A fly was humming on the windowpanethin and shrillas Oliver blinked awake. A sunbeam tiptoed across his pillow and up to the tip of his button nose. He smiled and stretched in the most dramatic fashion, enjoying the snug warmth beneath his quilt. Getting up was supposed to be on his to-do list, but who had ever made a satisfying list from under the covers?
Mum, he ventured tentatively. Just to be sure: Muuum!
She entered, hands drying on her flowery apron. Awake, are you? Whats with all the racket? She leaned over and placed a gentle kiss right on his freckled nose. Good morning, my little scallywag! Up you get, rascal!
Oliver threw his arms around his mums neck. She smelled of warm milk, fresh bread, and something else savoury and wondrous that only belonged to mums. Back when they lived in the city, his dad would rouse him for nursery, and together theyd leap about doing exercises, brush their teeth, splash water, and cackle like loons. Mum would grumble and shoo them along. But then, well, things changed.
One day Dad simply didnt appear at pick-up, and Oliver spent the entire evening at nursery with the caretaker for company. Mum showed up hours later, her face blotchy and swollen with tears, and explained in a wobbly voice that Dad wouldnt be coming back. Now, Olivershe informed him gravelywas the man of the house. He didnt really understand, but he gathered from whispered adult conversations that Dad had crashed someone elses car. Bad men came and took away their flat for it. After that, Oliver and his mum moved to the country, where Gran lived.
The village was long and lazy, strung along the side of a river and ending with wild woods. Grans cottage sat right at the forests edge and now, so did theirs. Oliver didnt have a granddad anymorehed died back when Oliver could barely toddle. So, that settled it: as the only chap around, Oliver was absolutely, positively in charge.
Gran and Mum both worked at the local farm, which Oliver discovered wasn’t just a single big barn, but a jumble of cowsheds, pigsties, even horses. Mum introduced him to every animal when she brought him along. He thought the place smelled like dirty socks left to gently roast in a greenhouse. He always pinched his nose, which Gran and Mum found terribly funny.
He shuffled on a pair of freezing slippers and dashed in his pyjamas outside for his morning business. The August sunlight hit him with all the warmth of a chilly handshake. He shivered. Roosters were shouting at each other over distant gardens, and somewhere off in the fields, dogs were staging a Sunday morning riot. Gran emerged from the shed, muttering:
Somebodys been digging under the chicken fence again. What is it, the Hound of the Baskervilles setting up shop?
Autumns coming, Oliver thought, trying to be all proper and grown-up, then, a genuinely grown-up worry: Wish school would hurry up and start! His heart gave a happy lurch. He and Mum had everything sorted for schooland his new backpack was absolutely brilliant! Hed learned to read over summer, though handwriting was still an adventure.
Breakfast was a proper English porridge with a side of golden pancakeser, drop scones, as Gran insisted on calling them.
Oliver, Gran and I thought wed go mushroom picking today. Coming with us, or are you still too much of a nipper? Mum grinned slyly and winked at Gran.
As if! Course Im coming! Oliver protested, mouth bulging with a scone and icy milk.
They set off just before lunch. The woods greeted them with a cool hush. Augusts last days, but everything was still bright green. Mushrooms seemed to wink at Oliver from every patch of moss. Mum explained that not all were alike; she pointed out edible ones and dodgy ones, her nose wrinkling. They wandered for ages. Gran strayed off, unresponsive to Mums calls of Yoo-hoo!
As the sun started to tiptoe towards the horizon, Mum checked her watch. Baskets and a shopping bag bulged with forest bounty. Olivers bucket was pulling his arms from their sockets but, being the man, he didnt let on. Time to leavebut which way? Mum was officially unnerved. Had they gone in circles? She tried one route and landed them at a swamp, the other way found them head-first in tangles of brambles, and finally, retracing their steps, they were as lost as a SatNav without Wi-Fi.
