a run, forgetting the bread, racing past gossiping neighbours—compelled, certain now was the time for running. She arrived just as Gladys collapsed on Kate’s own steps, clutching her heart. Kate, not pausing, darted out back and heard Jack’s faint call. “I’m here, darling!” She knew at once where—the old well. No time to think: sprinting indoors for the washing line, she shot back out. “Hold this!” she cried to the startled menfolk. Gladys’s stone-cold son-in-law sobered up at once—he tied Kate on, and lowered her down. She found Sophie immediately—scooping her up, clinging to her, praying she’d survived. Then Kate fished about for her son, pleading to God as she had the night he was born. She almost gave up hope before she finally grabbed something slick and thin—dragging Jack up, terrified of what she’d find. “Pull!” she yelled. And as she rose above the black water, relief flooded her: a faint, broken whisper just for her. “Mum…” After two weeks in hospital, Jack returned home as a hero. Sophie’s recovery was quicker; a few scratches, a ruined dress, little more. Jack wasn’t as lucky—a broken wrist, sore lungs, but he had his mum and visits from Sophie and her parents. Soon, he’d be back among his books and his old cat. “Oh, my dear boy—God bless you! If not for you…” Gladys wept, hugging him, “I—anything you want—” “Why?” Jack only shrugged. “Did what needed doing. Isn’t that what men do?” Gladys, speechless, would only hug him tighter—not knowing that this awkward, skinny “Grasshopper,” years later, would one day drive an ambulance through gunfire, carry the wounded, and bring comfort to all, friend or stranger. And if ever asked why, after the life he’d had, he’d simply say: “I’m a doctor. It’s what’s needed. Life must go on. It’s the right thing to do.”

Get out! I said, out! What are you hanging about for? thundered Mrs Claudia Matthews, setting a heaping plate of hot sausage rolls down on the picnic table under the old apple tree and giving the neighbours scrawny lad a firm push. Go on, clear off! Doesnt your mother watch you at all? Layabout!

The boynothing but skin and boneglanced dolefully at the redoubtable Mrs Matthews and shuffled off towards his front step.

Only half of the big old house was ever properly inhabited. It was divided into flats, and as it was, only two and a half families occupied it: the Parkers, the Simmons, and the CarpentersCathy and her son, Jack.

The Carpenters, being the half, were no ones priority and were easily overlooked unless someone needed something right away. Cathy just didnt count for much, and so, to everyones relief, neither did her time.

Cathy Carpenter was on her own except for Jack. No husband, no parentsjust her and the boy. She did her best to muddle through, though the neighbours side-eyed her and generally ignored her, except when they needed someone to chase Jack off the lawn. Jack, to his never-ending embarrassment, had been called, for as long as he could remember, Cricketthanks to his lanky arms and legs and the head that looked as if it had been stuck on as an afterthought.

Cricket looked a bit odd, to put it kindly. He was nervous, awkward, but fiercely kind. You couldnt keep him from comforting a sobbing toddler on the verge, though for that he was often rewarded with icy glares from mothers not keen on their darlings going anywhere near the Scarecrow.

Jack hadnt the faintest clue where the Scarecrow insult came from until his mum bought him a book about a little girl named Dorothy, and suddenly everything made sense. But Jack refused to be upsetif people called him Scarecrow, surely theyd read the book and must know how clever and noble the Scarecrow really was, how he ended up ruling an emerald city!

Cathy, privy to her sons discovery and reasoning, decided not to contradict him. Why not let her boy think the best of people? Thered be plenty of time for him to face lifes bitterness; let him at least enjoy his childhood.

Cathy adored her son. Shed long ago forgiven Jacks father for his failures and infidelity, embraced her fate right there in the hospital, and, when the midwife commented that the newborn was a bit odd looking, she bristled, Rubbish! My boys the most beautiful child in the world!
Well, if you say so! But clever Well, maybe not
Well see about that! Cathy would coo at Jack, stroking his tiny face and sobbing in secret.

For two years she carted little Jack round to London doctors until someone took his case seriously. Shed cling to her son, wrapped up to his eyebrows, shaking on the old bus ride into town, tuning out pitying glances. Anyone who tried to offer advice got both barrels:
Send your own to a childrens home, then! No? Well, dont tell me what to do!

After all her efforts, Jack caught up and grew sturdywell, as sturdy as a cricket can. He was never exactly handsome: a squashed-looking head, spindly arms and legs, and a skinniness Cathy battled with every affordable trick she knew. She cut corners on herself, but Jack got the best of everything. That did wonders for his health, even if he still looked rather like the worlds first stick insect.
Doctors stopped worrying about Jack. They just marvelled at tiny Cathy, hugging her awkward son, and whispered, You dont see mums like that every day! Its a miraclehe was nearly diagnosed disabled, and just look at him now!
Thats right! My Jacks a marvel!
We meant you, Cathy! Youre a marvel!
Cathy would shrug, utterly mystified. Wasnt a mother supposed to love her son? Wasnt it all perfectly normal? She was just doing her duty.

