Willows, O Willows…
Hello, Surgery? As we agreed, send the nurse to the Council Office. Well be visiting Mrs. Nichols. Theyre already arriving from the Ministry of Defence.
Sophia Nichols was a familiar figure in the village. Folks called her Sophie, though she was already forty-five. She was born and raised here. There was a period when she married and moved away, but life with her husband didnt go as shed hoped, so she returned to her parents, bringing her son, John, with her.
One after another, her father and mother passed on, but Sophie never remarried, devoting herself entirely to her son. She worked as a nursery school teacher in the local preschool, so everyonefrom old to youngknew her well.
But there was another reason why Sophie was so well known: she was a wonderful singer. Shed been singing solos in the school choir and later in the village group. For a time, her song was only heard within their home. As she raised her boy, shed sing to herself, and her parents, quiet and respectable people liked in the village, would pause to listen to their daughter’s voice. Young Johnny would quieten too when his mum sang.
Sophie’s mother always asked her to sing her favourite tune: Oh, Not the Wind, The Willow Bends. Her daughter sang it so sweetly. And Sophie sang, even at her mothers funeral, when the mourners gathered and the coffin stood in the garden. She stepped forward and said:
I’ll sing for you, Mum, your favourite, and, softly, she began, Oh, not the wind, but the willow bends…
How they all wept that day.
Their village stood at the mouth of two rivers. Sophies childhood home was perched just above a little stream. The first willows would burst into leaf as soon as the thaw began. The buds would shed their sheaths, and catkins, silky and gold-dusted, would shimmer along the streamsbeautiful were the flowering willows!
As a child, she and her friends would scamper under the willows by the bank. The path was still slippy and soft from the winter, but the girls would build a den under a leaning willow and lose entire days amid the branches, their mothers unable to call them home.
As a young woman, Sophie heard a song that stuck with her. She realisedit was about herabout them all. She jotted the words down in an old songbook, and since then, it became her favourite.
Oh, willows, willows, gentle trees, what have you done, believing in love…
She sang it often, alone by the river under her beloved willows, almost as if the boughs swayed in time with her voice. She sang it when she fell in love, to her son, on stage at village concerts after the new, enthusiastic director learned of Sophies voice and recruited her for the amateur choir.
Yet singing alone embarrassed Sophie, so they formed a small ensembleSophie led with her clear, lovely voice.
Mum, you and your willows have toured the whole county by now, her son John would tease, though beneath it all, pride welled in his voice. He couldnt help but brag about his mother.
Life rolled on. There were, naturally, hard times. Once, Sophie was overwhelmed: little money, the strain of single motherhood, problems around the house, and on top of it, John had been in a fight at schoolshe was mortified. She scolded herself for being unable to give her boy what others could. She wept in her room at night, thinking John wouldnt hear.
But he didhe came to her, sat on her bed, rested his head on her thigh, and hugged her.
Mum, whats wrong?
Im not a good mother. I cant give you what you deserve
Youre the best, Mum. Im lucky, honestly, so lucky youre my mum
Sophie still sniffed and sobbed, but John quietly began to sing. Hed never sung before, but in a scratchy voice, he carried the tune carefully:
By the old porch, I met my love, trusted and answered with my heart
Sophie dabbed her eyes and sang with him.
Together, they made a change to the end of the song that night, so it now ended with hope:
The little boat rocks gently, comes back to shorelove never ends.
All night, while the rest of the village slept, their house was filled with music.
***
At first, Johns military service left Sophie stricken. She checked her phone constantly, but it remained stubbornly silent. Eventually, she found the number for his commanding officer, who, miraculously, answered. Private Nichols is well. No need for concern. John called on most weekendsupbeat, lively…
But he called his schoolmate Kate more often.
Katie would dash over to Sophies, and together theyd chat about John. Sophie was glad her son was loved by a local girl shed known since they were children.
Over time, Sophie adjusted. Then John signed a contract:
Mum, why would I sit around at home? This is a proper job. Promotion is soon, and Ill send money. Dont worry.
Oh, John… And Kate?
Shes all for it. We talked, Mum. Everythings ahead of us.
Her son was grown now. It was his decision. She tucked her maternal worries away.
Nobody told Sophie that her son was in combat. Later, she discovered that Kate, her parents and Johns mate Mike kneweveryone knew, but didnt say a word at Johns request.
***
Hello, Surgery? As agreed, send the nurse to the Council. Well visit Mrs. Nichols. The Ministry of Defence people are nearly here…
Sophie finished work at the nursery early that day, preparing for the Childrens Day fete. Tired from the preparations, she lay down for a rest.
A hard knock at the doora mans cough
Sophie flung on her dressing gown, asked who was there.
