A fly buzzed thinly at the window. I cracked open my eyes. A golden slant of sunlight glided across my pillow and settled right on my nose. I smiled and gave a long, contented stretch. It was warm and snug beneath the covers, and, honestly, I couldnt be bothered to get up just yet.
Mum, I called out shyly, then a bit louder, Mum!
She entered the room, wiping her hands on her apron. Awake already? Whats all this shouting about? She came over to the bed, leaned in, and planted a gentle kiss on my button nose. Good morning, love! Time to rise and shine, my little rascal!
I threw my arms around her neck. She smelled of milk, fresh bread, and something else homely and delicious. Back when wed lived in the city, it was Dad who woke me for nursery each day. Wed do morning exercises together, brush our teeth, flick water at each other and laugh, while Mum hurried us along with pretend grumbles. But things changed.
One day, Dad didnt come to fetch me from nursery. I stayed late with the caretaker until Mum arrived, red-eyed and puffy from tears. She told me Dad wouldnt be coming backthat I was now the man of the house. I didnt understand all the details at first, but later I pieced together that Dad had died in a car accident. Some cruel men took our flat as payment for the wrecked car, and so we ended up moving to the countryside to live with Gran.
The village was big, stretching along the river and ending in a dense bit of woods. Thats where Gran, Annie, livedand now we lived with her. Grandpa had died when I was tiny, so now, as the only boy, I was in charge. Gran and Mum worked on a farm. I soon learned it was a massive place with pigs, cows, even horses. Mum once taken me with her to show me all the animals, laughing when I wrinkled my nose at the smell. The farm just wasnt for me.
I slipped into my cold slippers and dashed outside, still in my pyjamas, to the outside loo. The August Sunday morning gave me a chill, but I braved it. Cockerels crowed in the distance, dogs barked somewhere yonder. Gran came out of the shed, muttering, Some creatures dug under the chicken run again. Fox, I reckon.
Autumns on its way, I thought, just a little grown-up dread in my chest. Cant wait for school to start! That idea cheered me, though. Id learned to read that summer, and Mum had already bought me a brilliant new school bag.
We had porridge and crumpets for breakfast. Jack, Gran and I are off for a mushroom hunt today. You coming, or are you too little? Mum gave me a cheeky grin and winked at Gran.
Course Im coming! I protested, my mouth full of crumpet and cold milk.
We set off just before midday. The woods were cool, although it was still late August. Mushrooms were everywhere, but Mum explained which ones to pick, and which to avoid. We wandered for ages. Gran wandered ahead and soon was out of sight. Mum called for her, but there was no answer but the rustle of leaves.
By the time the sun started to droop, Mum admitted it was time to go. Our baskets and bags were stuffed. My little bucket full of mushrooms ached my arms more than a bit, but I didn’t complain. I was the man now. But wed gotten turned around. Mum got anxious, and we tried a few wrong waysboggy ground in one direction, thick brambles in another. We gave up and called for Gran again, but all we heard was the wind.
Five minutes passed while Mum plopped down on the grass, looking worried. Suddenly, behind us, twigs crackled. Out from the hedge popped an old crone. A real fairy-tale hag! Mum jumped to her feet. The old woman, bent nearly double, shrugged off her heavy bundle of sticks and hobbled our way.
Well, now, whats all this then? Lost, have you? she croaked, her nose wobbling with every word, a mischievous glint in her eye and a gap-toothed grin.
She barely waited for our answer. So whose are you, then? Annies people, eh? she muttered, and then, not bothering for a reply, hoisted her sticks back up and shuffled off, beckoning us with a bony hand, Well, dont just stand therefollow!
Me and Mum trotted after her through the long grass. Soon, we spotted a break in the trees and the village in the distance. Gran Annie appeared at the other edge of the field, barking for us. The crone laughed, tipped her hand in farewell, and headed off to the village, hunched beneath her sticks.
Thank you, Mum managed as the old woman waved her off and shuffled away.
Gran reached us, out of breath. Mum, whereve you been? We got lostthank goodness for that old woman.
Oh, Martha, you got lost in those woods? Golly, you played there as a girl!
Gran, was that a real witch? I whispered, a bit shaken.
Oh Jack, that was old Mrs. Pottle. Mind you, shes as cranky as a witch!
That evening, over shepherds pie, I piped up, Gran, why do they call her Mrs. Pottle?
