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The distant chiming of bells, not unlike the ring of Big Ben drifting down the Thames on a misty afternoon

Dandelion Jam Winter’s snowy blanket finally melted away—no hard frosts this year, just a gentle, white season. Yet as the last traces faded, the longing for lush green leaves, vivid blossoms, and the chance to shed bulky coats grew stronger. Spring arrived in the small English town, and Tessa, who adored the season’s awakening, watched from her third-floor window: — With the first warm days, the whole town seems to stir after a long hibernation. Even the rumble of lorries sounds livelier, and the market buzzes with fresh energy. People stride about in colourful jackets and coats, birds are our morning alarm clocks now—spring is wonderful, and summer will be even better… Tessa had lived in her five-story block for years, now sharing it with her granddaughter, Violet, a year-four student. Violet’s parents—both doctors—had moved to Africa on a work contract, leaving their daughter in Grandma’s care. — Mum, we’re entrusting Violet to you. We know you’ll mind her well, pulling her all the way to Africa doesn’t make sense, said Tessa’s daughter. — Of course I’ll look after her—I’ll enjoy her company in retirement. Off you go, Violet and I will be just fine here, replied Tessa. — Hooray, Grandma! We’ll have so much fun together, walking in the park and spending time—Mum and Dad are always busy. They never have time for me, cheered Violet. After sending Violet off to school with breakfast, Tessa busied herself with chores, the hours slipping by unnoticed. — I’ll pop to the shop before Violet comes flying home from school—promised her something sweet for her good marks, Tessa thought, grabbing her bag and heading out. Outside on the chilly bench—cushioned for warmth—sat two neighbours. Mrs Simmons, whose real age was anyone’s guess (she kept that secret), lived on the ground floor, and Mrs Valery, seventy-five, well-read, boisterous, the cheerful opposite of Simmons, who found fault with everything. As soon as the snow melted and the sun returned, this bench was never empty, especially with Simmons and Valery as regulars—chatting all day long, knowing everyone’s business. Tessa sometimes joined in, swapping news and TV stories, Simmons always keen to discuss her blood pressure. — Morning, ladies, smiled Tessa. On duty, are we? — Morning, Tess. Of course, duty calls! Off to the shop, I see? Simmons asked, spying her bag. — That’s right, I promised Violet a treat for her top marks. Off I go, said Tessa, not lingering. The day passed in its usual way—school run, lunch, homework, chores, TV. — Grandma, I’m off to dance club! called Violet, rucksack and mobile in hand. She’d danced for six years, performing at every event, and Tessa was ever proud. — All right, darling, go and have fun, Tessa said, seeing her off. That evening, Tessa sat alone on the bench, waiting for Violet. — Lonely out here? asked Mr Edgar from the second floor, joining her. — Who could be lonely in weather like this? Spring’s here, birds singing, the world’s turning green—those buttercups look just like tiny suns, smiled Edgar, and Tessa agreed. Just then Violet dashed up with a surprise shout: — Woof woof! — You little rascal, gave me a fright! laughed Tessa. — Don’t start talking about old age, smiled Edgar, gently clapping her shoulder. — Come on in, rascal. I grated carrot with sugar for you, after all that dancing, and made your favourite cottage pie, Tessa said affectionately. Edgar got up too. — All this talk of cottage pie’s made me hungry! I’ll nip in for a bite. Maybe we’ll catch up later on the bench, or perhaps a stroll? said Edgar. — I can’t promise—much to do, but we’ll see… Still, Tessa came out later to the bench—and found Edgar waiting. The regulars were gone. — Simmons and Valery just left to eat, Edgar announced cheerily. From then on, Tessa and Edgar often met—sometimes strolling to the park across the road, reading the newspaper together, swopping stories and recipes. Edgar had his own trials—widowed young, he’d raised his daughter alone, working two jobs so Vera wanted for nothing, but he was rarely home. Vera grew up, married, moved cities, had a son—came to visit a few times and nothing more, her visits were never joyful. After fifteen years, she divorced