A fly buzzed, high and sharp, on the windowpane. I blinked open my eyes. A sunbeam slid cheerfully across my pillow and landed right on my nose. I smiled to myself and gave a big, sleepy stretch. It was warm and snug under the duvet, and I knew I should get up, but I really didnt want to.
Mum, I called, a bit uncertainly. Louder, Muuum!
She came into my room, wiping her hands on her apron. Awake now? What are you shouting for? She bent over the bed and kissed my freckled nose. Morning, love! Up you get, you little rascal!
I threw my arms around her neck, breathing in the smell of milk, bread, and something else comforting and familiar. Back when we lived in London, it was Dad who woke me up in the mornings, got me out the door to nursery, and together wed brush our teeth, splash about, and laugh while Mum huffed and chivvied us along. But things were different now.
One day, Dad didnt collect me from nursery. I sat with the caretaker until long after it got dark. When Mum did come for me, her face was red and swollen from crying, and she told me Dad wasnt coming back, and from now on, I was the man of the house. I didnt really understand what had happened, but I later gathered from all the whispers that Dad had died in a car crash, and because of that, some nasty men took our flat away. Soon after, we moved to the village, to stay with Grandma.
The village was big, stretching along the river and ending by the woods. Grandma Annies cottage sat right at the edge of the forest, and now Mum and I lived there too. Grandpa died when I was just a baby, so, as far as I was concerned, being man of the house was down to me.
Grandma and Mum worked on the local farm. Id learnt it was a huge place with pigs, cows, and even horsesand once, Mum took me with her and showed me all the animals. I cant say I liked the farm: the smell almost knocked me down! Id pinch my nose shut, while Mum and Grandma just laughed at me.
I slid my feet into chilly slippers and, still in my pyjamas, hurried outside for a pee. The August Sunday morning was brisk, making me shiver. Roosters crowed here and there. Dogs barked and squabbled somewhere further off. Grandma emerged from the shed, grumbling, Someones been at the chicken coop again! Fox on the loose again, I reckon.
Autumns coming soon, I thought, a bit grown-up, a bit sad. I hope school starts soon! My heart fluttered with excitement. Mum and I had sorted everything for school already. My new rucksack was brilliant, and Id learnt to read over the summerwriting wasnt much good yet though…
We had porridge and crumpets for breakfast.
Charlie, Grandma and I are off mushroom-picking today. Are you coming, or are you still too little? Mum smiled slyly and winked at Grandma.
Course Im coming! I mumbled with a mouthful of hot crumpet, cold milk in my glass.
We set off just before noon. The woods felt cool beneath the leaveseven though it was late August, everything was still properly green. Mushrooms were everywhere, but Mum said you couldnt just pick any you fancied. She showed me which ones were edible and which were poisonous toadstools.
We wandered about for ages. Grandma roamed far ahead and didnt answer when Mum called, Oi! The sun started sinking, leaning towards evening, and Mum suddenly said wed best head backour basket and bag were stuffed to the brim. The fungi in my little pail made my arms tired, but I didnt complain. I was the man of the house, after all! But then Mum started looking worried; it seemed like she wasnt sure which path would lead us home.
Stay close, Charlie! she said. We tried one paththere was a bog; anotherimpenetrable thicket. We circled back, and the woods seemed to spin us around. We started calling for Grandma, but the noise of the trembling aspen leaves was so loud that we couldnt hear a thing. There was no answer. Mum sat down on the grass, looking lost. Five minutes ticked by. Suddenly, twigs behind us snapped, brambles shifted, and out popped an old cronea proper English witch, like out of a story!
Mum jumped to her feet. I froze.
The old woman, hunched almost to the earth, tossed a bundle of kindling off her back and came over.
What, scared are you? Dont worry, I havent snacked on small boys in ages! she cackled, her mouth nearly toothless, her wart-speckled nose twitching. Lost, have you? she carried on as though we werent gaping at her. Youre Annies lot, arent you? Not waiting for an answer, she hoisted up her bundle again and shuffled ahead, holding aside the tall grass. She glanced back at us, eyebrows bristling: Well, what are you waiting for, mouths agape? Follow me!
Mum and I did as we were told, gathering up our fungi and tagging along behind her, still a bit dazed. She strode surely through the woodsfor her age, she was quick! Soon a clearing opened up, and at the far end stood our village. Across the field, Grandma Annie appeared at the edge of the wood. The old woman laughed her creaky laugh, waved us off, and bent under her bundle as she hobbled away toward the cottages.
Thank you Mum managed, but the old woman just waved her off again and plodded on.
Grandma hurried over. Mum, whereve you been! Mum scolded her. We got lostlucky that old woman found us and led us out.
Oh, Natasha, honestly! How can you get lost in these woods? You used to play out here every summer!
Gran, was that a real witch? I asked, amazed and properly spooked.
Dont be daft, Charlie! Thats old Mabel Hopper! Mind you, shes a grumpy onewouldnt put it past her to be a bit of a witch, to be fair.
That evening over dinner, I suddenly asked, Gran, why do they call her Mabel Hopper? Is it her real name?
No one really knows, Grandma said. Even when she was young they called her that. She was a big girl, always out front with her bit of bread and cheese. Her parents were well-offhad plenty. The village kidsd watch her sitting eating her sarnies on the bench, dripping with butter and jam, never sharing a bite. Hadnt many friends as a result. She was always round as a barrelthe boys used to tease her when she was little.
Careful, her bellyll burst, her bellybuttonll pop! theyd shout after her.
I remember her as a grown woman. I was about ten, she well over thirty. She started courting a blokea tractor driver, John, younger than her. Mabel was a strong woman; not slim, but she wasnt ugly, either. Only thing I remember for sure was that she had a long nose. They got married, had a son.
