Restless Charlotte
Charlotte had dreamed of being a doctor since she was little. She lived with her parents in a small village, running three kilometres to school in the nearest town. The town had it all—a proper school, a clinic, a post office, and even three shops.
The school was big and modern, and Charlotte loved learning. Everything came easily to her—she was finishing Year 5.
“Charlie, get up! What’re you lazing about for?” her mum shouted, barging in with a bucket of fresh milk from the morning milking. “You’ll be late! I woke you when I went to the barn!”
“Oh no, Mum, you’re right!” Charlotte sprang up, washed, dressed, and grabbed her schoolbag—all in two minutes—before bolting out the door without breakfast. Her mum, Margaret, barely had time to wrap up a couple of pancakes and shove them into her hands.
Three kilometres to school was no joke. She ran, counting telegraph poles as she went, alone—all the other kids had already left. Tired, she slowed to a walk, then picked up speed again.
“I’m going to be late, definitely late,” she fretted.
She burst into the school just as the bell rang, dashed upstairs, and tumbled into class. No sooner had she sat down than Mrs. Thompson—their English and Literature teacher—walked in.
“Charlie, what’s got into you? Looks like the devil’s at your heels,” whispered her deskmate, Ellie. “Oversleep? That’s not like you.”
“Yeah, slept in,” Charlotte muttered back before lessons began.
The school day was the same as always. After classes, Charlotte walked home with the other girls. Soon, the boys caught up—shoving, joking, making the whole walk back lively.
She fished the house key from under the porch, kicked off her shoes, and rushed inside—usually, the house was empty at this hour. Dad was at work, Mum too—she delivered post. But just as Charlotte turned towards her room, she heard a horrible, hacking cough from the small back room. She froze.
“Who on earth—?” Ghosts? Mum had once told stories about spirits, but Charlotte had laughed. She didn’t believe in them.
Heart pounding, she darted into her room and shut the door. After changing, she crept out, only to hear the cough again—a man’s cough.
“Dad’s at work… who could it be?” She peered down the hall, but the room was hidden behind a curtain. Too afraid to look, she ate quickly and bolted outside, hoping to catch Mum on her rounds. No luck. She plopped onto the bench.
Just then, Jake, the neighbour’s son—Year 7, sometimes walked to school with her—passed by.
“Jake!” She waved him over. “Come here!”
“What’s up?”
“There’s someone coughing in our house. I’m scared. No one’s home.”
“Coughing? Who?”
“No idea. Went to school—empty. Came back—someone’s there. I’m too scared to look. Come with me?”
“Alright.”
They crept inside. Silence. Charlotte pointed at the curtain. Jake pulled it aside—and there, on the bed, lay a skeletal man, skin stretched over bones.
“Um… hello?” Charlotte squeaked from behind Jake.
“Hello,” the man rasped. “I’m Geoffrey… your uncle.”
Charlotte had never heard of any Geoffrey. They backed out, and Jake left, laughing. “Your uncle, and you were scared? See ya.”
When Mum finally returned, Charlotte grilled her.
“That’s your uncle Geoffrey—my little brother. Been in prison a long time. Just got out, sick as a dog. You were too young to remember him.”
He’d barely made it here. Dad had said, “Let him stay. He’ll recover. Maybe some herbal remedies’ll help.” But Mum had sighed, “Doubt he’ll last.”
Geoffrey had been a troublemaker. At sixteen, he’d broken into a shop with his mates—stole sweets, biscuits, cigarettes, wine. Got three years in a youth facility, then adult prison after turning eighteen. Kept getting into trouble inside. And now, at twenty-five, he was a wreck.
That night, Charlotte lay awake listening to his coughing. Then she remembered—old Granny Edith, the village herbalist, lived near the school.
“After school, I’ll ask her for herbs,” she decided.
Next day, she knocked on Granny Edith’s door.
“Please, Granny, I need to save my uncle. He’s very ill—might even die.”
The old woman sat her down, poured tea, pushed a plate of scones her way. “Now, love, tell me everything.”
Granny listened, then fetched bundles of herbs, scribbling instructions. “Here, dear. Follow this exactly.”
“Thank you!” Charlotte clutched the herbs and raced home.
“Mum, look! Granny Edith gave me herbs to help Uncle Geoff!”
Her mum nodded, sceptical but silent.
Every morning, Charlotte rose early, brewed the remedies, and left them by Geoffrey’s bed with instructions.
“You’re a right busybody, Charlie,” he’d croak, smiling weakly. But he drank every drop—she was his only hope.
She visited Granny Edith again, reporting progress. “Well done, love. Soon he’ll sit up, then walk. Barefoot on the earth—gives strength.”
Charlotte was determined. And Geoffrey? He started sitting. Then dangling his legs. Then standing. Soon, he was hobbling outside with a stick, her steadying him. By summer’s end, he was helping with chores—milking cows, shovelling snow come winter.
“Geoff, I’ll do that!” Dad would scold.
“I can’t sit idle,” he’d reply.
One day, Charlotte marched into the sawmill where he worked. “Disgusting in here! Grown men living in filth! And stop smoking—it’s bad for my uncle!”
The men chuckled—until they returned to a spotless break room. “Blimey,” one muttered. “God save us from wives like her.”
Geoffrey just grinned. “That’s Charlie for you—restless as the wind.”
Then he fell in love. Charlotte vetted the woman—Marina, a widow with a child—and approved.
“Good choice, Uncle Geoff.”
He hugged her. “All thanks to you, Charlie.”
He married Marina, had two more kids. Charlotte became a doctor, married, works at a city hospital. Still visits the village—parents, uncle, all of them.