and raised her son alone. — Tess, my daughter’s coming in two days, rang this morning. Odd… We haven’t spoken in years, said Edgar—they’d long been on first-name terms, talking freely. — Maybe she’s missing you—at a certain age, people need family close, suggested Tessa. — I doubt it… Vera arrived, brusque and serious. Edgar braced for a tough conversation. — Dad, I’m here on business. Let’s sell your flat, you move in with us, live with your grandson—it’ll be better, Vera said, her tone firm, plans made. But Edgar shrank from it—he didn’t want to uproot to a strange city under brooding supervision. He refused, citing habits and independence. Vera wasn’t deterred. Discovering his friendship with Tessa, she paid a visit. After tea and treats (including golden jam), Vera got down to business. — I see you and my father are close. Could you persuade him in an important matter? — What might that be? — Help me convince him to sell—why does he need so much space alone? Can’t he think of others? she snapped. Tessa was surprised by Vera’s coldness and refused. Furious, Vera lost composure: — Well, I see… Maybe you want the flat for yourself! Found a lonely old man, lining up an inheritance for your granddaughter… Romance on benches, chatting about dandelions! Two sweet old dandelions—you’ve probably filed for marriage already! But let me warn you—nothing will come of it, she threatened, switching to “you” as she shrieked, slamming the door. Embarrassed, Tessa worried the neighbours had overheard. Vera soon left, and Tessa started avoiding Edgar—ducking home whenever she saw him. And Yet, Tea With Dandelion Jam But life has its own plans. One day, heading home from the shop, Tessa found Edgar by the entrance, weaving a garland of yellow dandelions. — Tessa, don’t run—please, stay a moment. I’m sorry for my daughter; I know what she said—she’s gone now and claims she has no father left. But… Anyway, here—take this half-made dandelion crown. And I’ve made dandelion jam! Very healthy and delicious—you simply must try it. They’re great in salad too, Edgar said with a warm smile. After chatting about the wonders of dandelions, they made a salad together. Tessa tasted the jam with tea that evening—and loved it. Later, they walked to the park. — I’ve got the latest issue of our favourite magazine—shall we read on our bench under the old lime tree? Tessa sat next to Edgar, and laughter flowed. Conversation sparkled on, the rest of the world forgotten. Together, everything felt right. Thank you for reading, subscribing, and supporting me. Wishing you all the best in life!

Dandelion Jam The snowy winter had finally come to an end. It hadnt been too harsh this year mild and

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But her memories of childhood and school are completely different from mine. I do so wish I had someone my own age to talk to,” Nina said to her daughter, fully aware that her daughter wouldn’t understand. She was still young. Her time hadn’t passed, it was still out there beyond the window. She didn’t feel this pull to reminisce. Svetlana was a good, caring girl—it wasn’t her fault. “Mum, I’ve got tickets for Tuesday night—remember how you wanted to go? Stop being down, come on and wear that burgundy dress—you look amazing in it!” “All right, darling, it’s fine, I don’t know what’s come over me—goodnight, we’ll talk tomorrow. Get an early night for once, you never sleep enough,” Nina changed the subject. “Yes, Mum, goodnight,” Svetlana said and hung up. Nina gazed silently at the twinkling lights in the evening darkness…. Year 11—it was spring then too. So many plans. How recent it all seemed. Her friend Irene liked Serge Malory from their form. And Serge had liked her, Nina. He would call her evenings on the home phone, ask her out to walk. But Nina had only thought of him as a friend—why give him false hope? Later Serge joined the army. Came back and married. He lived in Irene’s old building. And his phone back then—it was a landline. The number… Nina dialled the old, half-remembered sequence. The ring didn’t come at once, then someone picked up, rustling could be heard, and then a quiet male voice answered: “Hello, I’m listening.” Maybe it was too late—why had she called him? Maybe Serge didn’t even remember her, or maybe it wasn’t him at all. “Good evening,” Nina’s voice croaked slightly