Be off with you! Didnt I tell you to go! Why are you hanging about here? Mrs Edith Morton banged a large platter of steaming sausage rolls down beneath the old apple tree and gave the neighbours boy a hefty shove. Away with you! Will your mother ever start watching over you? Layabout!
Skinny as a rake, young Robbie for no one bothered with his real name, everyone just called him Cricket for as long as anyone could remember cast a wary glance at his stern neighbour and shuffled back towards his porch.
The big house, split into several flats, was only partly inhabited. In truth, there were only two and a half families: the Brookes, the Reynolds, and then the half-family Lizzie Carter and her son, Robbie.
It was the Carters, that half, to whom no one paid much mind and generally ignored unless absolutely necessary. Lizzie, herself, was not regarded as important. No one thought her worth their time.
For Lizzie Carter, there was no one but her boy. No husband, no parents. She managed alone as best she could. People eyed her askance, but left her to it, for the most part, except when giving Cricket the boot, or berating that odd, spindly-legged boy with the large, bobbing head the reason for his nickname.
Cricket was terribly awkward, timid, but so very gentle. He couldnt walk past a weeping child without trying to soothe them, though this often earned him a scolding from the mothers whod have none of this Scarecrow muddling about with their darlings.
At first, Robbie didnt even know what a Scarecrow was. Then, his mother gave him a storybook about a girl called Dorothy, and suddenly it all made sense.
Yet Robbie didnt take offence. Quite the opposite: he decided all those calling him Scarecrow must have read the book, and so knew the character was clever and kind, helped everyone, and even ended up ruler of a marvellous city.
Lizzie, to whom her son confided his logic, didnt try to dissuade him. What harm was there, after all, in a boy believing the best of his neighbours, when life itself would hand him sorrow soon enough?
She loved her son beyond measure. Having forgiven the boys father his roving ways and betrayal, she took her fate in stride, right in the hospital, sharply rebuking the midwife whod muttered something about her son being not quite right.
Utter nonsense! My boys the handsomest in the world!
Dont contest it! But clever he wont be, poor dear…
Well just see about that! Lizzie crooned as she stroked her babys cheek, sobbing all the while.
For the first two years, she carted Robbie around to doctors, finally managing to get real help. Shed rattle into town on the old double-decker, clutching her boy wrapped up tight. She ignored pitying looks. If someone tried to reassure or advise her, shed become fierce as a lioness:
Send your own to the orphanage, then! No? Well, keep your advice. I know whats best for my son!
By age two, Robbie had caught up and was nearly indistinguishable from other children, though handsome he was not: his large, slightly squashed head, thin arms and legs, his mother tried to remedy with every resource she had.
Going without herself, Lizzie gave her son the very best, and it showed in his health. Despite his appearance, doctors now rarely troubled over Robbie, only shaking their heads as the delicate, almost fey-like Lizzie cuddled her Cricket.
Mothers like you can be counted on one hand! This boy was nearly handicapped, and nowlook at him! A marvel!
Yes, yes but were speaking of you, Lizzie! Youre remarkable!
She only shrugged, not seeing grounds for praise. Wasnt a mother meant to love and care for her child? There was no heroism in doing what was right.
By the time Cricket was ready for school, he could read, write, and count, though he stammered, which sometimes embarrassed his teachers.
Robbie, thats quite enough, thank you! the teacher would cut him short, handing the reading to someone else.
Afterwards shed complain in the staff room: hes a good lad, but impossible to endure out loud. Fortunately for Robbie, shed married and left after two years. Their class was taken by Mrs Margaret Irving, a teacher of many years, who, despite her age, had lost none of her spirit nor affection for children.
She soon grasped what Cricket needed, spoke to Lizzie, and sent her to a proper speech therapist, while asking Cricket to hand in written assignments.
You write so beautifully! I love reading your work!
Cricket would swell with pride, and Mrs Irving would read his answers aloud in class, praising her talented pupil.
