A fly buzzed delicately at the window, almost like a violins thin note. I blinked awake, one eye, then both. A golden strip of sun slid across my pillow and over my nose, warming me. I grinned and stretchedlimbs heavy and relaxed, like treacle under the covers. I really ought to get up, but what bliss to linger!
Mum I called, tentative at first. Then louder, Muuum!
Mum swept in, wiping her hands on her apron. Awake, love? Whats all the racket? She came to my bed, leaned over, and kissed the tip of my freckled nose.
Morning, my little rascal! Up you get, scamp.
I wrapped my arms around her neck. She smelled of warm milk, bread, and something else deeply comforting. Back when we lived in bustling Manchester, it was Dad who rousted me from sleep and took me to nursery. Wed do silly stretches, brush teeth, splash water, and laugh like fools, while Mum, bustling about, scolded and hurried us along. But everything changed after that.
One day, Dad simply didnt come to collect me from nursery. I waited there with the caretaker until deep into the night. Mum arrived late, her face swollen with tears, and choked out that Dad was gone, and I was now the man of the house. I didnt really understand, but later, from overheard whispers, I pieced together that Dad had died in a crash in a borrowed car. Some dreadful men took our flat over that car. Soon after, we moved to Grans in the countryside.
Grans village was long and stretched along the river, with a wild wood at the end. Gran lived close to that forests edge, and now so did Mum and I. Grandad died when I was tiny, so I really was the man of the family now.
Gran and Mum both worked at the nearby farm. Id always thought a farm was just a field with cows, but it was a big placepigs, cows, and even horses. Mum once took me around to meet all the animals on her shift. The smell! Id wrinkle my nose, but Mum and Gran would just laugh
Those mornings, Id scurry into my cold slippers and dash out, still in pyjamas, for a wee in the chilly air. It was an August Sunday, sunlight fresh and brisk on my seven-year-old skin. Roosters crowed from all directions, and in the distance, dogs barked and howled. Gran emerged crossly from the shed, muttering, Someones been digging near the hens againcould be a fox.
Autumns coming, I thought, in that way you do when childhood and solemnity briefly meet. I wish school would hurry up and start. My heart skipped happily. Mum and I had already got everything ready. My new backpack was brilliant! Id cracked reading over the summer, though writing was still a bit wobbly.
We had porridge and crumpets for breakfast.
Mikey, Gran and I are thinking of going mushrooming today. Coming with us, or are you still too little? Mum grinned, winking at Gran.
With you, of course! I huffed through a mouthful of hot crumpet and cold milk.
We set out towards noon. The woods welcomed us with shade. It was late August, but still green. I spotted mushrooms everywhere, but Mum warned me they werent all safe, and showed me the edible ones from the poisonous. We wandered for ages. Gran wandered ahead and didnt answer our calls.
As the sun sank low, Mum said we ought to head back. Our basket and bags were full, and the pail of mushrooms tugged on my arms, but I didnt complainI was the man, after all! But which way? Mum suddenly looked worried. We must have lost our way.
Stay close, Mikey! She didnt know where to go. We headed one wayfound sticky mud; anotherdense brambles. We turned about again. The forest seemed to swallow us in its green maze. We called for Gran, but the rustling leaves muffled our shouts. Mum slumped to the grass, unsure what to do. Minutes ticked by.
Suddenly, twigs cracked behind us. A bent old woman, laden with sticks and nettles, emerged from the bushes. For a moment, I was sure she was a witch from a fairytale, right there in the English woods. Mum leapt up in alarm.
The crone, bent nearly double, tossed her bundle aside and shuffled closer.
Well, whats this? Lost, have we? Dont fret, I havent eaten little boys in years! She grinned at Mum with mischievous, toothless cackles, her huge, hooked nose twitching.
Lost your way, eh? she went on, not waiting for an answer. Youre Marys girl, arent you? And before Mum could answer, shed hoisted her bundle once more and set off. She glanced back, her bushy brows shadowing sharp eyes. Well, dont just stand there dawdlingthis way!
Mum and I followed, clutching our mushrooms, feeling rather sheepish. The crone led us purposefully, parting tall grasses, and soon a gap appeareda wide clearing. Our village glimmered in the distance. Gran emerged at the far side, red-faced and panting.
The crone let out a wicked chuckle, waved us off, and shuffled homeward, forever stooped beneath her sticks.
Thank you, Mum called after her, a bit uncertain, but the old woman only wagged her hand, as if shooing us away, and hobbled off.
Gran soon reached us.
Mum, whereve you been? Mum scolded desperately. We got lostthank heavens for that old woman.
Oh, Caroline, how on earth can you get lost in these woods? You came here every day as a girl!
Gran, was that a real witch? I whispered, awestruck.
Oh Mikey, thats just old Mrs. Puddlewick! Mind you, shes a right old character, nasty as a witch some say.
That evening, over shepherds pie, I piped up, Gran, why do they call her Puddlewick?
I couldnt say for sure, she replied, Shes always been called that, even when young. Rumour goes, she was a chubby little lass. Her folks kept flocks and fieldswell-off, always eating on the doorstep while the other kids, all muddy knees and hungry eyes, gathered round. She never shared, not a crust or bite. Had no friends for it, and the boys teased her about her bellysaid her tummy would split open if she werent careful! I remember her grown, past thirty when I was a slip of ten. She met a chapGeoff the tractor manbit younger than her. Big-hearted woman, not pretty, but solid. She had a son.
