I’ll Remind You “Miss Mary, I can’t get this swirl right,” whispered little Archie, the Year 2 boy, despondently poking his brush at the stubborn green leaf of his painted flower. “Try a lighter touch, sweetheart—like you’re stroking a feather across your palm. That’s it—beautiful! That’s not a swirl, it’s a masterpiece!” smiled the elderly teacher. “And who is such a wonderful painting for?” “For my mum!” Archie beamed, triumphant over the defiant leaf. “It’s her birthday today! It’s my present!” The pride in his voice after the teacher’s praise was unmistakable. “Well, your mum is a lucky lady, Arch. Don’t close your sketchbook just yet—let those colours dry a minute, so they don’t smudge. And when you get home, gently tear out this page. Your mum will absolutely love it, you’ll see!” Miss Mary cast a last, fond glance at the boy’s dark head, bent over the page, then returned to her desk, inwardly smiling. A birthday gift for Mum! It had been too long since she had seen such beautiful presents. Archie truly had a gift for art—she must call his mother and suggest the art school; such talent deserves to be nurtured. And she’d ask her old pupil if she liked the present. Miss Mary couldn’t tear her eyes from the flower’s leaves, almost expecting them to stir and shimmer to life. Definitely takes after his mum! When Lottie was his age, she was just as good at drawing… ***** That evening, the teacher’s phone rang. “Hello, Miss Mary, it’s Lottie—Archie Cottam’s mum,” the young woman’s voice came crisply. “Just calling to say Archie won’t be in tomorrow.” “Hello, Lottie! Did something happen?” Miss Mary asked kindly. “Yes! That scamp ruined my whole birthday!” the voice bristled. “Now he’s laid up with a fever, ambulance just left.” “How’s that? He went home healthy, with a present for you…” “You mean those scribbles?” “What scribbles? Lottie, he drew you flowers! I was going to call to ask about enrolling him at art school!” “I’ve no idea about flowers, but I certainly wasn’t expecting a soggy, flea-ridden bundle!” “A bundle? What are you talking about?” Miss Mary was baffled as she listened, her frown deepening with each anxious word from the mother. “You know what, Lottie—do you mind if I come round now? I’m only next door…” A few moments later, after Lottie agreed, Miss Mary slipped into the hallway clutching her thick, battered album—full of faded photos and cherished childhood drawings from that first, long-ago class she’d ever taught. In Lottie’s bright kitchen, chaos reigned. As Lottie cleared away cake and dishes, she told the story: How Archie had come home late, dripping mud and water from his bag, coat, and trousers… How he’d pulled a soaking wet puppy from under his jumper—reeking to high heaven! He’d climbed into a frozen ditch for it, where some big boys had chucked it! His ruined textbooks, the ruined sketchbook—now nothing but blots and stains—and a fever which shot up near forty in an hour… How the guests had left, no one tasted the cake, and how the paramedic had scolded her—the negligent mother who hadn’t kept an eye on her son… “So, I took it back to the dump when Archie fell asleep. His sketchbook’s there on the radiator—there’s not a trace left of the flowers, just blotches!” Lottie sniffed. And as she rattled on, she never noticed how, with every word, every harried phrase, Miss Mary’s face grew darker. But when she heard what had happened to the puppy Archie rescued, her frown turned thunderous. She stroked the tattered sketchbook fondly and began quietly: She spoke of green swirls and living flowers… of a boy’s diligence and courage beyond his years. Of a gentle heart, quick to stand up to bullies, to defend the weak. Of the cruelty of those children who’d thrown a helpless pup into that frozen ditch. Then she led Lottie to the window. “There’s the ditch,” she pointed. “It could have swallowed Archie, let alone a tiny puppy. Did Archie care about that? Or was he thinking about those flowers he’d been so careful not to spoil, the gift for his mother?” And maybe, she went on, Lottie had forgotten the day back in the ’90s when she was a girl herself, sobbing on the bench outside school, clutching a scruffy kitten rescued from the bullies. How the whole class had stroked the cat and waited for Lottie’s mum; how Lottie hadn’t wanted to go home, how she blamed her parents when they’d thrown out that “flea-ridden bundle”—only to relent later. Miss Mary dug out an old photograph of that day—a little girl in a white pinafore, hugging a kitten, surrounded by classmates, smiling so warmly—and a faded drawing of a girl holding a fluffy kitten in one hand and clinging to her mum with the other. “I’ll remind you,” Miss Mary’s voice was stern now. “I’ll remind you of Tilly, and Patch, that lolloping mongrel who walked you all the way to university, and even the old rook with the broken wing you nursed back to health… I’ll remind you of the kindness that once blossomed bright as wildflowers in your heart.” She paused, brushing away a tear, and added: “If it were up to me, I’d have kissed that rescued puppy and Archie both! I’d frame those colourful blotches! For what better gift is there for a mother than raising a child with a kind heart?” And she never noticed, as she spoke, how Lottie’s face transformed—how she cast worried, guilty glances at Archie’s closed bedroom door, clutching the battered sketchbook with limp, pale fingers. “Miss Mary! Please—could you watch Archie for a moment? Just for a few moments. I won’t be long, I promise!” Under her teacher’s watchful gaze, Lottie grabbed her coat and dashed outside, heedless of puddles or mud, running for the far-off rubbish tip. She called and searched, looking under dirty boxes, sifting through bin bags, casting anxious glances back at home… Would she be forgiven? ***** “Arch, who’s got his nose in your painting there? Is that your friend—Digger?” “That’s him, Miss Mary! Does he look like him?” “He certainly does! And that star-shaped patch on his paw! Remember how your mum and I scrubbed them clean?” she laughed warmly. “I wash his paws every day now!” Archie declared proudly. “Mum says, ‘If you have a friend, you look after him!’ She bought us a special bowl, just for the job.” “You have a lovely mum,” smiled Miss Mary. “Are you drawing her another present?” “Mm-hmm—for a frame. She keeps those blotches in one, and she always smiles at them. Can you really smile at blotches, Miss Mary?” “At blotches? Maybe you can, if they come from the heart. Tell me, how’s art school? Is it going well?” “Really well! Soon I’ll be able to paint Mum’s portrait. She’ll be so happy! And look—” Archie pulled a folded paper from his rucksack. “This is from my mum—she draws too.” Miss Mary unfolded the sheet and gently squeezed the little boy’s shoulder. There, on the bright paper, Archie grinned brilliantly, hand resting on the head of an adoring black mongrel. Beside them stood a tiny, blonde girl in old-fashioned uniform, clutching a fluffy kitten… On the left, from behind a desk piled with books, smiled an ageless teacher, her wise and gentle eyes alive with joy. In every brushstroke and every vibrant hue, Miss Mary felt the quiet, boundless pride of a mother’s love. Brushing away tears, she smiled—there, nestled in the corner of the painting, in looping, flower-coloured letters and delicate green swirls, was a single word: “Remember.”