That lad was eight or so one spring, the river running high. The men were moving timber for a building project up the river, and the boys would leap from log to log where they got jammed up. Slippery stuffolder lads could climb out, but Mabels lad was small, thin. Slipped in, got swept under the logs. They searched for him three days. Found him miles downstream. Mabel lost her mind for a while and John started hitting drink hard.
They found him frozen halfway back from the pub one winter, deaddrank too much, wandered the wrong way, and sat down for a rest in the snow. Mabel was let out of the hospital after a bit, but shes never been quite right since. Keeps to herself nowmust be nearly fifty years shes lived alone, just her and her goat. Gathers herbs and cures folks when they ask.
Grandma went quiet, and Mum started clearing plates away.
Lifes cruel to most of us, Mum murmured, lost in thought. I felt a pang of pity for Mabel Hopper too.
September dawned bright and crisp, with a bite in the air by morning but real warmth when the sun was up, like summer had come back for another go. The woods were pulling on their russet-and-gold coats. Wed lifted the potatoes already, and Id spent two weeks at school. Id never forget that first day: the butterflies in my belly, the line of children, and the kind-but-strict Miss Fisher who led me by the hand into our new classroom, because I was the tiniest in my form.
We didnt get real marks yet, but Miss Fisher was always full of encouragement, said I was working hard, but needed to keep practising my letters. I made friends with two lads from the laneBen and Jacka year older, both in Year Two. Sometimes wed walk home from school together if our lessons finished at the same time, and they showed me a shortcut across the old allotment and past Mabel Hoppers cottage garden. Other days, Grandma or Mum would walk to meet me.
One afternoon, I was lucky enough to get two gold stars in my exercise book and a library card to boot. They let me borrow a book called The Magic Word. I was in a cracking mood as I left school. Ben and Jack had another class, so I set off home alone, picking my way across the overgrown common, through the brambles and the rubbishold tins, sodden clothes, all sorts chucked every which way.
Then I heard a low growling. I looked upand my heart nearly stopped. Blocking the path was a whole gang of stray dogs. I tried to back away, thinking I could run for it, but they already had me circled. The biggest one crept up, bared its teeth, and I screamed, the sound catching in my throat. The leader lunged at me. I tried to shield myself with my satchel, but the dog snatched it from me and tore it apart. I fell, curling up as much as I could, but I felt teeth clamp hard into my shoulder and then I blacked out.
What I didnt see was Mabel Hopper, rushing across her garden as fast as her crooked limbs would take her, clutching a spade. She vaulted the fence and set about the pack, swinging left and right. The dogs hesitated, startled, but there were too many of them and they were smelling blood. They swarmed her and me. Mabel was screaming, swinging the spade, fighting every which way. The big dog leapt onto her back, snapping at her neck. Losing consciousness from the pain, she collapsed, falling right on top of me, the folds of her long skirt hiding me from the dogs.
Most folk were out working during the dayonly the young kids and old folk were about. Not far off, the local farms vet was coming back to the village in his car along the lane, assistant in tow, back from sorting out some cattle deliveries. As they passed the allotments they spotted a commotionsomething thrashing in the grass. Growlingand then the sight of the dogs.
Will, swing round by Mabel Hoppers! the vet called out. They pulled up sharply, leapt from the car, and waded into the chaos with sticks and boots. Dogs snapped at their legs, lunged at their chests. Will grabbed the bloody spade and swung madly at the mongrels. The dogs howled and barked, leader streaming blood from his head. By now, people were running from the village, shouting and waving pitchforks and shotguns, firing off warning shots. The leader dog yelped, then bolted toward the woods, the whole pack streaming after him.
Mabel groaned and the men realised, at last, that there was someone underneath her. Call for an ambulance, WillMabels alive, I think! When they rolled her over and laid her beside the path, they found me, pale and covered in blood, still unconscious.
A shaft of autumn sunlight slipped across my pillow and tickled my nose. I stirred, blinking. Stark, white hospital walls loomed around me.
Where am I? I whispered, confused.
Mum, sitting beside the bed, jumped up with relief. Charlie, love, youre awake! and she burst into tears.
My arm and shoulder ached terribly, thickly bandaged. I remembered it all in a rush.
Mum, did the dogs bite my hand off? Will I ever be able to write again?
No, sweetheart. They didnt bite it offjust tore it up a bit. They fixed you up in surgery. Youll be right as rain before long, she tried to joke, especially thanks to Mabel Hopper. She shielded you with her own body. Get some rest, my love
Afterwards, the whole village gathered for Mabel Hoppers funeral. The dogs had crushed both her arms and a leg. Her heart gave out on the table in hospital.
The very next day, while the police looked the other way, the men of the village shot every last stray in that cruel packforty in alland buried them out beyond the allotments. They found litters of pups near the woods and gave them homes with village families.
I only missed a single term at school. My hand was weak at writing but I worked at it every day, and Miss Fisher kept encouraging me. At school, the other boys said I was a hero.
Mum and I visited Mabels grave, leaving a giant bouquet of flowers. There was a plaque on her cross that said she was really Mary Hopper, and that shed lived to be exactly ninety. Mum cried as she read it.
You never know how life will turn out. Thank you, Mabel, for everythingfor saving us in the woods and most of all for saving my boy. May you rest peacefully, she whispered.
When the Christmas play at school rolled round and a witch leapt out by the stage, my hand started hurting and I left the room. I remembered Mabel Hopper and the strange sort of kindness shed shown.
Looking back, I see now how quickly things can change, how real heroes are often the quiet, lonely ones, and how compassion can come from the most unexpected people. Life teaches ussometimes through sadness, sometimes through couragethat every person has their story, and bravery is often just love in its truest form.