Mrs. Nichols? Its Mr. Smith from the Council
She opened the door, stepped back, took a breath, and shut her eyes tight. Outside stood a soldier, grim-faced, and beside him, a sorrowful Kate with her mum. Behind, Mike hovered nervously. Sophies heart clanged in her chest, her legs buckled, and she collapsed into an armchair, covering her face with her hands, shaking her head.
Shed spent so many nights worrying about her sonso often shed imagined a moment like this. Not this, she begged, not this
Mrs. Nichols, please try to calm down, urged the nurse as Sophie gazed through a mist of tears.
Hes not dead, Sophie. Hes simply missing, Kates mother finally assured her, seeing she had to say something.
The MOD man confirmed. Yes, John might be alive. His platoon was ambushed, there was chaos, and most importantlyhe wasnt among the dead. But this had happened days ago, nearly ten days now.
Mike kept repeating, Hes alive, Aunt Sophie. Alive. Well find himHes not listed among the fallen.
Will you find him?
Well find him, they replied in unison.
Sophie was given an injection; Kate stayed for a while but left that night. Sophie fell to her knees before the mantle, found her mothers old prayer bookthough she barely knew the prayers, she started to sing instead.
God, help me Let him be alive; let him come home… It wasnt prayer as much as song.
Morning came, and with it the nurse again. Life had divided itself into before and after. The house, the street, the river, the willowsunchanged, but everything was strange, unfamiliar. Her son was gone.
Any news? She rang Kate, Mike, the MOD, each in turn.
At last, she went herself to the MOD. Let them explain, she thoughtlet them detail everything.
There were few answersbarely any time had passed, they said. Barely? Shed lived two weeks since the moment John went missingwhat did they know of time?
Is he alive? Just tell mealive? she cried, aware of her rising hysteria but helpless to stop it. All she needed was a yes. But at the MOD, they only shrugged, patting her hands.
The pain clamped her, not letting go; she spent days in hospital because of it.
Misery nested in the corner of her ward, gnashing its teeth and howling at night.
The nurses did their best, but Sophie barely noticed.
She was half-asleep one afternoon when her phone rang. Kate.
Aunt Sophie, how are you?
Finejust, Sophie croaked.
Theres a photo I want to send. Please, try not to panic. It might not be John, but were unsurecould you just look?
Sophie shifted upright. That photo would haunt her for years, pouring into her dreams.
Her phone beeped. She opened the message. The picture showed a boy in a hospital bed; his head wrapped in bandages, one side battered and swollen, the other bruised. A plastic tube was taped to his cheek. His eyes were closed.
Sophie froze. Was it John? Within three minutes, she was calling Kate.
Where is he? Where?
Her ward mates hunched over the photo too.
How could you tell from that? Its impossible…
Its him, my son, I know it, Sophie was already dressing. She had to go, to flyanywhere he was.
Aunt Sophie, we dont know where. Were searching. Itscomplicated.
Sophies legs gave way; she sat on the bed, her ward mates at her side. All listened as Kate explained.
Apparently, someone had posted the photo onlineseeking relatives of a wounded soldier. No ID, no tags, unconscious, with no memory.
Friends, help us find his family, the note said. The image spread, then was deletedonly copies remained in private chats. Nobody knew where this soldier was.
Were all searching, Aunt Sophie. The MOD is, though theyre truly useless, Kate muttered, Ill let everyone know its John. But Im… Im still unsure, Aunt Sophie
Dont doubt, Kate. Tell them. Thats John Nicholsmy son.
She remembered long ago, leaving John home alone for the first time. He was nearly six. Bored, hed strung an elastic band between furniture, and ended up splitting his eyebrow on a doorknob. The scar barely showed, but a tuft of eyebrow was always missing. That scarshe saw it now, in the blackened face of the boy in the photo. Otherwise, shed never have known her John.
Kate, I must go Ill search the hospitals, Sophie began packing. Nobody stopped her; the nurses understood.
From the local hospital, Sophie went straight to the MOD.
My Johns been found, she announced at the desk. After much pleading, they let her inside.
Mrs. Nichols, were following up on your son. These photosyouve no idea how many hoaxes are online. We cant say for sure this one is genuine.
My son is not a hoax! Tell me which hospitals wounded soldiers might go to?
They advised her not to travel, assuring there was a procedure, but Sophie wouldnt wait. She headed for the station to buy a ticket to Manchester. No waiting now. Shed brought a few thingssome clothes, her passport, her debit card. If she needed more, shed figure it out. She couldnt just sit at home.
She was luckya local train got her to the city by late afternoon, and before evening, she was on the mainline to Manchester. Shed be there by noon the next day.
