“Get Out of Here! I Told You, Go! Why Are You Hanging About?” – Mrs. Martha Smith Banged Down a Plate of Hot Sausage Rolls Under the Apple Tree and Shoved the Neighbour’s Lad Aside. – “Go On, Off With You! When Is Your Mother Finally Going to Start Looking After You? Lazy Rascal!” Thin as a rake, Danny—who no one ever called by his first name, as everyone was long used to his nickname—cast a shy glance at his stern neighbour and shuffled back toward his own porch. The enormous Victorian house, divided into several flats, was only half-occupied. In truth, just two-and-a-half families lived there: the Cotterills, the Simmonses, and the Carters—just Kate and her son Danny. It was Kate and her son who were that “half,” whom the neighbours mostly ignored—unless some urgent need arose. Kate was never regarded as important, so there was no point wasting time on her. Apart from her son, Kate had no one. No husband, no family. She muddled on as best she could, quietly judged but rarely disturbed—except when Danny, whom they all called “Cricket” for his twig-like limbs and bobble head, had to be chased from the garden. Cricket, awkward and nervous, was the kindest soul. He could never pass a sobbing child without trying to help—which earned him strict scoldings from protective mothers who didn’t want “that Scarecrow” near their precious ones. For the longest time, Danny didn’t know whom they meant. Then one day, his mother gave him a book about a girl called Ellie and her friends. With a sudden smile, Danny realised why they’d called him “Scarecrow.” None of it hurt his feelings. Not a bit. Danny decided that those who called him “Scarecrow” must have read the story and surely understood the Scarecrow was clever, brave and helpful, and even ruled a beautiful city in the end. Holding on to this hope, Kate never crushed his optimism. Why shouldn’t her son believe the best of people? The world was already harsh enough—let him have his bit of childhood happiness. Kate adored her son with all her heart. Forgiving the father’s failings, she embraced her fate and snapped back at the midwife who commented on Danny’s unusual looks. “Rubbish! My son is the most beautiful child in the world.” “A clever lad he may not be—” “That remains to be seen!” Kate caressed her son’s face through tears that wouldn’t stop. Through endless trips to specialists, late buses, and worn shoes, Kate gave Danny the best she could afford—robbed herself so her son would never want for anything. Over time, Danny caught up with the other children—even if he’d never be handsome. Doctors marvelled at his transformation and his mother’s devotion. “What a boy! What a mum!” they’d say. But Kate didn’t understand the praise. Wasn’t it a mother’s job to love her child with everything she had? By the time Danny started his first day of primary school, he could already read and write, but his stammer sometimes overshadowed his efforts. His first teacher, Mrs. Simmons, cut him off impatiently, and in the staffroom complained that while Danny was bright, “no one could stand to listen to him.” She stayed just two years before leaving, replaced by kindly Mrs. Lane, who saw Danny’s promise and encouraged him to submit work in writing. “You write so wonderfully, Cricket!” she’d praise. “What a joy to read your answers.” Each word of encouragement made Danny glow. His mum, so grateful, wanted to fall at Mrs. Lane’s feet, but the teacher laughed her off. “Come now, it’s only my job! Your Danny is a wonderful boy—he’ll go far!” Danny’s skipping gate as he ran to school became a local cue: “Look, there goes Cricket! Time for us to toddle, too!” Neighbours gossiped about Kate and her “unfortunate lad,” never able to fathom why fate had left him. But Kate paid them no mind. If a person didn’t have true heart and soul, no force would make them kindly. She saved her energy for useful things—gardening, caring for her home, or adding another rose by the porch. The shared front garden was never formally divided up; each family tended the bit outside their door. Kate’s little patch was the prettiest: roses, with a great lilac bush, and a porch she’d mosaicked with broken tiles salvaged from the village hall. The neighbours scoffed—until the porch became the envy of the whole neighbourhood. Kate never cared what others thought. All that mattered were her son’s words: “Mum, it’s so beautiful.” Danny would