Lizzie wept with gratitude, almost ready to kiss the hands that so quietly bestowed kindness upon her son, but Mrs Irving would have none of it.
Goodness, dont be daft! Its my job, and your boy is wonderful! Youll see hell do just fine!
Off Cricket would go to school at a bouncing gait, which earned a chuckle from neighbours.
Look, here hops Cricket again! Our turn for the morning shift, then! Lord, what a way for nature to treat a child. Why ever was he spared?
Lizzie knew well enough what neighbours whispered about her and Robbie. But she wasnt one for quarrelling, believing that you could never force someone without a heart to act kindly.
So, she spent her energy on better things: tending their home or planting yet another rose by her stoop.
The big yard, with its flowerbeds below every window and a tiny orchard in the back, was never truly divided. Locals abided by the unwritten rule the bit outside your porch belonged to your flat.
Lizzies patch was the most beautiful. Roses flourished, a grand lilac grew, and she paved the steps with broken tiles begged off the village hall director after their renovationchips glinting in the sun like treasure from some faraway land.
Give them to me! shed burst into the directors office. The tiles, I mean!
The director laughed at her, but agreed to let her take the lot. Wheelbarrow borrowed from the neighbours, Lizzie spent the day sifting through, collecting bits to fulfil her vision.
Then, pushing the wheelbarrow across the green with Cricket perched atop, folks stared, puzzled.
What on earth is she doing with that rubbish?
Weeks later, when Lizzies tiled mosaic steps were completed, all the village gasped.
Just look at that! What a masterpiece…
Lizzie ignored their awe; all that truly mattered was her sons approval:
Mum, its beautiful…
Sitting on the steps, Cricket traced the winding patterns with his finger, as Lizzie tried, and failed, not to cry again for her boy was happy.
There werent many such moments in his life. Sometimes hed be praised at school; sometimes Lizzie would bake a treat and cradle him, whispering how clever and good he was. That was the sum of their joys.
Cricket had few friends. He couldnt keep up with the other boys and much preferred books to football. As for the girls, neighbours made sure he never came near. Mrs Morton in particular with her three granddaughters aged five, seven and twelve was fiercest.
Dont you dare go near them! Not for you, cricket-legs!
What swirled in her permed head was anyones guess, but Lizzie told Robbie not to get under Mrs Mortons feet and to keep away from her brood.
No use upsetting the woman. She could fall ill…
Cricket cheerfully agreed, steering clear. Even on this day, as Mrs Morton bustled about for a celebration, he was only passing through, not seeking fun.
Oh, Lord forgive me my sins, sighed Mrs Morton, draping a tea towel over the sausage rolls, Theyll say Im tight-fisted! Here, wait!
She picked out two pastries and hurried after the boy.
Take these, and dont let me see you in the yard! Its a special occasion. Stay quiet till your mothers home! Understand?
Robbie nodded, gave his thanks and retreated. Mrs Mortons mind turned to more pressing matters soon the family would arrive, the children would come, and there were still tasks undone for youngest granddaughter Sophies birthday celebration. And that scraggy, big-headed Cricket was the last thing she wanted underfoot.
No point frightening the children with his bulging eyes theyd have nightmares! She shivered remembering when shed persuaded Lizzie to be rid of him.
What are you doing, Lizzie? Youll never manage. Hell turn out a drunk and freeze to death behind the pub!
When have you ever seen me with a drink in hand? Lizzie fired back.
Makes no difference! With a life like yours, where else can it lead? You had nothing and your child will have nothing! You know nothing about being a mother! Yes, I say, rid yourself of the boy while you can!
Shame on you! What sort of mother says such things?
That was the end of their greetings. Lizzie strode past, her pregnant belly large and awkward, never meeting Mrs Mortons eye.
Sulking at me, are you? Im only trying to help! Mrs Morton would mutter, shaking her head.
Your help smells rotten. And Ive got morning sickness! Lizzie would retort, stroking her stomach to soothe the unknown, future Cricket. Dont worry, little one. No one will harm you.