By the time Jack trotted off to school, he could read, write, and countall except for a stammer that sometimes undid all his efforts.
Enough, Jack, thanks, his teacher would cut him off, passing the reading to another eager hand while sighing in the staffroom about how promising that Jack was, but heaven help us, his stammer made listening quite the ordeal.

Luckily for Jack, the teacher lasted only two years before she married and moved away, and the class was given to Mrs Mary Evans, seasoned, sharp-eyed, and as devoted as ever. She realised what sort of boy Cricket was and quietly told Cathy to take him to a speech therapist, while Jack was invited to hand in his work in writing.
Your writing is so clear and lovely, Jack! I look forward to it every time!
Jack glowed with pride, and Mrs Evans would read his answers out to the class, never missing a chance to praise her talented student.

Cathy was so grateful she could have kissed the woman, but Mrs Evans wouldnt have it:
Dont be daft! Its my job, isnt it? Youve got a marvellous boy. Hell be just fineyoull see!

Jack hopped his way to class each morning, a performance that delighted the neighbours.
Look, our very own Cricket! Better get a move on, then! Theyd mutter, Honestly, nature’s been very rough on that one. Why on earth did she keep him?

Cathy, well aware of the neighbours opinions, never argued. If God hadnt bothered to give someone a decent heart, there was no persuading them to act with basic decency. Better to spend that energy doing something usefullike tidying her flat or planting another rose by the front door.

The yard was big, with flowerbeds under every window and a tiny orchard behind the bins. No one had ever quite carved it up; there was an unspoken agreement that the patch by each door belonged to that flat. Cathys was the prettiest by miles: roses, a magnificent lilac, and steps mosaicked with bits of broken tile scrounged from the local arts centre during renovations.

Shed marched into the managers office, demanding,
Can I have all that tile, please?
He raised an eyebrow. You want the broken stuff?
Yes, I do!
He laughed, but he let her have it. By sunset, Cathy was loading the fragments into a borrowed wheelbarrow, with Cricket riding along like a lord.
What does she want all that rubbish for? wondered the neighbours.

A few weeks later, they gawked at her fabulous mosaic steps. Shed never seen a real Greek fresco, but her eye was unerring, and no one could deny her porch was a masterpiece.
My, would you look at that! Its a showstopper
But Cathy cared not one jot about neighbours opinions. The only praise that mattered was her sons:
Mum, its beautiful!
Jack sat on the step, tracing the patterns, radiant with joy. Cathy cried, as ever. Her boyfor oncewas happy.

Jack rarely had much to be happy about. Praise at school, a special treat from his mum, a quiet cuddle and the whispered Youre my clever boy. That was it, really. He had few friendshe never kept up with the rough-and-tumble, preferring books to football. Certainly, the girls gave him a wide berth, and Mrs Matthews was especially vigilantshe had three granddaughters, aged five, seven, and twelve.

Dont you dare go near them! shed warn Cricket, waving her rolling pin. Youre not the type for them!
Heaven knows what went on inside Mrs Matthews perm, but Cathy told Jack not to get under her heels or anywhere near her precious granddaughters.
No use upsetting hershell have a stroke.
Cricket agreed, keeping well clear.

He hadnt even approached the gathering that day: Mrs Matthews was cooking up for a birthday do, and he was simply passing by.
Oh, Lord have mercy! sighed Mrs Matthews, covering the plate with a tea towel. Theyll say Im stingy! Wait here, boy!
She shoved a couple of sausage rolls into his hand.
Heretake these, and stay out of sight! Were having a partysit quietly til your mum gets in, understood?
Jack nodded, thanked her, and buggered off. Mrs Matthews had bigger fish to fryguests would soon arrive, and thered be fuss aplenty. It was the youngest, Svetlanasexcuse me, Lucysbirthday, and grandma Matthews intended to celebrate in proper English style.

She didnt want Jack anywhere near. Nothing to scare the kiddies with that big-eyed scarecrow! Theyll never sleep again! She recalled how shed once tried to talk Cathy out of having him.
You dont want the bother, Cathy girl! Youll never copehell wind up a sot under a hedge somewhere.
Ever seen me with a drink in my hand? Cathy shot back.
That doesnt mean a thing! Thats how your lot ends upempty-handed, and your kid the same! You werent taught to be a mum, so best let him go before youre both suffering.
Bit much, dont you think? Youre a mother yourself!
Well, I raised my own, never took a penny. Whats your lad got to look forward to? Nothing! Think on that.
After that, Cathy didnt so much as nod when they passed. Shed stride by with dignity, belly leading the way, never glancing at her neighbour.
Whats she sulking for? I only want the best for her! muttered Mrs Matthews.
Bests got a funny smellits just my morning sickness! Cathy would retort, rubbing her bump.
Dont worry, little one. Nobodys going to hurt you, not ever.

Jack never told his mother how much or how often life stung him. He pitied her too much. If someone was truly cruel, Jack went somewhere quiet and had a private crythen let it wash off, like water off a duck. No bitterness, no grudge, just clean tears that left his soul unburdened. Half an hour later, hed already forgotten whod said what, more sorry for the adults ignorance than upset. Life, he realised, was easier without holding grudges.