The train rattled through the night, but Sophie couldnt sit or sleep. It crept along, stopping at every little station. She lay on her bunk, staring into the dark, repeatedly turning her phone on to gaze at the photo. By now, she wouldve argued with anyone: that was no hoax, that was her son.
Katie called that evening.
Aunt Sophie, where are you? Are you still in hospital? Im near your house… I just managed to get hold of you.
Kate, Im on the trainheaded to Manchester already.
What? Manchester? ButI wanted to come with you.
I left as soon as I could, Kate. Didnt wait.
Butyour things?
Ive got all I neednightclothes, slippers, documents. Dont worry. If its him, you can follow later.
You are something else! Take care, wont you?
In the morning, a fellow traveler started up a conversation, sensing something was amiss from her phone call. He peered closely at the photo, then, after a pause, drawled, Sometimes you can just tell. Theres a little mark on the eyebrow here… am I right?
Sophie burst into tears and hugged him, taking him by surprise.
Yes! Yes! You noticed too! He split his brow as a childno one believes me!
Once more, MOD offices, wards, corridors. The magic photo opened every door.
But the wounded boy wasnt in that Manchester hospital. At first, reception told her so, then the registrar, then finally a nurse led her through wards just to be sure.
She poured over every bednone were her son. Not even someone vaguely like him.
We did have a similar case, you know. A journalist hunted down a wounded hero off a photowe ended up discovering the photo was six years old. People play cruel games sighed a nurse.
Sophie was unmovedshe was sure: in the photo was her John.
A young doctor, looking at the image, apologised: May I? Seethe operation wouldve shaved all his hair, but here, the brow isnt touched. Im not convinced.
Sophie had no choice but to leave. Outside, a drizzle was falling as she dragged herself back to the station. She wasnt going home. They said he might be in Birmingham; shed go there next.
In truth, she hadnt thought of herself for days. Worn out, weak from not eating (shed had only tea since yesterday), she felt so faint theyd checked her blood pressure and given her an injection at the hospital.
Now the tall ceilings of Manchester station pressed down on her, and she clung to a railing with her eyes squeezed shut.
Are you alright?
A group of students gathered round and sat her on a bench.
Shall we ring a medic?
No, noIll be fine, she insisted, but gratefully took the water one lad brought, drinking the lot thirstily.
Where are you heading?
To Birminghammy son
How come youre looking for him?
So she told them her story. They took the photo, sent it through to a contact. They bought her a ticket to Birmingham. She trusted themsomething in their eyes.
With cheerful wishes, they left her, and Sophie raised a hand in farewell.
She checked her watchover two hours till her train.
This wouldnt do, she thought. Shed need strength to keep searching. So, she ventured into a buffet for some proper food, ate a cutlet and had coffee, picked up some bits for the journey.
In Birmingham, the same disappointmentno sign of him. She wasnt allowed into the wards but was assured theyd check.
On the bus to the next hospital, her phone rang.
Sophie, its Vickyremember, from Manchester station? You sent me your boys photo?
Yes, Vicky! Sorry, everythings a blur at the moment.
I suppose you havent found him in Birmingham either, have you?
Nobut Ill keep going
Hes in London, Sophie. In the central military hospital near Shepherds Bush. We got word from someone in another wardhed lost his memory, concussion, that sort of thing.
Are you certain, Vicky? Is it really him?
Thats what someone said, someone whod shared a room with your lad. He even remembers the floor and the room
Sophie got off at the next stop and headed straight for the station. She was growing used to this wandering lifeshed travel to the worlds end if it meant hope.
She phoned Kate and told her the news.
Kate, I need moneymy card wont last through London.
Aunt Sophie, well get you a ticket and top you up. Plus, Im coming with you. Ill catch up on the way.
And true to her word, Kate joined.
How grateful Sophie was when she met her at the platform. She was no longer alone.
Kate, dear!
Oh, dont fuss! Now Im with you. Ive packed a fresh set of clothes, Mums trackie for you, snacks
Londons early sunlight gilded the glass towers and cast pink hues on the sprawling city. They took the underground to Shepherds Bush. Kate reassured her they had a place to stayLondoners were willing to open their doors to the mother of a wounded soldier.
But Sophie was too anxiouswhat if John died before she saw him? What if he was never himself again? Would he know them? How would the hospital welcome them?
In Manchester and Birmingham, shed fought tears, pleading, showing the photo. But this was London. Thank God Kate was there.
Here we are. Lets go, Aunt Sophie.
The tall, modern hospital intimidated her, but inside, things were different. A volunteer met them in the airy foyer and, within twenty minutes, matters were in hand.
They were ushered up to an office.
Sit herethe doctor will join you in a moment.