Whatever trials Cricket faced in his eight years, he never told his mother. He pitied her too much. If he was badly wronged, hed only cry quietly in a corner, never breathing a word knowing his mother would take it harder than he. The hurt rolled off him like water from a duck, leaving no bitter taste or anger. Clean tears washed all away, and in half an hour, he wouldnt remember whod said what only feeling sorry for the odd grown-ups who couldnt understand the simplest things.
Life is so much easier without resentment…
Robbie had long since ceased to fear Mrs Morton, though he couldnt like her either. Whenever she wagged her finger and spat some biting phrase, Cricket would scamper off, away from those sharp, cold eyes and razor words. Had she asked what he truly thought, Mrs Morton would have been quite astonished.
In truth, he pitied her genuinely, and in the way only he could. He pitied anyone who wasted their precious minutes on hatred.
For Cricket, minutes were the worlds truest treasure. Hed learned that nothing was more valuable. Everything can be repaired or regained, but not time.
Tick-tock! goes the clock.
And then…
That minutes gone! You cant catch it, nor buy it with a kings ransom or all the wrappers from sweet shops.
Yet adults rarely see this…
Seated on his bedroom windowsill, chewing a sausage roll, Robbie watched Mrs Mortons grandchildren and their guests play among the daisies. The birthday girl in her splendid pink frock spun like a butterfly, and Cricket, enchanted, fancied her a princess or a fairy out of some beloved tale.
The grown-ups feasted at the long table by Mrs Mortons porch, and soon the children, tired of running in circles, made for the old well behind the house to chase a ball on the grass.
As soon as the children dashed away, Cricket guessed where theyd gone and hurried into his mothers room the very spot with the perfect view of the field. He watched their game for a long time, beating his hands in delight, until dusk began to fall.
Some of the children, exhausted, drifted back to their parents. Others invented a new game. Only the girl in the pink dress lingered near the ancient well, catching Crickets attention.
He knew the well was dangerous. Lizzie had warned him often, forbidding him to go near:
Its all rotten round the edge, and no one uses it anymore, but theres still water at the bottom. If you fall in, nobodyll ever hear. Promise me, dont go near it, son!
I wont!
The moment that little Sophie slipped over the crumbling edge and vanished, Cricket missed. Hed been busy watching the boys gathered in a huddle, deep in some plot or another. Suddenly, the group scattered and Cricket sought a glimpse of pink but it was gone.
Sophie was nowhere on the grass.
Robbie darted out to his porch. One glance and he saw the truthSophie was also missing from among the adults.
Why it didnt occur to him to shout for help, hed never know. Without a second thought, he tumbled headlong down the steps and raced for the back garden, not even hearing Mrs Mortons furious cry after him:
I told you to stay in!
The children, still running wild, hadnt noticed Sophie was missing, or that Cricket had dashed to the edge of the well and, seeing something pale far below, shouted down:
Press yourself against the wall!
Worried he might knock her with his weight, Cricket lay on his belly at the rim, slipped his legs inside the shaft, and, scraping his middle on loose, fungus-slick beams, dropped down into the gloom.
He jumped, knowing time was precious and that Sophie could not swim. He was sure hed often seen Mrs Morton grumbling while trying in vain to teach her granddaughter by the rivers muddy shallows, with a glowering eye at Robbie.
Sophie had learned nothing, and only feared Cricket more. Now, clutching at his puny shoulders after swallowing foul water, she held on with all her might.
All right, dont be scared, Ive got you he whispered, as his mother had taught him Hold tight! Im going to shout.
His hands slipped on the slimy logs; Sophie threatened to drag him down, but Robbie managed to gulp a breath and shout as loudly as he could:
Help! Help!
He couldnt know that the children had run off almost immediately, nor whether hed have the strength to hold on until grown-ups came. He only knew that little Sophie ridiculous, lovely, in her pink frock must be saved. For beauty in this world, just like precious minutes, was all too rare.