As for Mrs Matthews, Jack had long stopped fearing her. He didnt like her either, but each time she wagged a finger and hissed an insult, hed scoot off to avoid her sharp tongue and those cold, fishy eyes. If shed only ever asked him what he thought, shed have been surprisedJack pitied the old bag. He couldnt understand why anyone would waste precious minutes on nastiness.

Minutes, Jack had decided, are the worlds greatest treasure. You can earn money, mend fences, but youll never catch a lost minuteits gone for good.

Tick-tock! said the clock.
Thats your lot.
The grown-ups never seemed to learn this.

Today, Jack perched at his window, eating a sausage roll while watching Lucy and the other children race about the back green, celebrating Lucys birthday with the sort of shrieking chaos only kids can muster. Lucy herself, in a swirly pink party frock, was a little visionJack watched her, spellbound, imagining her a fairy-tale princess or a butterfly.

While the grown-ups settled at Mrs Matthews big garden table, the children soon took their game over towards the old well behind the house. For Mrs Matthews peace of mind, the less said about that relic, the better.
Jack, ever a cautious soul, remembered his mothers warnings:
Stay away from that old well, Jackthe wood is rotten, and though nobody uses it, theres water at the bottom and its a deathtrap. Fall in and nobody will hear you!
Dont worry, Mum, I wont.

Sometime between a game of tag and a wild chase, Jack lost sight of Lucythe pink party dress vanished. Jack peered anxiouslyshe wasnt with the crowd, nor at the adults table.

Jacks heart went cold. He raced down the steps, sprinting to the back garden. Mrs Matthews shouted after him, I said indoors! but he didnt stop.

The other children didnt notice Lucys absence. But Jack, reaching the well, glimpsed something pale and pink far down in the shadows.
Press yourself to the wall! he shouted, lying flat on the crumbling edge, dangling his legs into the darkness before dropping in, ribs dragged along the rotten beams.

Hed seen enough swimming lessons at the local lido to know Lucy couldnt swim for toffee. Mrs Matthews many attempts having ended, as always, in muddy tears.
So Lucy, shrieking and spluttering, seized Jacks skinny shoulders as he gasped, wrapping his arm around her neck (just as Mum had taught):
Thats all right, hang on! Im with you! Grip tightIll shout for help!
He scrabbled desperately at the slippy beams, Lucy dragging him under; but managed to gulp enough air to yell, Help!

No one at the party realised what had happened. Jack, clutching Lucy, shouted again, voice fading. All he knew was: Lucy had to livethere werent that many beautiful things in the world, or precious minutes either.

Finally, Jacks call carried. Mrs Matthews, hovering by the roast goose, counted facesWheres Lucy!? Panic broke: guests leapt up; Cathy, just arriving home, dropped her groceries and raced headlong into the garden, new sandals forgotten, certainsomehowthat this very minute, nothing else mattered.

The chaos was finally worth it. One of the more sober guests (Mrs Matthews son-in-law) got the gist, and, with Cathy dashing for her washing line rope, they knotted it round her waist.

Cathy was lowered into the well, heart pounding. She found Lucy at once, the little girl clutching her neck like a limpet.
But Jack? There was only darkness, and she plunged her hand desperately through cold water, finally gripping something thin and bony. She hauled, prayingand Jacks wet, wheezy voice croaked, Mum

They pulled them both up.

Jack spent nearly two weeks in hospital. Lucy bounced back soonera few scratches and a ruined dress, but otherwise fine. Jack wasnt quite so lucky, with a broken wrist and battered lungs. But Mum was there, and Lucy visited him every day with her grateful parents.

Oh, darling boy! If it werent for you sobbed Mrs Matthews, hugging the sunburnt, awkward Jack. Anythingyou can have anything at all!
Jack shrugged, Nothing needed, maam. I just did what I had to. Im a man, arent I?
Mrs Matthews, lost for words, squeezed him tighternever dreaming that Cricket, years later, would earn medals as an Army medic, pulling wounded comrades from beneath gunfire. Hed help anyone he could, no matter whose side they were on, remembering the terrified voices who once cried for Mum.

And, for those whod ask why:
Im a doctor. Thats what you do. Its rightyou help people. Thats how you live.

***

Dear readers!
Is there anything greater than a mothers love?

Cathy never lost faith in her son. Her devotion and belief helped him blossomagainst all oddsinto a kind, capable young man. This story, if nothing else, shows us the power of a parents love.
A true hero lives in the soul. Jackawkward, twitchy, not much to look atturned out braver than the lot, diving straight in to save Lucy. Deeds, not faces, make a person. Genuine kindness, pluck, and simple goodness will always outweigh sharp suits and sharp words.

The neighbours prejudices, naturally, shrivelled in the face of Jacks heroics. He taught them something theyd do well to remember: real virtue forgives slights, lets go of bitterness, and just quietly does whats right. As Jack himself said, Im a doctor. This is whats needed. Lifes worth livingand thats whats proper.

After all, isnt it true that kindness, however battered by the world, finds its way and makes the world a bit better? And reallywhen have you seen beauty and courage in a place you least expected it? Might be worth a thought, next time you meet someone who doesnt quite fit the mould.