I’ll Remind You — “Miss Mary, look, I just can’t get this curl right,” little Tom whispered sadly, poking his paintbrush at a stubborn green leaf on his flower painting that just wouldn’t curl the way he wanted. — “Don’t press so hard on your brush, darling… Like this—paint as if you’re tickling your palm with a feather. There! Well done! That’s not a curl, that’s a masterpiece!” smiled the elderly teacher. “And who’s the lucky person getting such a beautiful picture?” — “It’s for my mum!” Tom beamed, proud now that he’d conquered the stubborn leaf. “It’s her birthday today! This is my present!” His voice was tinged with a touch of pride at the teacher’s praise. — “Oh, your mum’s a lucky lady, Tom. Wait a minute—don’t close your sketchbook yet. Let the paint dry so it won’t smudge. When you get home, carefully tear the page out. Your mum will love it, you’ll see!” Miss Mary watched the small, dark head bent so intently over the drawing, then smiled to herself and returned to her desk. A present for mum! Mary couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen such a beautiful gift. Tom really did have a talent for art! She must call his mum and suggest signing him up for art classes—you can’t let a gift like this go to waste. It might be nice to ask her old pupil if she liked the present too. Mary herself couldn’t tear her eyes from those flourishing leaves and curling stems on the paper. It almost seemed as if they might rustle to life at any moment. Ah, he takes after his mother! Just like her. Larissa was a gifted little artist at his age too… ***** — “Miss Mary, this is Larissa, Tom’s mum,” came the evening call in the teacher’s flat, the young woman’s voice strict through the receiver, “Just phoning to say Tom won’t be in tomorrow.” — “Hello, Larissa! Is something wrong?” Miss Mary asked gently. — “Wrong? He ruined my whole birthday, that’s what! And now he’s lying in bed with a fever—the ambulance only just left!” — “A fever? But he left school perfectly well—and he was bringing you his present…” — “You mean those splodges?” — “What splodges, Larissa? He painted you flowers! I was just about to call you, to suggest art school for him…” — “I don’t know about flowers, but I certainly wasn’t expecting a scruffy heap!” — “A heap? What are you talking about?” Miss Mary was at a loss, frowning more deeply as she listened to Larissa’s agitated explanations. “Larissa, do you mind if I come over for a bit? I’m not far…” A few minutes later, with her former student’s consent—now, somehow, her pupil’s mum—Miss Mary was out the door, carrying an old album full of faded photos and remembered children’s drawings from her very first, long ago, beloved class. Larissa led her guest into a bright but chaotic kitchen. Clearing cake and dirty plates, she started to explain: How Tom arrived home late, caked in mud and water from his bag and clothes… How he pulled a drenched puppy from his jacket, reeking of rubbish, the poor creature thrown into a puddle by older boys—and how Tom had scrambled after him. How ruined textbooks and stained paintings were all that remained, the album on the radiator, nothing left of the flowers but a mess. How the guests left without tasting cake, and how the doctor had scolded her, a careless mother letting her child fall ill… — “So I took the puppy back to the dump once Tom fell asleep. The album’s still drying, but there’s nothing left. I can’t bear to look at it.” She didn’t notice how each word made Miss Mary grow sterner, nor how she darkened completely when Larissa recounted the puppy’s fate. Miss Mary stroked the ruined album and, quietly now, spoke— She talked of green curls and living flowers, of a child’s diligence and bravery beyond his years. Of a boy’s kind heart and about the bullies who’d thrown a helpless puppy into that puddle. Then she stood, took Larissa’s hand, and led her to the window: — “See there? That puddle? Tom could have drowned instead of the puppy. Do you really think he thought about that? Perhaps he was thinking of the flowers on his painting, hoping not to ruin his gift for you? Or have you forgotten, Larissa, how you once cried on a school bench in the old days, hugging a stray kitten you saved from bullies? How the whole class gathered, waiting for your mum? How you didn’t want to go home, blaming your parents when they tossed that ‘scruffy ball of fur’ out… Good thing you changed your mind in time! Well, let me remind you! And Tiddles, the one you couldn’t part with, and floppy-eared Max, that puppy, always by your side until university. Even the rook with a broken wing you nursed in our class pet corner…” From her yellowed album, Miss Mary took an old photograph—a slim girl in a white pinny, clutching a kitten and beaming at the crowd of classmates—and continued, voice gentle but firm: — “Let me remind you of the kindness that once blossomed in your heart in bright colours, against all odds…” An old drawing fluttered from the album onto the table—a little girl holding a scruffy kitten, her other hand clutching her mother’s. — “If it were up to me,” Miss Mary went on more sternly, “I’d shower that puppy and Tom both with kisses! I’d frame those colourful splodges! Because there’s no better present for a mother than raising a child who turns out a decent person!” The teacher didn’t notice Larissa growing paler, worrying glances thrown toward Tom’s bedroom, or the way her fingers clutched that ill-fated album… — “Miss Mary! Please, could you keep an eye on Tom for just a few minutes? I need to—please, I’ll be quick!” Under her teacher’s kind but watchful eyes, Larissa hurried into her coat and rushed out. Not caring about her soaked shoes, she ran back to the dump in the distance, calling and searching beneath cardboard boxes and through rubbish bags, anxious eyes straying again and again towards home… Would he forgive her? ***** — “Tom, who’s that with his nose buried in the flowers? Is that your friend—Digger?” — “That’s him, Miss Mary! Looks just like him, doesn’t he?” — “He does! And the white star on his paw—you painted it perfectly! I remember helping your mum scrub those paws, you know,” the teacher laughed kindly. — “I wash Digger’s paws every day now!” Tom said proudly. “Mum says, ‘If you have a friend, you take care of him!’ She even got us a special bath for him!” — “Your mum’s wonderful,” smiled Miss Mary. “Are you working on another present for her?” — “Yep! Going to put it in a frame. She’s still got those splodges on the wall, but now when she looks at them, she smiles. Can you smile at splodges, Miss Mary?” — “Splodges?” The teacher chuckled. “Maybe… if the splodges are made from the heart. Tell me, how are you getting on at art school? Is it going well?” — “Brilliantly! Soon I’ll be able to paint my mum’s portrait! She’ll love that! But for now—here.” Tom reached into his bag and handed her a folded piece of paper. “This is from my mum—she paints now, too.” Miss Mary unfolded the sheet, squeezing his shoulder gently. Smiling up from the page in a scatter of colourful paints was a beaming Tom, his hand resting on a black-and-white mongrel gazing at him adoringly. On the right stood a petite, fair-haired girl in an old-fashioned uniform, hugging a fluffy kitten… On the left, behind a desk laden with books, sat Miss Mary herself, smiling, her impossibly wise eyes watching over the happy children. In every brushstroke and dab of colour, Miss Mary felt the warmth of a mother’s pride. Tears sparkled, but she smiled as she noticed, in a quiet corner edged with flowers and curling green stems, a single word, lovingly written: “Remember.”