That lad was eight the year the river ran high in spring. The men were floating timber for building down from the woods, and the boys would hop about the logs where they jammed. Wet logs are slippery. Older boys could clamber back up but Mrs. Puddlewicks son was smallfell in, the log knocked him under, swept away by the current. Took three days to find him downstream. It drove her mad, and Geoff took to drink.
Winter came, wind howling, and one night Geoffcoming home after a pint too manysat down for a rest at a crossroads and never got back up. Found him, frozen, by the wood, miles from home. Mrs. Puddlewick got out of hospital, but she was never really the same. Fifty-odd years shes lived alone, talking to no one, saves a goat and her herbs. Shell help anyone in need, all the same.
Gran trailed off. Mum cleared away the plates.
Life rarely gives a fair deal, Mum said quietly. I felt a strange, sudden sadness for Mrs. Puddlewick.
September came, bright and clear. Mornings were crisp, sometimes with frosts, but afternoons blazed almost like summer. The woods wore copper and scarlet. The potato harvest was over. Id started at the village school, now in my second week. The first day will be with me foreverthe autumn bell, my kind, strict teacher Mrs. Hughes leading me into class by the hand because I was the smallest in line.
We first-years didnt get marks, but Mrs. Hughes always praised my effort and said I must keep writing, practice my letters. I made friends with Tom and Billy from my streetthey were in Year Two. Sometimes, wed walk home together across the waste ground and through Mrs. Puddlewicks back garden. Now and then, Mum or Gran would come to fetch me.
That day, though, I was lucky. Mrs. Hughes gave me a new stickertwo shiny stars in my exercise bookand signed me up at the library. I was given a book, The Magic Word. Spirits high, I left school alone, as Tom and Billy had another lesson.
The shortcut was rough, full of bin bags, old tins, broken bits of this and that. You had to tread carefully. Suddenly, I heard snarling. Looking up, I froze. A pack of stray dogs circled ahead. Panic gripped me. I tried to back away, but it was too latetheyd already surrounded me. The biggest came close, baring yellow teeth. A scream burst out of me as it lunged. I raised my book bag to shield myself, but the dog ripped it away and shook the contents across the gravel.
I tumbled, hands up to shield my head, as sharp teeth tore into my shoulder. Darkness swept over me.
I never saw Mrs. Puddlewick running, bent-backed and wild, armed with her battered old shovel, vaulting her fence with surprising speed. She swung fiercely, bellowing in that grating voice, shoving away the dogs. There were so many, crazed by blood. The hounds closed in. The old woman fought, roaring, swinging her shovel. One leapt onto her stooped back, jaws clamping on her neck. She collapsed, shielding me beneath her tangled skirts
It was always quiet at midday: youth at school, grown-ups on the farm or out in the fields. The farm manager and his mate happened to be returning from town, discussing new feed and medicines for the cows, when the commotion caught their eye.
Dave, swing the van round by Puddlewicks. Whats going on there?
Dave turned the van sharply, pulling up by the chaos. The sight stopped them cold. The ground was slick with blood; battered exercise books and library pages fluttered in the grass. Mrs. Puddlewick lay, face down, a bloodied arm gnawed to the bone, a dog atop her, worrying her neck. The men charged in, swinging sticks and shouting, to drive off the dogs. The animals snapped at their legs, lunging higher. Dave snatched up the old womans shovel, battering the horde. Gunshots cracked from the village end as neighbours ran up, pitchforks and shotguns flashing. The pack leader howled and turned for the forest; the others bolted after.
Mrs. Puddlewick groaned. It was only then the men saw there was someone under herme.
Call an ambulance, Dave! The old birds alive, I think.
They lifted her gently to one side, revealing my pale, blood-soaked form. I didnt stir
Sunbeams played over my pillow, and my nose. I blinked awake. The hospital walls white and stark. Where was I? Slowly, the world came back to me. I moved my arm.
Mum, whod dozed in the chair, started, overjoyed.
Mikey, love, youre awake! She burst into tears.
My bandaged arm and shoulder ached terribly. I remembered everything.
Mum, did the dogs bite my hand off? Will I never be able to write again?
No, darling, no. Just a terrible wound. They did surgery. Youll get better before youre grown, promise! Mum smiled through tears. Thank Mrs. Puddlewick for keeping you safe. She covered you with her own body. Rest now, sweetheart
The whole village turned out for Mrs. Puddlewicks funeral. The dogs had destroyed her arms, and a leg too. Her old heart gave out in hospital, with the surgeons unable to save her.
The next day, without telling the council, the village men shot every stray dog they could find. Forty carcasses buried in a pit by the woods. They found litters of pups in earth dens. Those, the villagers took in.
I missed only one term at school. My handwriting was still shaky, but I practiced every day. Mrs. Hughes was proud, and the other lads said I was a proper hero.
Mum and I took flowers to Mrs. Puddlewicks grave. The plaque read, Rosemary Puddlewick. She was exactly ninety years old the day she died. Mum wept.
Imagine how things turn out! Thank you, Puddlewick, for the woods and especially for saving my son. Rest now, brave soul.
At the Christmas panto, when the witch appeared, I had to leave the hall. My arm ached all over, and crying, I thought of Mrs. Puddlewick.
That year, I learned what it means to be brave, and how kindness sometimes hides in the most unlikely of people. I hope I never forget it.
