Emma, a trueblonde, had married Oliver, a striking darkhaired gentleman. Their affection was the sort that made people smile, and two years after the wedding they welcomed a daughter.
The delivery was anything but smooth. The little one became slightly tangled in the cord and couldnt be born straight away. Right after the birth an anaesthetist slipped her some extra oxygen, and Emma was whisked to another ward. She didnt lay eyes on her baby until ten hours later. When she finally saw the bundle, she was momentarily speechless. The nurse placed the newborn, still wrapped like a doll, on a table, unwrapped her, and there lay a tiny, fieryred girl with surprisingly long, curly hair.
Are you sure this isnt the wrong child? Emma asked, halfwhispering.
The guarantee is a hundred percent, the nurse replied, We never mix babies up mums take their children straight to the ward, and yours was the only one in the hyperbaric chamber. By the way, your husband must be just as redhaired, she added with a wink before disappearing behind the door.
Emma stared at the infant, trying to convince herself it was real, when the baby began making the most disgruntled grimaces, searching the air for her mothers breast, and let out a shrill wail that echoed down the whole ward. Emma clumsily attempted a swaddle; the squeals grew louder until the child finally settled when pressed against Emmas chest.
When Oliver arrived to fetch his girls, he glared at the swaddled bundle in bewilderment but said nothing.
Back at home the pair dug into their family trees, phoning relatives and the like. It turned out that Olivers greatgreatgrandmother on his fathers side had been a very red, curlyhaired Polish woman. After her, the family produced only brunettes just like Oliver himself.
After the first wash, when Emma dried the baby with a towel and cradled her, Oliver looked up and exclaimed, She looks like a Maytime dandelion. Though the little one was officially christened Poppy, everyone called her Dandelion.
Poppy grew into a delightfully merry child; the neighbours nicknamed her Gigglepie, and she only shed tears for obvious reasons. When she turned four, a sprinkling of freckles appeared on her nose.
Mum, what are these? she asked innocently.
Theyre freckles, love, Emma replied, planting a kiss on her cheek. Angels have them, and the more you have, the more people youll be able to help. She had no idea that Poppy would tuck those words into the very core of her heart.
In the sandpit, if any child began to bawl, Poppy would abandon her sandcastles, dash over, soothe the youngster, run her fingers through the little ones hair and murmur comforting words. It worked like magic; the crying stopped, and Poppy became ever more convinced she was an angel in disguise.
Whenever a child saw her prized doll and begged for one just like it, a highpitched wail would fill the block. Poppy would sprint over, hand over her own doll, andmiraculouslythe doll would reappear on her shelf when she got home. She never knew that Emma and the other mums were coaxing the owners with extra icecream and chocolate to get the dolls back, and Poppy simply assumed that angels always got their toys returned.
In Year 5, on her way home from school, she spotted an elderly gentleman stumbling over untied shoes on the pavement. He bent down to retie them, while a boy on the fifth floor peered out of his flat, accidentally nudging a massive ficus pot. The pot hurled toward the street. Before it could hit the old man, Poppy sprinted, gave him a solid shove, and both tumbled as the pot smashed where the gentleman had just been. He looked bewildered, then, seeing the shattered plant, burst into grateful laughter. Little angel, youve saved me from certain doom! he gasped, cementing Poppys belief that she truly was born to be an angel.
Each spring brought a fresh batch of freckles. One morning, standing before the mirror, she examined her jaunty curls, bright blue eyes, rubyred lips and the new constellations on her nose. Mum, where will I find all those hapless souls waiting for my help? she asked, halfserious.
Emma, momentarily stunned, replied, Sweetheart, I cant make heads or tails of that.
Poppy persisted, Look at my noseso many freckles, and theyre growing each year. That must mean more people need me
Emma tried, Your freckles are just the suns little kisses, darling. Each new one is a sunkiss, not a rescue ticket.
Poppy retorted, Maybe the sun does kiss me, but you told me Im an angel and that each freckle is a person I must aid!
Emma remembered her own words from when the first freckles appeared, stared at her daughter in amazement, hugged her tight and, with a grin, said, My dandelion, you really are an angel! before planting an extra kiss on the golden spot atop Poppys head.
As a teenager, Poppy made it her mission to help elders cross the road, lug their shopping bags home even when they lived a mile away, and whenever she saw a lady hesitating between a bottle of milk and a slab of butter in the supermarket, shed buy both, hand the lady the treats, and forego the sweets herself.
One crisp afternoon she passed a superbly dressed woman exuding a perfume that seemed to have been bottled from a fairytale. The womans lavish scent trailed behind her as she strolled toward a gleaming Lexus. Poppy, heart pounding, seized the womans sleeve and stammered, Im sorry! I dont mean to intrude, but your perfume its extraordinary, I just had to ask Before she could finish, the screech of brakes and a thunderous crash split the air. A reckless driver had ploughed into the ladys car, mangling the front door and sending the steering wheel wobbling. The woman clutched Poppy, whispering, Youre an angel. Youre my angel.
When she grew into a young adult, autumn had settled over London with a drizzle that might have been rain or snow. She perched on the underground steps, a pompomadorned beanie pulled low over her curls, debating whether to hop on the tube or the tram. A voice behind her asked, Excuse me, could you tell me how to get to Belgrave Road? Turning, she saw a handsome chap with chestnut eyes, his own freckles glowing despite the grey sky. She burst into uncontrollable laughter; he, equally flustered, joined in. They laughed together under the mist, the world momentarily brightening around them.
Two years later they welcomed a curlyhaired, redboned baby boyanother dandelion, another angel. When he turned four, freckles blossomed on his tiny nose, and he asked, Mum, what are these?
Poppy smiled and replied, Theyre freckles, love. Angels have them, and the more you have, the more people youll be able to help.