His call wasnt heard at once.
Mrs Morton, carrying a roast goose out to her guests, glanced about for her granddaughter and froze:
Sophie! Wheres Sophie?
The guests, already a little merry from sherry, hardly understood her at first. But then Mrs Mortons dreadful scream startled not only the garden but half the passing village.
Crickets voice, growing weaker, rang out twice more:
Mum…
Lizzie, hurrying back from work, picked up her pace at the cry in her heart, forgetting the loaf she meant to buy, not bothering to greet the ladies gossiping by the post office. She only knew that she must run no matter if it ruined her new summer shoes.
She burst into the yard just as Mrs Morton slumped on Lizzies own steps, clutching her chest. Not stopping to unravel what had happened, Lizzie charged straight for the back, sure the old well was involved. Shed warned the council about it, pleaded for them to fill it in or at least crown it with safer boardsbut nothing had ever been done. Only the token fence shed patched together dared stand watch, flimsy as she knew it was. None of the others cared for that well, not a jot.
There was no time for reflection. Lizzie dashed indoors, grabbed the washing line, and flew outside calling,
Here! Take thishold tight!
One of Mrs Mortons sons-in-law, less tipsy than the rest, understood immediately, tied a quick knot, and threw the rope around slender Lizzie.
Go on, Ive got you!
Sophie was within reach right away. The child flung her arms round Lizzies neck and clung, limp and shaking, as Lizzie herself trembled with fear.
But in the dark, her hands could not at once find Robbie.
So she prayed, as she once had in the maternity ward, pleading with heaven as she brought her reluctant boy into the world:
Please, Lord, dont take him!
Out of breath, still groping in the icy, stinking water, Lizzie searched and begged, and at last her hand brushed something thin and slick. She yanked him up with all her might, hardly daring to hope he still lived.
Pull! she cried.
And as they were lifted clear of the water, she heard it:
Mum…
Robbie spent nearly a fortnight in the city hospital before coming home a local hero.
Sophie was back sooner, terrified and with a ruined dress, but nearly unscathed save for a couple of scrapes. Robbie, though, suffered a broken wrist and lungs full of water, but he had his mother by his side. The fear faded each day Sophie visited, clutching her mothers hand and shyly greeting her rescuer. Soon, he was dreaming only of home, books, and his beloved ginger cat.
My dear boy! If not for you oh, how can I ever thank you! Mrs Morton cried, hugging him.
No need, Robbie shrugged. I only did what I had to. Thats what a man does, isnt it?
She found no answer, only hugged him tighter not yet realising that this awkward, skinny Cricket would one day, as a grown man, steer an ambulance through shellfire, his childhood nickname now a badge of honour; that he would tend the wounded, indifferent to whose side they were on, and ease their pain when, just as he once did, they called out for their mothers…
And if anyone asked, why help those whod treated him so? Cricket would simply answer,
Im a doctor. Its the right thing to do. Life is precious.
***
Dear readers,
A mothers love knows no limits. Lizzie Carter, enduring hardship and the scorn of her neighbours, cherished her son unwaveringly. Her dedication and belief allowed him to grow into a kind and good man a reminder of parental loves invincible power.
And true heroism lives in the soul. Outwardly awkward Robbie called Cricket in teasing showed himself a real hero, leaping into peril to save a child. Not his appearance, but his courage and mercy defined him. Goodness, bravery, compassion these are the heights of character.
Neighbours who once snubbed Lizzie and her son were forced, in the end, to honour them. The story shows that prejudice falls before genuine virtue, and the supreme lesson lies in forgiveness, kindness, and doing right even to those who once did you wrong. As Robbie said: Im a doctor. Its the right thing to do. Life is precious.
Let us remember: humanity and sympathy will always triumph over spite and indifference, and true beauty shines from within.
Do you believe, dear readers, that in the end, kindness finds a way and changes our world for the better? When have you seen proof that outward appearances deceive, and a persons real worth is within their soul?
