Just a step and a half too slowEmily and her mother missed the tram. The old carriage clattered away from the stop, leaving them waiting another fifteen minutes at least.
“Mum, its always you dawdling!” her mother sighed. “How many times must I say it? Hang your coat neatly, put your shoes awaythen we wouldnt waste time scrambling! And why did you need those crayons? Couldnt you manage one evening without them?”
“But Mum!” Emily narrowed her eyes slyly. “I promised Sophie yesterday. And you always say a promise is a promise, dont you?”
“Well yes. But now weve missed the tram! Ive got the night shift, your dress isnt ironed, and supper isnt ready. Whos going to do it all? Granny Martha?”
“Dont worry, Mummy. Itll be finejust dont be cross. Thats what Granny Martha says. Oh! Look, Mummy! Flowers! What are they?” A tiny, wilted bunch lay on the bench.
“Bluebells. They grow in the woods. Someone picked them, then tossed them asideor forgot them.”
“Oh, Mummy, theyre beautiful! Lets take them!”
“More rubbish to carry Fine, take them. Now hurrytheres our tram.”
All the way home, Emily clutched the bouquet. The stems were bent, the petals bruised, but to her, they were magicalsoft lilac, with the faintest whisper of scent, like something from a fairy tale. One man on the tram said planting them might bring them back to life. A woman with a swollen belly shook her head. “No, nowater. Only water.” Another hissed as she stepped off, “Foolishness! Shouldve bought proper flowers.” Emilys mother stared silently out the window while Emily whispered to the bluebells, “Wait till were home. Then no one can say a word.”
They lived on the second floor. Below them were Granny Martha and her husband, George”Grandad George” to Emily. Not family, just neighbours. But better than family. Granny Martha helped with chores; Grandad George fixed doors, locks, anything broken. They never asked for helpproud, independent.
Under their balcony grew lilacs, and beneath themEmilys secret spot. Truly secret? Well, Grandad George knew. Granny Martha too. But they kept quietor it wouldnt be a secret anymore.
Emily raced ahead from the tram stop, desperate to save the bluebells. While her mother cooked and ironed, she dug a hole under the lilacs, planted the flowers, and watered them. But they didnt stir. “Maybe theyre still asleep,” she thought. “Ill come back after seeing Mummy off.”
Supper done, dishes washed, she ran backforgetting even Sophies crayons. Dusk draped the city in grey. Granny Martha finished her chores, ready to fetch Emily for the night (as always when her mother worked late). But Grandad George hushed her, pointing silently to the garden.
There, crouched in the dirt, Emily wept. Before her lay the wilted bluebells in a muddy puddle.
Granny Martha slipped outside, creeping behind the lilacs. “Whats wrong, love?”
“Granny! They wont wake up! I gave them so much water, and they justthey just died!”
“Oh, petal, no. Theyre poorly, thats all. Flowers always sicken when theyre picked.”
“But I didnt pick them! Someone left them!”
“Well, then well fix it. Wait hereIve got magic powder somewhere.”
She returned with a matchbox of flour. “Only a pinch left, but magic goes a long way.” Sprinkling it over the flowers, she murmured, “Winds whisper, sun shines bright, heal these blooms by morning light.” Then she scattered the rest around the puddle. “There. Now they need rest. The magic will work.”
“Really?”
“Cross my heart. Well check at dawn. Now, bedtime.”
Emily sighed, casting one last worried glance at the bluebells before following Granny inside.
Deep in the night, as Emily dreamed, Grandad George grunted, hauling his old bicycle onto the path.
“George, did you pack the torch?”
“Course I did!”
“And the trowel?”
“Wouldnt leave without it!”
“Ive filled the Thermos.”
“Tea? Why?”
“For when youre tired!”
“Not a blooming expedition, woman. Ill be quick.”
“Dont linger in the woodsIll fret.”
“Bah! Back before you know it. Got the tarp?”
“Right here. Off you go, then.”
He wheeled the bike out quietly. Granny shut the door, slipping back to Emilys bedside.
Morning. Sparrows chirpedand Emily, barefoot in pyjamas, dashed to her secret spot.
There, a miracle: where mud had been, fresh bluebells swayed. She touched them gently, whispering secrets.
From the balcony, Granny Martha and Grandad George watched, smiling.
And who was happier? Emily with her “healed” flowersor the old couple whod made magic real?
