Ever since she was little, Lottie dreamed of becoming a doctor. She lived with her parents in a small village and ran three miles every day to the nearest school in the next town over—where they had everything: a clinic, a post office, and even three shops.
The school was big and modern, and Lottie loved learning. Everything came easily to her. She was finishing Year 5 when one morning, her mum burst in, holding a bucket of fresh milk after milking their cow.
“Lottie, up you get! You’ll be late for school—I woke you when I went to the barn!”
“Oh, Mum, you’re right!” Lottie scrambled up, washed her face, threw on her uniform, grabbed her backpack, and bolted out without breakfast—though her mum, Claire, managed to wrap a couple of pancakes in a napkin and shove them into her hands.
Running three miles wasn’t easy. She counted the telephone poles as she went, sprinting some, walking when she was knackered. “I’m gonna be late,” she worried.
She burst into school just as the bell rang, dashed upstairs, and slid into her seat just as Mrs. Thompson, their English and literature teacher, walked in.
“Blimey, Lottie, did someone chase you here?” whispered Millie, her desk mate. “You never oversleep!”
“Just did today,” Lottie breathed back before class began.
The day passed as usual. After school, she walked home with the girls, then the lads caught up—shoving, joking, making the walk lively. At home, she unlocked the door (they kept the key under the porch), kicked off her shoes, and stepped inside—usually, the house was empty. Dad was at work, and Mum delivered post.
But this time, she froze. A hacking cough came from the little back room.
“Who’s that?” Her heart raced. Mum once joked about ghosts in the house, but Lottie had laughed it off. Now, she wasn’t so sure. She tiptoed to her room, changed, then peeked out—but the corridor was curtained off. No way to see without going closer.
Too scared, she wolfed down her food and bolted outside, hoping to catch her mum on her rounds. When she spotted no one, she plopped onto the bench out front.
Tom, the neighbor’s lad from Year 7, walked past. “Tom!” she called, waving him over. “There’s someone coughing in our house. Mum and Dad aren’t home—can you check with me?”
“Alright,” he agreed. Inside, they listened—silence. Then the cough came again. Lottie pointed at the curtain. Tom pulled it aside, and there, in bed, lay a skeletal man.
“Hello?” Lottie squeaked from behind Tom.
The man rasped, “Hello… I’m Geoffrey… your uncle.”
Lottie had never heard of any Uncle Geoffrey. They backed out, and Tom left, saying, “Well, that’s sorted. See you later.”
When Mum finally came home, Lottie grilled her. “That’s your Uncle Geoff—my little brother. He was in prison a long time. Just got out, and he’s poorly. You wouldn’t remember him.”
Geoff had been a troublemaker—at sixteen, he and his mates broke into a shop, nicking sweets, cigs, and wine. They got caught quick, and Geoff got three years in a young offenders’ institute, then adult prison after he turned eighteen. He kept mucking up inside, and now, at twenty-five, he was barely alive.
That night, Lottie lay awake listening to his cough. Then she remembered—old Granny Ethel in the next town over was a famous healer with herbs.
Next day after school, Lottie ran to her cottage. “Granny Ethel, please help my uncle! He’s really sick—might even die!”
The old woman sat her down, poured tea, and slid a plate of scones her way. “Tell me everything, love.”
Lottie did, and Granny Ethel nodded, pulling down jars and scribbling instructions. “Boil these just so. Give him the honey too. He’ll mend if he follows it proper.”
Back home, Lottie got to work. Every morning, she brewed the herbs, left them on Geoff’s bedside table, and told him when to drink.
“You’re a right whirlwind, you are,” Geoff would croak, smiling. He knew she was the only one who believed he’d live.
She’d visit Granny Ethel for updates, and soon Geoff was sitting up, then standing, then shuffling outside with a stick. By summer, they walked to the river—him leaning on her, then finally wading in. “Bliss, this is,” he sighed.
When winter came, Geoff was shoveling snow, tending the cows, even getting a job at the local timber yard. One day, Lottie barged into the workers’ hut, hands on hips. “Look at this mess! Grown men living like pigs!” She stormed off—only for them to return later to a spotless room.
“There’s no stopping that one,” Geoff laughed.
Then he fell for Marina, a widow with a child. Lottie investigated first, then gave her blessing. “She’s a good ’un, Uncle Geoff. You’ll be happy.”
They married, had more kids, and Lottie—true to her dream—became a doctor. She still visits the village, though, checking on her parents and her once-ailing uncle, who never forgets who brought him back to life.
