Let Me Remind You “Miss Mary, I can’t get this swirl right,” sighed a downcast second-grader, Tommy, poking at a stubborn, wayward green leaf he’d painted on his picture of a flower. “Not so hard on the brush, sweetheart—gently now, as if you’re touching a feather to your palm—there we are! That’s not just a swirl, that’s a masterpiece!” the elderly teacher beamed. “Tell me, who are you painting this beauty for?” “For my mum!” Tommy’s face lit up with pride after her praise. “It’s her birthday today, and this is my present!” “Well, your mum is a lucky lady, Tom. Don’t close your sketchbook just yet—let the paint dry a bit so it doesn’t smudge. When you get home, you can carefully tear the page out. I’m sure she’ll love her birthday surprise.” Miss Mary watched the boy’s head bent over his painting, then smiled thoughtfully and returned to her desk. A gift for Mum! It had been a while since she’d seen one so lovely—Tom definitely had a knack for art. She made a mental note to call his mum about enrolling him in Saturday art classes—talent like his mustn’t go to waste. And she’d ask her old pupil precisely what she thought of the gift—Miss Mary herself couldn’t take her eyes off Tommy’s vibrant flowers, half-expecting their painted leaves to rustle with life. Takes after his mum, that boy—definitely after her! When Lottie was his age, she could draw just as wonderfully… ***** That evening, the teacher answered her phone. “Hello, Miss Mary, this is Lottie, Tommy’s mum,” came a brisk young woman’s voice through the receiver. “I’m calling to let you know Tommy won’t be at school tomorrow,” “Hello, Lottie! Has something happened?” Miss Mary asked gently. “Yes—my little scamp has ruined my birthday!” spluttered the voice at the other end. “And now he’s in bed with a fever—the ambulance’s just been!” “With a fever? But he left school quite healthy—he was even bringing you your present…” “Present? If you mean those inkblots—” “Inkblots? What do you mean, Lottie? He painted you the loveliest flowers! I was planning to ring you about art school…” “I’ve no idea what flowers you saw, but what I got was a muddy little bundle I certainly wasn’t expecting!” “A bundle? Lottie, what—?” Miss Mary faltered as she listened to the confused, agitated account unfolding on the phone, her frown deepening. “Tell you what, Lottie—would it be all right if I popped round now? I don’t live far, and I won’t stay long…” With her former pupil’s agreement, Miss Mary slipped her old album of faded class photos and cherished drawings into her bag and hurried to the door. The kitchen she entered was a jumble. Lottie bustled about, tidying away the birthday cake and dirty tea cups, explaining—how Tommy arrived late, dripping muddy water over his bag and trousers, how he pulled a soaking wet puppy from under his coat—a filthy pup he’d climbed into a rubbish tip to rescue after some local boys had tossed it in. The ruined books, the water-stained sketchbook—utter chaos. Then the fever had come on fast. The guests had left early. The doctor had scolded her for not watching her child more closely… “So once he’d fallen asleep, I took the mutt straight back to the dump. And the album’s still drying on the radiator—there’s nothing left of those flowers; not even a splash!” she snapped. Lottie couldn’t see how with every word, every cranky sentence, Miss Mary’s expression grew darker. But when she mentioned what had happened to the puppy, her old teacher looked positively thunderous. Stroking the spoiled sketchbook, Miss Mary spoke quietly—about those green swirls and miraculous flowers, about a young boy’s care, his courage too big for his years. How his heart simply couldn’t let that suffering animal go—despite the risk—which the boys who’d chucked it into the pit clearly hadn’t understood. She led Lottie to the window. “There—the dump, just across the park,” she pointed. “Not just the puppy, your Tommy could’ve drowned saving it. Do you think he was thinking of that then? Or maybe, just maybe, he was thinking about the colours on that page—trying desperately not to spoil the present for his mum?” And do you remember, Lottie—how in the nineties you sobbed on the bench outside school, clutching an alley kitten you’d rescued from the local boys? How the whole class stroked it, and your mum came to fetch you, and you wept when your parents nearly tossed the ‘flea ball’ out, until, thank goodness, they relented? Let ME remind you! Of your beloved Tigger, who you would never part with. Of your floppy-eared mutt, Patches, who walked you to sixth form and home. Of the rook with the broken wing, whom you volunteered to care for… Miss Mary drew a faded photograph from her album—a little girl in a school pinafore, beaming as she hugged a fluffy kitten, her friends gathered round. With quiet deliberation, Miss Mary laid the picture on the table. “I’ll remind you of the kindness that blossomed in your heart, that nothing and no one could ever dull…” Then followed a crumpled childhood drawing: a small girl clutching a scruffy kitten in one hand and her mum’s hand in the other. “If it were up to me,” Miss Mary’s voice firmed, “I’d shower Tommy and that puppy with kisses right now. And those colourful inkblots? I’d frame them. Because there’s no greater gift for a mother than raising a child who grows into a good person.” Lottie didn’t notice how, with every word, her fingers trembled on the spoiled album. How she now glanced anxiously toward her son’s bedroom… “Miss Mary—please, would you sit with Tommy, just for a few minutes? I’ll be right back. Please…” Throwing on her coat and dashing out the door, Lottie didn’t stop until she’d reached the distant dump. Mud squelched into her shoes as she searched beneath grubby boxes and rubbish, calling for the little lost puppy. Time and again, she glanced over her shoulder at the lighted window—would Tommy ever forgive her? ***** “Tommy, who’s that rooting around in the flowers you’re painting? Is that your friend Spot?” “That’s him, Miss Mary! Looks like him, doesn’t it?” “It does indeed! Look at that white star on his paw—how well I remember scrubbing those muddy paws with your mum!” laughed the teacher. “I wash his paws every day now!” Tommy declared with pride. “Mum says if you make a friend, you care for them. She even bought us a special tub for cleaning up!” “Your mum’s a good woman,” Miss Mary smiled. “Are you drawing her another gift?” “Yup, and I’m going to put it in a frame! She keeps the framed inkblot one in her office and always smiles at it. But, Miss Mary, is it possible to smile at inkblots?” “Well, perhaps—if they’re made with a pure heart. Tell me, how’s art school going, my boy?” “Great, really great! Soon I’ll be able to paint a portrait of Mum herself! She’ll love it! For now, though…” Tommy pulled a folded page from his bag. “This one’s from my mum—she paints now, too.” Miss Mary unfolded the paper, resting her hand gently on Tommy’s little shoulder. There on white paper, painted in sprays of vibrant colour, was a smiling Tommy with his hand on the head of a black, adoring mongrel. Beside them stood a petite blonde girl in old-fashioned school uniform, hugging a kitten—and behind the teacher’s desk, bedecked with books, Miss Mary herself, her gaze warm and wise, smiling over her happy little class. And in every detail and brushstroke, Miss Mary could feel an endless mother’s pride. She dabbed her eyes and brightened: in the top corner of the picture, twined with painted flowers and delicate green swirls, a single word gleamed—“Remember.”