Oliver, dont lag behind! Mum sounded strained. Leaves clattered and whispered above as they called for Gran, but no reply came. Mum plopped down on the grassy verge, visibly stuck for ideas. Five, maybe ten, nerve-wracking minutes passed. Suddenly, behind them: snap! Crackle and crunch of twigs, the bushes parted, andwas it really?an old lady emerged, wraith-thin and bent nearly double under a monstrous bundle of sticks.
Tch. Jumping at ghosts, are we? Dont worry, I havent fancied little boys for supper in ages! Her voice rattled like an old bicycle, and she gave Mum a wink before cackling a laugh sharp enough to bend spoons. Her nose waggled comically, complete with the odd wart or two.
Lost, have you? she said, not bothering to wait for an answer as she loaded up her bundle again. Youd be Noras lot, then? She didnt even look back as she started off, then, pausing to glare at them under bushy brows: Dont stand about like scarecrows. Follow me if youve got any sense left.
So, baffled and subdued, Oliver and Mum hauled their fungi-laden treasures after the old lady. She parted the weeds like Moses at the Red Sea, and suddenly there was a breakpasture ahead, and their own village nestled in the distance. From the far side, Gran appeared, looking cross and relieved.
The old lady snickered her rusty laugh, waved a gnarled hand and hobbled off, her bundle stooping her nearly in half.
Thank you so much, Mum said, hesitantly. The old woman flapped a hand dismissively and trudged off toward the village.
Gran caught up as they reached the field.
Mum, honestly, where have you been? Mum cried. We got completely turned around. Some very strange granny led us out.
Nonsense, Natasha, you cant get lost in these woods, scoffed Gran. You practically grew up in them!
Gran, was that a real witch? asked Oliver, half-awed, half-terrified.
Oh no, thats just Mrs. Popplewell! Mind you, shes got more in common with a witch than most.
During supper that evening, Oliver suddenly piped up, Gran, why do they call her Popplewell?
No idea really, love. Even when she was young, she was Popplewell. Apparently she was verywellround as a girl. Her parents had a tidy little farm, plenty of food. Shed sit on the bench gobbling bread and dripping, or butter and sugar. Kids would run about, dying for a nibble, but shed never share, not even a crumb. So, not many mates. She was so stocky, she led with her belly! The lads would tease her: Watch it, Popplewell, your bellyll burst and your buttonll pop right off!
I remember her when I was about ten and she was already well into her thirties. Used to step out with a tractor driver from the farm, young Alfie. They married, had a boy. The kid was eight the year the river flooded. Men were rafting logs for house repairs, and children, as they will, skipped over the wet timbers. OliverPopplewells boysmall for his age, slipped and got taken under the logs. Took three days to find him. She lost her mind a bit, and young Alfie took to drink. They found him frozen, wandering home from the machinery shed. Refused to stay overnight with his mates, lost his way in the snow. Popplewell was let out of the hospital after. Never quite the same, but shes lasted fifty years on her own, never much company except the odd goat. Grows herbs and knows how to patch you up if youre desperate.
Gran trailed off. Mum began gathering up the plates.
Lifes got a habit of knocking people about, Mum mused. Oliver felt a deep, unexpected pang for Mrs. Popplewell.
September swept in, all crisp mornings and bracing sunshine. Sometimes the grass even crackled with frost, but by noon it was as hot as a midsummer holiday. The woods donned their autumn best in russet and purple. Potato harvest finished. Oliver had now been at school for two weeks. Hed never forget his first day, standing front and centre at the welcome assembly for being the shortest in Year One. His teacher, Miss Carter, was brisk and kind. She kept telling Oliver he could do great things if hed just tidy up his handwriting.
He made friends with two kids from his lane, Sam and Charlie, both second years. Theyd show him the shortcut home across the weedy old lot and through Popplewells garden. Sometimes Gran or Mum fetched him, but not always.
One day, the luck fairy clearly favoured Oliver. Miss Carter had stuck two gold stars in his workbook and hed been signed up for the library and handed a book called The Magic Word. Feeling on top of the world, he set off alone over the common ground, which was generously covered in ancient rubbish and things of mysterious origin.