ILL REMIND YOU

“Miss Mary, the swirl here just wont come out right, whispered little Tom, a Year Two boy, as he pressed his paintbrush against the stubborn green leaf curling the wrong way on his painted flower.

Dont push so hard, lovelighter, almost like youre tickling your palm with a feather. Yes, just like thatlook at you! Not just a swirl, a real masterpiece! the elderly teacher smiled. And whos all this for?

For Mum! Tom beamed, triumphant after taming the defiant leaf. Its her birthday today, and this is my present! His voice swelled with pride at the teachers praise.

Oh, your mum must be over the moon, Tom. But wait, dont shut your sketchbook just yetlet it dry so you dont spoil the paints. Tear it out carefully when you get home. Youll see, your mum will love it!

Miss Mary watched the small, dark head bent over the paper, then, smiling to herself, made her way back to her desk.

That boy truly has a gifthis flower is more beautiful than any I can recall. Should ring Toms mum, see about sending him to art schooltalent like this shouldnt go to waste.

And ask my old student if she liked her present. Even Miss Mary struggled to tear her eyes from those paper flowers, convinced that any moment now, the shimmering leaves would begin to rustle and come to life.

Just like his mum, definitely just like her! Larissa was brilliant with a paintbrush, too, at that age

*****
Miss Mary, its LarissaToms mum. That evening, a phone call broke the hush in the teachers flat. Just calling to say Tom wont be in tomorrow, came the voice, sharp and brisk.

Hello, Larissa! Whats happened? queried Miss Mary, concern knitting her brow.

Whats happened? He ruined my whole birthday, thats what! And now hes upstairs with a fever. The paramedics just left, the young woman snapped.

Hang onwhen he left class, he was fine. He was bringing your present

That mess of blotches, you mean?

Blotches? What are you saying, Larissa? He painted you the loveliest flowers! I was just about to call yousee if we could enroll him for art lessons”

I dont know about any flowers, but the last thing I expected for my birthday was a filthy bundle! I mean it!

A bundle? Please, tell me whats going on Miss Mary listened, face tightening, as Larissa poured out her jumbled story: of how Tom arrived home late, mud and water pouring off bag, coat, and trousers How he pulled from his coat a puppy, drenched and stinking to high heaventhe poor soul hed jumped into a puddle to rescue after other boys tossed it in. Books ruined, a sketchbook full of soggy splotches. And the fever, shooting to nearly 39 in under an hour
Guests gone home without so much as touching the cake, the ambulance man telling her off for not watching her boy more closely

So, as soon as he nodded off, I took the puppy straight back up the tip. The sketchbooks drying on the radiatorthough theres little left of flowers or paint or anything else! Larissa gave an annoyed huff.