ILL GIVE YOU A REMINDER

Miss Browning, my curl wont work here, whispered Alfie, a woeful Year Two, poking his paintbrush at a stubborn green leaf that refused to twirl properly on his flower.

Try a lighter touch, poppet, the elderly teacher smiled, Just glide your brush, like youre tickling the palm of your hand with a feather. There! Brilliant! Thats not just a curl, thats a masterpiece! She beamed. Whos this lovely picture for, then?

For my mum! Alfie grinned, now victorious over that difficult leaf. Its her birthday today, and this is her present! With the teachers praise, Alfies voice absolutely bubbled over with pride.

Your mum is a lucky lady, Alfie. But waitdont shut your sketchbook just yet. Let the paint dry, so it doesnt smudge. When you get home, then carefully tear that page out. Youll see, shell adore it!

Miss Browning gave one last fond glance at Alfies shiny brown hair bent over the page, then, lost in her own thoughts, toddled back to her desk.

Gifts for mumoh, she probably hadnt had such a splendid one in years. Alfie truly had a knack for painting! Miss Browning would have to ring his mum and suggest the local art schoolsuch talent shouldnt be wasted.

And while she was at it, shed ask her old pupil whether she liked the gift. The flowers on the page were so alive, Miss Browning half-expected the painted leaves to crinkle and sigh with the breeze.

Definitely takes after his mum. No mistake! Laura was a marvellous little artist herself, back when she was Alfies age

*****

That evening, as Miss Browning sat in her small flat, the phone rang.

Miss Browning? Its Laura, Alfie Cotters mum. The line was sharp with irritation. Just ringing to say that Alfie wont be at school tomorrow.

Hello, Laura! Has something happened? Miss Browning queried.

Oh, yes! That rascal ruined my entire birthday! barked the phone, And now hes in bed with a feverparamedics have only just left.

Hang on, what do you mean, a fever? He seemed fine leaving school, and he was bringing you his present

You mean those splodges?

Splodges? Laura, theyre flowers! Beautiful ones! I was meaning to call about the art school

I dont know what flowers you saw, but all I saw was a filthy little mutt! Laura huffed. I most definitely was not expecting that.

A mutt? Im lost Miss Browning was quickly bewildered as Laura rattled off a flustered account of the day.

She told how Alfie arrived home late, dripping mud and water from coat to trousers. How he pulled a shivering, soaking puppy from under his jumperan absolute stink-bomb! Hed climbed into the freezing pond after the poor thing, after some horrid youths chucked it in! His books were a write-off, and those splodges in his sketchbook werent worth a glance. His temperature shot up to nearly 39 by evening. The guests all left without cake, and the paramedic gave Laura a solid telling-off for not better minding her son.