No one quite knows, love. They called her that even when she was young. Used to be rotund, seeher mum and dad kept a tidy farm and always fed her well. Shed sit out front eating bread and dripping, wouldnt share with anyone. Didn’t make her many friends.
When I was about ten and she a good bit older, she had a fella, Graham the tractor driver. She wasnt bad looking, though her nose was on the long side. They married and had a son. One spring, when he was about eight, there was flooding by the river. Kids hopped from log to log, and, poor lad, he slipped under. They looked for three whole days before finding him downriver. Mrs. Pottle was never the same, lost her husband too, and shut herself away, living with just her goat and her herbs, only speaking when folks went for her help.
Grans voice faded, Mum cleared the plates. Lifes rarely kind, is it, Mum said quietly, andeven Ifelt sorry for Mrs. Pottle.
September found us with crisp, cool mornings. The leaves turned to copper and crimson, air clear as glass. I started school, and my first day stayed in my memorythe teacher, Miss Thompson, kind but strict, took my hand and led me to class, since I was littlest in line.
We didnt get marks at first, but Miss Thompson always praised my effort and said I ought to write more to practice my penmanship. I made friends with two lads from my laneDanny and Colin, both in the second year. Our shortcut home took us over the derelict lot behind the houses and through Mrs. Pottles garden. Sometimes Gran or Mum would fetch me, but often I walked the shortcut with my mates.
One day, though, I was lucky. Miss Thompson gave me two red stars for my writing and let me get a book from the libraryThe Magic Word. I was on top of the world as I left school. Danny and Colin had another lesson, so I went ahead on my own, picking my way through broken jars and old rubbish.
Suddenly I heard a strange sound and stopped. A pack of dogs stood ahead. Too lateI tried to run but theyd already formed a circle round me. The biggest one crept up, teeth bared. I screamed, the sound barely reached my own ears. The dog lunged. I tried to shield myself with my school bag, but it tore it away and ripped it across the ground. I fell, arms raised over my head, and pain exploded in my shoulderafter that, there was only blackness.
What I didnt seeMrs. Pottle, old and hunched, hurtled over her fence with a shovel. She vaulted nimbly, swinging at the dogs. Even as they snapped and lunged, she roared, bashing here and there, but they were mad with blood, crowding round. The biggest dog leapt onto her twisted back and sank its teeth in. She collapsed, covering me with her bony body and long skirt
The village was almost empty at that hour: children at school, adults at the farm. But the farm manager and his mate, returning down the lane, saw chaosdogs, blood, broken notebooks, Mrs. Pottle face-down with her hand chewed to bone, a huge dog tugging at her. The men raced in, scattering the dogs, one swiping the alpha with the shovel. As more villagers ran up, dogs yelped and bolted back to the woods.
Only then did someone notice Mrs. Pottles crumpled form shielding a child. Quick! Call the ambulance! called Mr. Harris.
When they managed to pull her off, they found mepale, bloodied, barely breathing.
Sunlight slid across my pillow and nose again when I next opened my eyes. The white hospital walls frightened me.
Where am I? My head felt heavy as the memories returned. My bandaged arm and shoulder throbbed. Mum was right there, tears shining. Jack, love, youre awake!
Mum, did the dogs bite off my arm? Will I ever write again?
No, darling, just a nasty tear. The doctors fixed you up. Youll be right again before you know it, she said, half laughing, half crying, All thanks to Mrs. Pottle. She saved you, my love. Sleep now
Everyone in the village came to Mrs. Pottles funeral. The dogs had mangled her arms and broken her leg. Her poor heart gave out during surgery. The next day, some of the village men finished off every last stray dog. They buried nearly forty scrawny carcasses beyond the hedges. In some of the dens they found puppies, which were taken in and raised by folks in the village.
I missed only the autumn term at school. My hand wouldnt write well for a while, but I worked at it each day, and Miss Thompson cheered me on. The other children called me the hero. Mum and I visited Mrs. Pottles grave, leaving a great bunch of wildflowers.
The nameplate on her cross read, Mary Pottle, aged ninety years. Mum wept as she read it. Oh, how life twists and turns. Thank you, Mrs. Pottlefor rescuing us, for saving my boy. May you rest in peace.
That Christmas, during the school play, when the old witch danced round the tree, I burst into tears and left the hall, my arm suddenly aching. I remembered Mrs. Pottle, and realisedsometimes, the bravest hearts are hidden in most unlikely places, and a little kindness might just save a life.