with nerves. There was more static and suddenly she heard an astonished: “Nina? Is that really you? Of course it is. I’d never forget your voice. How on earth did you find me? I was just here by chance…” “Serge! You recognised me!” A flood of joyful memories overwhelmed her. No one had called her by her first name in years—only “Mum,” “Granny,” or “Mrs Antrobus.” Well, except maybe Irene. But just “Nina” sounded so wonderful, like spring, as if those years had never passed at all. “Nina, how are you these days? I’m so glad to hear you,” he said, and she felt an unexpected warmth. She’d been afraid he wouldn’t recognise her—or that she’d be bothering him. “Do you remember Year 11? When Vicky Vasutin and I took you and Irene out on that rowboat? He blistered his hands on the oars and tried to hide it. And then we all ate ice cream on the promenade while the music played,” Serge’s voice was dreamy and far away. “I remember, of course I do,” Nina laughed happily, “and that time the whole form went camping in the woods—you remember how we couldn’t get the tins open, and we were all starving!” “Oh, yes,” Serge replied, joining in her laughter. “And Vicky finally opened them, and then we sang songs round the campfire with the guitar—you remember? That’s when I decided I’d learn guitar.” “And did you?” Nina’s voice sparkled with youth as forgotten memories returned. Serge seemed to revive their shared past, more and more details tumbling out. “And how about now?” Serge asked, then answered himself, “But why am I asking—your voice says it all, you must be happy. Children, grandchildren? Still writing poetry? I remember! ‘Fade into night and return with the dawn’—so full of life! You always were a ray of sunshine! Just being around you could warm the coldest soul. Your family’s lucky—having a mum and gran like you is a treasure.” “Oh, Serge, don’t flatter me! My time’s past… I—” He interrupted: “Don’t say that! Your energy just about melted my phone! I’m joking, of course. I can’t believe you’ve lost your zest for life—it doesn’t suit you. So, Nina, your time isn’t up yet. Live, and be happy. The sun shines for you. And the breeze chases clouds across the sky for you. And the birds sing for you!” “Serge, such a romantic—you always were. But what about you? I’ve only talked of myself…,” but suddenly the phone crackled, popped and went dead. Nina sat holding the receiver. She thought about calling back, but decided it was too late, too much. Another time, perhaps. They’d talked so well, remembered so much… A sharp ring startled her. Granddaughter. “Hi, Dasha, yes, still awake. What did your mum say? No, I’m in a wonderful mood. Your mum and I are going to a concert. Will you drop by tomorrow? Lovely, see you then.” In high spirits, Nina went to bed. In her head were so many plans! As she drifted off, she formed lines for a new poem. In the morning, she decided to visit Irene. Only a few tram stops—she certainly wasn’t an old crock yet. Irene was delighted: “Finally! You’ve been promising for ages. Is that an apricot cake? My favourite! So, tell me all—” Irene coughed, holding her chest, but waved it aside. “It’s fine, new inhaler—it’s helping. Let’s get the tea on. Nina, you look years younger. What’s your secret?” “I don’t know—a fifth youth! Imagine, I phoned Serge Malory by accident last night. Do you remember—your crush in Year 11? He began reminiscing, I’d forgotten most of it. Why are you quiet, Irene, another attack coming on?” Irene sat pale, silent, and stared at her friend, then whispered: “Nina—you didn’t know? Serge died—it’s been a year now. He’d moved ages ago, lived in another part of town.” “Really? How can that be? But who did I talk to? He remembered every detail of our youth. I was so low before—and after our chat, I felt alive again, full of life and hope… How can that be?” Nina couldn’t believe Serge was gone: “It was his voice, I know it. He said such wonderful things: ‘The sun shines for you. The breeze chases clouds for you. The birds sing for you!’” Irene shook her head, as if unsure about Nina’s story. Then she said, “Nina, I don’t know how, but it seems it really was him. 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Mum, what are you talking about? No one to talk to? I call you twice a day, her daughter asked wearily.

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