gently trace the intricate tile pattern, heart full of wonder. That made her weep—from joy. Danny’s joys were few: The rare praise at school, or when Kate made his favourite stew and called him “cleverest of the clever.” Danny had few friends—he preferred books to kickabouts, and was kept at arm’s length from girls (especially by Mrs. Martha Smith, who had three granddaughters and did NOT want “Cricket the bug-eyed oddball” anywhere near them). “Don’t you dare go near my girls!” she’d call with a wagged finger. “Not for you, those sweeties!” Kate told Danny not to rile Mrs. Smith—there was no need to make her ill with nerves. Danny wisely gave her a wide berth. On the day of the youngest granddaughter’s birthday, Danny was just passing by when Mrs. Smith, overwhelmed but aware of how it would look if she hoarded all the party pastries, hurried after him: “Here! Take these sausage rolls—and don’t let me see you in the yard again! Stay inside ’til your mum gets home, do you hear?” Danny, grateful, slipped away. Mrs. Smith had a party to host; her darling Svetlana’s birthday was being celebrated in grand style, and the last thing she needed was the “big-headed, scrawny neighbour boy” in the way. Danny munched his pastry on the windowsill, watching the girls and their friends dash about the back garden, and especially the birthday girl in her fancy pink dress—like a fairy or storybook princess. The children drifted towards the old well at the end of the lawn—the very place Kate had always warned Danny never to go near. The rotten beams might give way! He promised he would never. But abruptly, Danny noticed something odd: Svetlana, the girl in the pink dress, was missing from the group—nowhere in sight. Panic-stricken, Danny dashed out and saw the children hadn’t noticed—nor had any adults at the party table. There was no time to call for help. Instinct took over: he scrambled to the well’s edge and, seeing a swirl of pale fabric deep below, yelled: “Hold on to the wall!” Danny clambered down among the slimy, crumbling beams, heart hammering. Svetlana couldn’t swim—he knew that for sure, often seeing her panic at the paddling pool while Mrs. Smith barked orders at a quivering Danny nearby. As she clung to Danny, who shouted for help, each second felt an hour. Every slip of his hand, every gasp meant the difference between life and—well, Danny couldn’t think about that. He only knew: This little girl had to live. There wasn’t enough beauty OR time in the world not to save it. His shouts were barely heard above the din, but by some grace, Mrs. Smith—searching for her granddaughter to show off to guests—suddenly realised Svetlana was missing. Shouting, panic, neighbours flocking; the birthday party became a rescue. Kate, home just then, recognised his voice, raced for the washing line rope and, with a strong neighbour’s help, climbed down. First Svetlana, then—by miracle—Danny himself were hauled out, exhausted but alive. Danny spent two weeks in hospital, arm in a cast, lungs sore, but glowing whenever Svetlana visited with her family. He was a hero. Even Mrs. Smith wept as she hugged him tight: “My dear boy, if it weren’t for you—I’ll give you anything, anything at all!” “Why?” Danny shrugged his thin shoulders. “I just did what I had to. That’s what men do, isn’t it?” What no one could know was that, in years to come, “Cricket” would still answer to his childhood nickname, and risk his life in war, driving an armoured ambulance filled with wounded out from under gunfire—and believe it simply the right thing to do. When asked why, when few had ever shown him kindness, Cricket’s answer would always be simple: “Because I’m a doctor. That’s what’s needed. To live, and to do right.” *** Dear readers, A mother’s love knows no limits. In the face of hardship, misunderstanding, and even cruelty, Kate’s devotion and belief in her boy helped him grow into a gentle and brilliant soul. This story reminds us that true heroism is defined by compassion and courage, not by looks or social standing—and that real strength is in the ability to forgive and act kindly, even to those who have never repaid you in kind. Cricket’s story shows us: Kindness always finds its way, no matter the odds. Do you, too, believe that goodness can change the world for the better? When in your life have you seen that a person’s worth lies in their heart, not their appearance?