So, off the puppy went, straight back to the tip while Alfie slept. His sketchbooks on the radiator now, but its ruinedno flowers left, not a thing after all that water! Laura sniffed, as though personally offended by the whole ordeal.

She didnt notice how, with every agitated word, Miss Brownings expression darkened. When Laura recounted the fate of the rescued puppy, the old teacher went positively thunderous. She gave Laura a piercing look, stroked the battered sketchbook lying on the radiator, and began quietly but firmly:

She spoke about those green curlicues and lively blooms about a boys careful effort and his plucky bravery, about a heart too kind to turn away from injustice, and the rascals whod thrown that pup into the freezing water.

Then, standing, she gently took Laura by the hand and led her to the window.

See that pond down there? she pointed. Alfie could have drowned, not just the puppy. But did he think about that for a second? Or was he only thinking about not ruining your birthday presentthose flowers hed painted so carefully?

Perhaps youve forgotten, Lauraback in the Nineties, how you sat outside the school sobbing over the stray kitten, rescued from those rotten alley boys? We all huddled round that mangy fluff, waiting for your mum. You wouldnt go home, you were furious at your parents when they put that blotchy bundle outside Thankfully, they came to their senses!

Well, let me remind you! And what about Stripey, that tabby you couldnt part with? Or Scamp, that floppy-eared mongrel, trailing you nearly to uni? Or that rook with the broken wing you nursed in the school pets corner?

Miss Browning rummaged in her old album, pulling out a fading photo: a skinny girl in a white pinafore cuddled a fluffy kitten, beaming at her classmates huddled roundand pressed on, gentle but unyielding:

Im reminding you of that kindnessa rainbow of itblossoming in your heart, all those years, against every odd.

Out from the yellowed album dropped a water-stained drawing: a little girl held a scruffy puppy in one hand, tightly gripping her mothers hand with the other.

If I could, Laura, Miss Browning said sterner still, Id give that puppy and Alfie both a giant smacking kiss! Those splodges would be as good as framed masterpieces! Theres no finer gift for a mother than raising a good human.

Laura never noticed her own face changing with every word. She kept glancing worriedly towards Alfies room, clutching the sodden sketchbook tight.

Miss Browning! Please, could you stay with Alfie a momentjust a few minutes? I’ll be right back!

Under the teachers steady gaze, Laura threw on her coat and dashed out. She didnt care how muddy her shoes got. She ran, calling, searching by the bins, peering under discarded boxes and rummaging through black bagsstealing worried glances back home. Would she be forgiven?

*****

Alfie, whos that with his nose buried in the flowers? Is that your old mateScruffy?

Thats him, Miss Browning! Does he look the same?

Definitely! See that white star on his paw? Ill never forget scrubbing those paws with your mum She chuckled.

I wash his paws every day all by myself now! Mum says, If you have a friend, you have to look after him! She even bought us a special little tub.

Your mums a wonder, Miss Browning smiled. Making another present for her, are you?

Yup, want to put it in a frame. That splodgy paintings still in a frame, and she always smiles at it. But, Miss Browning, why would you smile at splodges?

Splodges? Miss Browning chuckled. Well, if those splodges come from the heart, maybe you can! Tell me, young manhows art school going? Getting any good?

Oh, absolutely! Ill paint Mums portrait soonshe’ll be over the moon! But for nowlook, Alfie rummaged in his backpack, pulling out a folded piece of paper. This is from Mumshe paints too.

Miss Browning opened the paper, squeezing Alfies shoulder.

There, painted across the white sheet, was a riot of coloura beaming Alfie, arm over a scruffy black dog gazing up at him adoringly. On one side stood a little blond girl in an old-fashioned tunic, hugging a fluffy kitten. On the other, peering from behind a teachers desk festooned with books, was Miss Browning herselfsmiling with boundless warmth and tender wisdom.

In every line and brushstroke, she felt an unspoken, profound mothers pride.

Miss Browning blinked away the tears threatening her eyes, and then, softly smiling, noticed a single word blooming out of colourful flowers and green curls in the corner of the page: Remember.Miss Browning touched her fingertips to the painted word, letting the bright colours settle in her vision. She smiled, quietly, as Alfie looked up at her with that unmistakable sparkthe kind that only comes when hope and love work together.

Outside, the dusk was slipping into the schoolyard, washing the windows with honeyed light. Alfie laughed, Scruffy barked, and somewhere nearby Laura called, her voice warm with a happiness that surprised even her.

And in that glowing classroomwalls pinned with wild, fluttering art, old and newMiss Browning understood what shed always hoped to teach: kindness is paint that never quite dries, no matter how many years pass by; remembered, it keeps on blooming.

She squeezed Alfies hand, her voice bright and sure. As long as we remember, nothings ever lost.

Alfie grinned, and together, with Scruffy scampering at their heels, they stepped into the fading light, where every splodge and every stroke had made something beautiful lastjust by being remembered.