And she didnt notice how, as she spoke, her every breath and fretful word made Miss Mary grow sadder and darker.

But when she heard the fate of that small pup, saved by her pupil, Miss Marys expression turned thunderous. She glanced sternly at Larissa, gently brushed her hand along the ruined sketchbook sliding off the radiator, and began quietly

She spoke of vivid green swirls, courage and kindness not befitting a boy so young, and the unruly crowd that tossed a helpless animal into a murky pit. She described Toms diligence, his heart unwilling to abide cruelty. She reminded Larissa that the old quarryvisible just past their windowwas deep enough for Tom himself to have drowned, but in that moment, was he not thinking only of those painted flowers and keeping his surprise safe for Mum?

Miss Marys voice softenedhad Larissa forgotten those days, long ago, when she herself sobbed on the school bench, clutching a rescued ginger kitten? How the whole class stroked it, waiting for her mum to arrive? How shed refused to go home and railed at her parents for tossing the flea-bitten ball outthough, thank heavens, theyd relented in time?

She told her she remembered it all: Tish, the old tabby she could never part from, and floppy-eared Max, the mongrel pup who followed her to university, and even the crow with a broken wing she nursed back to health at the schools nature club

Miss Mary opened her yellowing album, pulling free a large photograph: a petite girl in a white pinafore, clutching a fluffy kitten to her chest, smiling out at classmates gathered around. Her voice, though soft, was resolute.

I remind you, Larissa, of the kindness that once blossomed in your heart, painting your whole childhood in brilliant hues

A faded childs drawing fluttered out a little girl with fair hair, one hand grasping her mothers, the other holding a bedraggled kitten.

If it were up to me, Miss Mary said firmly, Id kiss Tom and that puppy both! Id frame those brilliant splotches for your wall! There is no greater gift for a mother than raising her child to be truly good.

And now it was Larissa who sat stunned, her face shifting, glancing fretfully at the closed door of Toms room, her fingers white against the battered album.

Miss Mary! Pleasewill you mind Tom for just a few minutes? Just a fewIll be right back!

With the teachers watchful gaze upon her, Larissa snatched up her coat and rushed out the door. She raced through biting wind and muddy puddles to the edge of the rubbish tip, heedless of wet feet, calling, searching among the sodden boxes and torn black rubbish sacks. She glanced again and again back home, praying for forgiveness.

*****
Tom, whos that poking his nose in the flowers? Can it be your old friend Dodger?

The very same, Miss Mary! Spot the white star on his paw?

I do! And how we scrubbed those paws, your mum and I, the day he arrivedIll never forget, the teacher laughed warmly.

I wash his paws every day now! Tom said proudly. Mum says, If you take in a friend, you look after him! She even bought us a special bath for his feet!

Your mums wonderful, smiled Miss Mary. Are you painting her another present?

I am! Something for a frame this time. Shes kept those silly blotches all this while and just smiles when she looks. Who smiles at splotches, Miss Mary?

Splotches? Miss Mary chuckled. Maybe you can, if they come from the heart. Tell me, Tom, hows art school?

Brilliant! Soon Ill paint Mums portraitI just know shell love it! But for nowhere. Tom rummaged in his schoolbag for a creased sheet of paper. This is for you, from Mum. She draws too!

Miss Mary opened the page and squeezed the boys shoulder affectionately.

On the white paper glowed a spray of dazzling colour: a beaming Tom with his hand resting on Dodgers mottled head, the dog gazing up with adoration. Next to them stood a tiny blonde girl in a never-fashionable pinafore, hugging a bushy little kitten.

And from behind a teachers desk piled high with primers, smiling out with infinite wisdom and warmth, was Miss Mary herself.

In every brushstroke, in every splash of colour, she felt a quiet, overwhelming pride lost only on mothers. Miss Mary dabbed at her eyes and suddenly beamed, for theretucked into the corner in curling green and blossomswas one word, alive with love: Remember.Miss Mary traced the word with a trembling finger, feeling its warmth linger as if the paint itself still glowed. She looked at Tom, laughter trembling on her lips, and then at Larissas gentle scripther old pupils, unmistakable even after so many years. In that instant, classroom, home, and memory folded together into one bright thread: kindness circling round, old gifts returned in new forms.

Outside, the late sun spilled through the window in golden arcs. Tom and Dodger darted into its glow, the boy explaining arts magic to his wagging companion, as if stories and colours could shield the worldor at least remind it to be softer. Larissa stood quietly in the doorway, watching her son teach kindness twice over: in action, in paint.

Miss Mary pinned the drawing above her desk, just beside a faded photograph of a girl with a kitten, and let herself hope that, like roots buried deep in gentle earth, some lessons would always grow againgreen, unfurling, and impossible to forget.