Off with you! I told yougo on! Why are you loafing about here? Old Mrs. Norris thudded a large platter of steaming sausage rolls onto the garden table beneath the ancient apple tree and shooed the neighbouring boy away with a frown. Off you go! When will your mother finally start keeping an eye on you? Lazy creature!

Thin as a rake, young Bobby, whom no one ever called by his real name because everyone had grown used to his curious nickname, glanced at the stern old woman, then shuffled back to his own stoop.

The great house, which had once been divided into several flats, was only half-occupied. Really, it housed just two and a half families: the Covingtons, the Simmonses, and the ParkersGrace and Bobby.

The Parkers were the half that everyone readily ignored unless an urgent need arose. Grace Parker wasnt seen as important, and few thought her worth their time.

She had only Bobby. No husband, nor any family left. She muddled through as best she could, keeping to herself. People cast her wary glances, but seldom broached her businessunless it was to chase Bobby, whom everyone called Grasshopper, because of his spindly long limbs and oversized head that seemed to wobble atop his thin neck.

Poor Grasshopper: awkward, nervous, but always kind. He never could leave a crying child untouchedhed dash over to comfort them, earning scowls from mothers who had no patience for such a scarecrow near their darlings.

For a while Bobby was baffled by the Scarecrow moniker, but then Grace gave him a book about a girl named Dorothy, and he understood. Yet Bobby wasnt bothered. He quickly reasoned that anyone calling him Scarecrow must have read the book too, and so surely knew the Scarecrow was clever and kindheartedand had become the ruler of a beautiful city in the end. Grace listened to her sons logic and decided there was no harm in letting a boy think the best of people, for the world was full enough of cruelty already. Let him enjoy his childhood while it lasted.

She adored her Bobby with a boundless and protective love. Grace had forgiven Bobbys father his uselessness and betrayal. Shed accepted her fate, clutching her new baby tightly in the hospital, and bristled at the midwifes remarks that her child had been born not quite right.

Nonsense! My son is the most beautiful baby in the world!

No one disagrees with that! Bright lad, though, he may never be

Well just see about that! Grace would stroke her babys face and sob quietly.

For the first years, she shuttled Bobby back and forth to London specialists, braving the rickety bus and holding her bundled son close. She ignored sympathetic glances, and snapped when people offered advice: Why dont you put your own child in care? No? Well then, I dont need your advice. I know what Im about!

By age two, Bobby had caught uphe put on a little weight and developed almost like the other children, though his gangly frame remained. His head was somewhat large, his arms and legs thin, but Grace did all she could to nourish him. She went without, giving Bobby the best she could manage, and the effort restored much of his health. The doctors, no longer concerned, would watch the tiny, elfin Grace hugging her Grasshopper, shaking their heads in admiration.

Mothers like this are rareshe turned it right around. Thought hed be on disability for life! Just look at him, the little hero! Bright as a button.

Grace would shrug, not understanding the praise. Wasnt a mother meant to love her son and do her best by him? She was simply doing her duty.

When Bobby was old enough for school, he already read, wrote, and counted, though he stammered a bit, which blunted his accomplishments. Thank you, Bobby, thatll do, his teacher would cut him off, and pass the reading aloud to another child. She would complain in the staffroom: Clever lad, but listening to him at the blackboard is insufferable.

Luck favoured Bobby when, after two years, that teacher left to marry and raise a family, and his class was handed over to Mrs. Mary Bennett, a seasoned teacher who hadnt lost her spark for the children. She quickly understood Grasshoppers nature and spoke to Grace, sending her to a skilled speech therapist and allowing Bobby to submit his work in writing.

You write so well! Its a pleasure to read your work.

Bobby brightened under such praise, and Mrs. Bennett read his answers aloud, each time reminding the class just how talented her new pupil was.

Grace would cry with gratitude, wanting to thank Mary Bennett for her kindness, but the teacher would have none of it. Oh, dont be silly! Its my job. Youve a fine boy; just wait and seehell do well!

Bobby skipped to school, making the neighbours smile, though sometimes their humour was cruel. There hops our Grasshopper! Means time for us to get a move on. My word, nature was rough on that one. Why she let him linger, Ill never know.

Grace was well aware of the opinions held by her neighbours. She chose not to quarrel, believing that if God hadnt gifted someone with warmth of heart, you couldnt teach them to act kindly. Better, she thought, to spend her energy improving home or planting another rose by her porch.

The large yard, with flower beds beneath each window and a small private orchard at the rear, was loosely partitioned by an unspoken rule: the little plot by each stoop belonged to the flat whose door opened onto it.

Graces patch was the loveliest: roses, a great lilac bush, and steps she lined with fragments of tile begged from the local community hall director. During renovations, shed been enchanted by the pile of broken tile, sparkling in the sun like treasures from a distant land. May I have them? shed interrupted the directors meeting, much to his amusement. He agreed.

Borrowing a neighbours wheelbarrow, Grace spent hours carefully selecting chunks for her project. She then wheeled them home, with Bobby riding proudly atop, provoking stricken curiosity from the neighbours.

What in the world does she want with all that rubbish? they mused.

But a few weeks later, when Grace completed the tiled steps, jaws dropped.

My word! Shes made a masterpiece.

Grace remained unmoved by the murmurs of the neighbours. She only cared for one compliment: Mum, its beautiful Bobby, sitting on the step, would trace the intricate patterns with his finger, grinning with delight, and Grace would weep. Her boy was happy.

For Bobby, such happiness was rare. Sometimes hed be praised at school, or Grace would cook something special and cradle him, whispering he was clever and good; these were his joys.

He had few friendsin games of football, he couldnt keep up with the boys, preferring books to play. The girls, meanwhile, were kept far away, especially by Mrs. Norris, who had three granddaughters aged five, seven, and twelve.