Suddenly, a strange noise. Oliver looked up, stunned. Ahead of him stood a pack of dogsdozens, it seemed. He backed away, but before he could run, theyd encircled him. The biggest trotted up, nose low, lips curled back from mean yellow teeth. Oliver screamedthough he couldnt even hear his own voice. The big dog sprang. He tried to shelter behind his school bag, but the beast yanked it away and tore it to bits, scattering books and papers.
Oliver hit the ground, arms covering his head, but sharp teeth clamped savagely into his shoulderand the world spun away.
He never saw Mrs. Popplewell charging from her garden, swinging a shovel with the aid of the sort of energy only proper English tea or mortal danger can conjure. She hurdled the fence in a move that belonged in the Olympics and began walloping for all she was worth. The dogs stopped, confused, but blood on the air made them mad. They surrounded both Oliver and Popplewell, ready to attack. Mrs. Popplewell wasnt fazed; she screeched for all of Hampshire, swinging her spade, but a big dog leapt onto her hunched back and locked its jaws around her neck. Losing strength, Mrs. Popplewell collapsed on top of Oliver, sheltering him with her body and mud-streaked skirt…
Nobody was about on weekdayschildren at lessons, adults at the farm or out in the fields. But the farm manager and his assistant were driving back from the supply run. As they trundled down the country lane, the manager noticed some commotion by the vegetable plots.
Rob, swing round by Popplewells patch, will you? Somethins up.
Rob turned the car and pulled up at the scene. What greeted them was a bloody mess: dogs everywhere, the ground littered with torn notebooks and battered library books. Mrs. Popplewell lay face down, one arm gnawed to the bone. A dog was on her back, tearing at her neck.
The menwhite as their welliesjumped out, grabbed what tools they could, and started swinging. Dogs snapped at their legs, launched themselves at their chests. Rob snatched up the bloody shovel and laid into the lot of them. Shrieks, yelps, a stream of red dripping from the pack leaders head. Villagers came running from the far end, waving shotguns and pitchforks, firing a shot or two in the air. The lead dog howled, showed its teeth in a parting snarl and trotted off toward the woods, the whole pack tumbling after.
A groan drew their eyesMrs. Popplewell was still holding on. Thats when they saw the bloodied child beneath her.
Ring the ambulance, Rob! The old girls breathing, just, gasped the manager. They gently rolled Mrs. Popplewell to the grass and found Oliver, white-faced and motionless…
A golden autumn ray played along Olivers nose as he blinked in a whitewashed hospital ward. Where was he? Gradually, everything returned: the dogs, the pain.
Mum was at his bedside, looking both overjoyed and frantic.
Oliver, love, youre awake! She burst into tears.
Olivers arm and shoulder were heavily bandaged and aching. The memories flooded back.
Mum, did the dogs eat my hand? Will I ever write again? he whispered in terror.
No, darling. Not eatenjust badly bitten. Youve had an operation, thats all. Itll be better before youre even old enough to get married! Mum joked bravely. But we owe Mrs. Popplewell everything. She covered you to save your life. Get some rest, sweetheart.
The whole village came out for Mrs. Popplewells funeral. The dogs had mangled both arms and a leg, and her heart finally gave out on the operating table.
The next day, all the men in the village, not completely trusting the authorities to take care of things, sorted out the rabid pack. No less than forty canine culprits were gathered up, buried in a great pit on the far side of the common. They found a nest of puppies out by the woods, and those got adopted by various families.
Oliver missed only one half-term at school. His handwriting was still a bit wobbly, but every day it improved. Miss Carter praised him, and to the other boys he was a proper hero.
He and Mum visited the cemetery, laying a mammoth bouquet on Mrs. Popplewells grave. The plaque on the wooden marker read, Eleanor Popplewell, beloved by none and all. The day shed died, shed turned exactly ninety. Mum cried.
Fancy that, she said, voice trembling, what a way for fate to work! Thank you, Mrs. Popplewell. Thank you for the woods, especially for my son. May the earth be gentle with you.
At the school Christmas play, when the witch popped up at the pantomime, Oliver slipped from the hall, teary-eyed and gently cradling his hand. He remembered Mrs. Popplewell.
