Long ago, in a quiet corner of Yorkshire, lived the woman who shared this tale—now a grandmother to two lively girls. Though wise and steady, she swears every word is true…
A young girl dashed through shadowy Greenwood Park, moonlight glinting on Willowmere Lake ahead. Squeezing her eyes shut, she leapt from the steep bank into the water. The warmth enveloped her like a blanket—until strong hands yanked her out, shaking her shoulders. “Have you lost your marbles, mite? Where’s your mum and dad?”
Lucy spat lakewater, tangled hair clinging to her face. “Please stop shaking me!” Her voice quivered. Someone set her on the grass, draped a coarse jacket over her, and brushed the wet strands aside. She blinked up at a stout old man, his beard woven with duckweed and reeds. “Who… who are you?”
“Keeper of the Waters. Don’t gawk—thought youngsters still believed in magic! What drove you to such folly?”
The girl burst into tears. “Mum hates me. She loved me before Dad left, but now she shouts. Today she hit me…”
The old man sighed, patting her head. “Aye, I’m no stranger to scorn. Lad from Elm Terrace calls me ‘River Rat,’ and the caretaker swats me with her broom.”
He offered a pearlescent shell, its heart aglow. “Take this—came all the way from Cornwall. Press it to your ear when hurt. But promise to pass it on when another needs it more. Off home with you, lass.” He vanished like mist.
At home, Lucy’s mother raised her hand, fury twisting her face—until the girl pressed the shell to her ear.
*”What am I doing? She’s my own flesh and blood! That wretched man’s ruined everything…”*
Lucy hugged her tight. “Mum, I love you. Dad’ll come back. Just… don’t drink anymore. Please.” They wept together in the quiet kitchen.
Next morning, Lucy skipped past the caretaker, Mrs. Wilson, who brandished her broom. The shell whispered:
*”Why do I take it out on the kids? Worry’s eating me—Whiskers hasn’t come home…”*
Lucy grinned. “He’s in Oak Lane, chasing a tabby! He’s fine, Mrs. Wilson.” The woman blinked, then crossed herself as the girl bounded off.
A boy blocked her path at the playground. “Crybaby Clumsy! Want a push?” The shell murmured:
*”She’s proper brave. How do I say sorry? Maybe a shove’ll hide it…”*
Lucy stepped closer. “I’m Lucy. Help me swing high? I can’t reach the sky alone.”
On her first day of Year One, Lucy’s mum juggled toast, plaited ribbons, and tea. Outside, Tommy from number five shouldered her bookbag like a knight. At breaktime, Lucy spotted a boy weeping behind the goalposts.
“I’m Lucy. What’s wrong?”
“My mum’s gone,” he hiccuped. “Dad works abroad. Gran and Grandad just yell. Nobody cares.”
She smiled, fishing the shell from her pocket…
Sometimes, all it takes is listening—not to words, but the heart—and offering a sliver of hope, faith, and love.