Dont you even think of going near them! Mrs. Norris would warn, shaking her fist. Theyre not for boys like you!

Nobody quite grasped what went on in Mrs. Norriss mind after years of chemical perms, but Grace told Bobby to steer clear of her and her granddaughters.

No need to rile her up, she would say, shes likely to give herself a fit.

Grasshopper didnt protest and kept well away. That day, when Mrs. Norris was preparing for a family party, Bobby was only passing by; he didnt intend to invade their festivities.

Lord, forgive me, sighed Mrs. Norris as she covered her platter with an embroidered tea towel. Or theyll say Im stingy nowwait! She snatched two sausage rolls and hurried after the boy.

There! Now see you arent underfoot. Mind, weve a party! Sit quietly at home til your mother gets back. Understood?

Bobby nodded, grateful for the treat, but Mrs. Norris was already fretting over the arrivals of her children and grandchildren and the last of the preparations for youngest, sweetest Alices birthday. The pale, big-headed Grasshopper of next door had no business among her guests!

No need to scare the children with that gangly wretchtheyd have nightmares! She recalled warning Grace off when she was pregnant.

Whatever are you doing, Grace? Why keep this child? You cant give him what he needs. Hell end up a drunk, freezing in a gutter!

Ever seen me with a glass in my hand? Grace fired back, undaunted.

That says nothing! Growing up poor leads only one way! Youve nothing to offer your childno one raised you proper! Best get rid of him now while you can!

Shame on you! Youre a mother yourself! Grace strode past, proud and defiant, carrying her oddly shaped belly, never glancing back at the neighbour.

I only want whats best for you! Mrs. Norris would mutter after her.

Well, your best smells foul and Im already sick enough! Grace would snap, soothing her unborn child. Dont you worry, little oneno one will ever harm you.

Bobby never told his mother what he endured over the years. He pitied her. When the hurt grew great, he wept quietly in a corner, knowing his mother would suffer even more than he. The pain rolled off him, never settling into bitterness or anger. Clean, childish tears washed it all away, and soon Bobby would forget it, only feeling sorry for the adults, who couldnt seem to grasp the simplest truth: life is far easier without holding grudges or anger.

As for Mrs. Norris, Bobby no longer feared her, but never liked her. Whenever she wagged a finger or sent him off with a barb, Bobby ran far, not wishing to see her scowling eyes or hear her words. Had she ever asked him what he truly thought, she would have been astonished; he pitied her. He pitied the woman who spent her precious minutes on anger.

Minutes, Bobby knew, were more precious than anything. You could lose and regain most things, but never time.

Tick-tock, the clock would say.

And then nothing. The minute had passed! You could chase it, but never catch it again, not with any coin or the finest sweet-wrapper on earth.

But, for some reason, adults never understood this

Settled on his bedroom windowsill, Bobby nibbled his sausage roll and watched children playing on the green behind the houseMrs. Norriss grandchildren and the rest, celebrating Alices birthday. The birthday girl, radiant in a pink frock, flitted like a butterfly, and Bobby, spellbound, pictured her as a princess or fairy from a story.

The grown-ups sat at the table near Mrs. Norriss stoop, nattering and having their fill. The children soon dashed off to the wide lawn by the old well to play with a ballwhere there was more room to run.

Bobby, seeing the crowd charge off, guessed their destination and raced to his mothers bedroom. The green was plainly visible from its window, and he watched, clapping and cheering to himself, until dusk began to fall and the game ebbed.

Some children ran back to the grown-ups, others started new games. Only the little girl in pink loitered near the old well, and so caught Bobbys eye.

The well was dangerousof that Bobby was well aware. His mother had warned him many times, forbidding him to go near it.

The whole frames rotten. Nobodys used it for years, but theres still water at the bottom. Fall in and whod hear you shout? Never go near it, son. Promise?

I wont, Mum.

He missed the moment Alice slipped and vanished from sighthe was distracted by boys huddled in conversation. When Bobby searched again for the flutter of pink, terror gripped him; she was gone.

He ran from the house and didnt need more than a moment to realise: Alice was not at the table with the grown-ups either.

Why he didnt call for help, Bobby never could say. He simply hurtled down the steps and shot across to the garden, not hearing Mrs. Norriss annoyed shout behind him.

The other children were still in high spirits, hollering and running about; none had noticed Alice was missing, nor Bobby dashing for the well. He saw something pale down there and called out: Hold tight to the side!

Not wanting to hurt her, Bobby lay flat on the wells rim, letting his legs dangle, and scraped his way past the mossy timbers, plunging into darkness.