Sophie prayed quietly; Kate paced nervously.
At last, an older, tired doctor arrived, scanned the photo, and nodded for the volunteer.
Yes, thats him.
Wonderful, smiled the volunteer, Your son has been found. Take a breath.
Where is he? Sophie stood.
Hes not herehe was transferred to Liverpool. Excellent neurosurgeons there. I believe hes already had surgery.
Surgery…? What happened?
Fragment wounds to the base of his skull. Frankly, its a miracle he survivedbut Liverpool will tell you more. One operation wont be enough. Be patient. Well ring ahead for you. Are you prepared to travel?
If we could fly
Soon, they were on the road in an ambulance. With them, a wounded officer, stoic but coughing. He too was heading to Liverpool.
Sophie was so exhausted she dozed off en route. In her dream, she and John strolled along a path through clumps of lilacs and vast, dark green willows, sitting by the water and singing in the night.
In Liverpool, they were expected, but essential procedures took time. Sophie waited, full of dreadsuppose it wasnt John at all? Supposed shed imagined everything and hed died weeks ago?
Whos here for our John Doe? A woman doctor led them to her office. Sophie had walked so many similar corridors, so many false hopes, but by now all nerves had burnt awayher heart, if anything, felt empty of fear.
Yet Kate was in tears, nerves snapping at last.
Dont fret, darling, Sophie soothed, her calm voice giving Kate strength.
Im Dr. Smith. The patients had a terrible head injurytherell be more surgeries, rehabilitation. But first, we must be certain hes your son. If you break down, Ill have to ask you to leave. He wont recognise you; he doesnt know anyone yet, barely speaks, struggles to see, but that will improve. Are you ready? The doctor had seen too many maternal breakdowns.
Absolutely, Sophie said. Kate nodded, clearly terrified.
They entered the wardonly two beds. On the right sat a man, head shaved, plasters at the back. On the left, under a crumpled sheet, lay someone so changed he seemed hardly real.
Shed got it wrong, she thoughtperhaps it wasnt him. Even if John had wasted to skin and bone, hed not look like…this.
Then, suddenlyshe knew. It was him. Her John shrunk by sixty years and much suffering, but unmistakably John.
He was gazing past the doctor at the shadows by the window.
Sophie glanced at Kate. She had clamped her mouth, her eyes red and brimming with tears.
Doctor, this is my sonJohn Nichols, said Sophie, so calmly the doctor relaxed, pulled over a chair and invited her to sit close.
Call him by name. Take his hand and speak, but gently.
Johns hands were twisted by pain or injury; Sophie simply clasped them both.
Kate slipped out, sobbing.
Shell be alright, whispered Dr. Smith.
John, darling. You look thin but well sort you out. Kates come, Mike cant wait to see you, and Beau misses you too. When youre well, well go home. Im not leaving you againIm here to stay. You hear?
Sophie kept talking, on and on. Kate rejoined, sitting beside them, and the man on the next bed listened in.
But John just stared blankly towards the light, his eyes moving dully.
Dont despairit wont last forever. The brain takes time to heal. It was a serious wound, but our neurosurgeons are the best. Another operation, then recovery. Your being here may helpa mothers voice, a childhood memory. Itll improve. Or nearly so. Be patient
But Sophie needed no consolation.
Hes alive, Doctor. Isn’t that joy enough?
Your happiness is all to come, and yours as well, miss, the doctor smiled at Kate.
Kate calmed and sat quietly.
What a beautiful summer, John. The children are playing under the willows.
Suddenly, a lightness filled Sophies soul. Her son lay wounded in front of her, but she was certainhe would heal.
And out of that quiet joy, she began to sing:
“Oh, willows, willows, gentle trees, what have you done…”
Something changed. John stopped moving, seeking the source of the voice, then looked straight at her, not vaguely as before, his brow furrowing.
Sophie sang on; she sang the whole refrain again. The man from the other bed moved closer, curious.
Tears trickled down Johns face as his lips mouthed: Mum.
Yes, my boy, its meSophie
Sing again, please, Dr. Smith urged, watching anxiously, mask clutched in hand.
Sophie sang.
Look at himsinging along, remarked the other patient with a smile.
And it was true. Tears in his eyes, John joined his mother, both lips moving in the barest whisper:
The little boat rocks gently, comes back to shorelove never ends.
***
That night, I sat by his side, holding his hand, gratitude flooding through mea kind Id never truly understood before. Life stretches out before you, full of uncertainty, yet loves quiet persistence bears you through it all. I learned that hopefragile as the willows first budsmatters more than any certainty. And that a mothers song, or a memory shared between loved ones, can reach further than pain or distance ever could.