There was no time to wasteevery moment counted. Alice couldnt swimBobby knew; hed watched her flounder by the river under Mrs. Norriss impatient tutelage, who had failed to teach the child and taught Alice only to fear Bobby.

But now, as Alice clung desperately to his bony shoulders in the chill, slimy-smelling well water, Bobby held her as his mother had shown him.

Dont be frightened, Im here! Hold on tight. Ill shout for help. His hands slipped on the slimy beams; Alice pulled at him, sinking them both lower, but Bobby managed to fill his thin chest and yell as loudly as he could: Help!

He did not knowcould not knowthat the children had long since run away from the well, nor if his strength would last until help arrived, nor if anyone would hear.

All Bobby knew was that little Alice in her pink dress must livefor, like time, there was not so much beauty in the world.

His cry wasnt heard at once.

Mrs. Norris, carrying out a platter with a roast goose, counted heads for her moment of pride and felt her heart seize: Wheres Alice?!

Others were slow to catch onuntil her howl rattled the house and half the street into alarm.

Bobby had just enough strength to cry out again, weaker, the word that absolutely must be heard: Mum

And Grace, hurrying home from her shift, felt an odd shiver. She forgot her errand to buy bread, swept past the grocers, ignored the neighbours gossiping on porches, and rushed for home, hardly wondering why her feet raced so fast.

She arrived at the gate just as Mrs. Norris dropped to Graces own steps, clutching her chest. Without pausing to question, Grace ran for the back garden where Bobby would be, just in time to hear his voice, faint but unmistakable.

Im here, darling!

No need to wonder where the cry came from. The old well had haunted her for years. She had appealed to the council, pleaded for it to be filled in or covered, but no one cared. The feeble fence shed put up was no barrier to curious children, but Grace alone had worried.

There was no time to think. She dashed back indoors, snatched the clothesline, sprinted to the well, and shouted:

Here! Hold this!

Luckily, one of Mrs. Norriss sons-in-law was sober enough to help. In a twinkling, he tied the rope and looped it around Graces waist.

Go onIve got you!

Alice was easy to find in the blackness; she grabbed hold at once and went limp against Grace. But, trembling in terror, Grace still couldnt find Bobby.

Then, with a desperation shed last felt birthing Bobby years ago, she prayed aloud: Please, God, dont take him!

She groped through the cold water, battered by panic and despair, but could not stop. Please

Something slick and thin brushed her hand. She pulledhauling up her son, terrified to think if he breathed. She screamed:

Pull!

And as she rose from the water, a rasping whisper replied, Mum

Bobby spent a fortnight in hospital in London after that day, and returned home a hero.

Alice was released firstshed swallowed water and gained a couple of impressive scratches (and ruined her frock), but was safe.

Bobby wasnt so lucky. His wrist was broken, his breathing laboured for a while, but his mother stayed close, his worry for Alice faded, and he could look forward to home, his books and his beloved cat.

Oh, my dear boy! If not for you Mrs. Norris, weeping, cradled the tanned Bobby, IId give you anything!

What for? Bobby shrugged his skinny shoulders. I only did what had to be done. Isnt that what a man does?

Mrs. Norris, for once speechless, hugged the awkward boy. She could not knowno one knewthat this lanky, gawky Grasshopper, keeping his childhood nickname even as a man, would years later drive an ambulance packed with wounded out from under gunfire. Nor that, never asking whose pain he eased, he would do all he could for those crying for their mothers, just as he once had.

And when asked why, when people had treated him so poorly, Grasshopper would simply reply: Im a doctor. Its needed. Life is precious. Its right.

***

Dear readers,

Truly, a mothers love knows no bounds.

Grace, despite hardship and the worlds scorn, gave her son all her devotion and faith, helping him grow into a compassionate and wise person. Her story is a living testament to the invincible power of parental love.

A true hero dwells not in appearance but the soul: Bobby, awkward and plain, proved himself a hero when, without hesitation, he risked his life to save Alice. His acthis inner strength and kindnessdefined him. Such courage reminds us that mercy and bravery are the truest marks of greatness.

The neighbours who had dismissed Grace and Bobby were forced to see them anew after his deed. This story shows us how prejudice falters before real virtue, teaching us not to hold grudges but to do right, no matter how were treated.

As Bobby once said, Im a doctor. Its needed. Life is precious. Its right.

Let us reflect: Do you too believe that kindness, above all, finds its way and makes the world better? Have you ever seen with your own eyes that true worth lies not in appearance, but in the soul?