ILL REMIND YOU

Miss Mary, the swirl here just isnt working. The quiet, sad words came from little Tom, a Year 2 pupil, as he pointed with his paintbrush at the stubborn, curving the wrong way, green leaf on the flower he had drawn.

Try using a softer touch, love. Glide the brush like youre tickling the palm of your hand with a featheryes, just like that. Beautiful! Thats not just a swirl, Tom, its a masterpiece! Miss Mary, the elderly teacher, beamed down at him. And whos this little work of art for?

For my mum! Tom grinned, delighted that hed finally tamed the defiant leaf. Its her birthday today. This is my present! The pride in his voice grew even stronger after his teachers praise.

Your mum is a lucky lady, Tom. Dont close your sketchbook just yetlet the paint dry a bit, so it doesnt smudge. Wait until youre home, then carefully tear out the page. Shes going to love it, youll see.

Miss Mary took one last look at the dark head bowed over the page, smiled at her own thoughts, and walked back to her desk.

Such a gift for his mum! She hadnt seen such a beautiful present in ages. Tom had a rare flair for drawing, that was for sure. She ought to call his mum and suggest enrolling him in art classes. That kind of talent mustnt go to waste.

And she wanted to ask her former pupil as well: did she like the present? Miss Mary herself couldnt take her eyes off the flower blooming on the page. She half-expected the painted leaves to start rustling as if alive.

Hes got it from his mother, Tom did! Just like herthe way Larissa used to draw at his age was a marvel
*****
That evening, the phone rang in Miss Marys small flat.

Hello, Miss Mary? Its Lucy, Tom Cottons mum. The young womans firm voice came down the line. Im calling to let you know Tom wont be in tomorrow.

Hello, Lucy! Is everything alright? Miss Mary asked gently.

It certainly isnt! The little rascal ruined my entire birthday! Now hes in bed with a temperature. The paramedics only just left.

A fever? But he left school healthy today, carrying your present

That mess of ink blots? Lucy snapped.

What do you mean, ink blots? Tom painted you the most lovely flowers! I wanted to call and ask if youd let him join the art club

I dont know what flowers you mean, but I certainly wasnt expecting a filthy ball of fur as my present!

A ball of fur? Lucy, what are you talking about? Miss Mary was bewildered. She listened to Lucys flustered explanation, her brow creasing deeper with every sentence. Lucy, would you mind if I popped round for a bit? Its not far for me, after all

Once Lucy agreed, Miss Mary fetched from her bedside table a thick album of faded photos and childish drawings from her very first class, and left her flat.

Lucy led her guest into a bright but messy kitchen. She moved a birthday cake aside and cleared a pile of dirty dishes from the table, then started telling her tale

How Tom came home late from school, mud and rainwater dripping from his backpack and clothes.

How hed pulled a soaking, bedraggled puppy from beneath his jacket, reeking of rubbish bins. Young fool, hed followed the puppy into a waterlogged ditch, where some other lads had thrown it! She described ruined schoolbooks, paintings stained so badly you could barely tell what theyd been, and the fever that shot up to nearly 39 degrees by suppertime.

Guests left without touching the cake, and the paramedic scolded her for not watching her son.

When Tom finally dropped off, I took that wretched puppy back to the dump myself. His paintings drying on the radiatorthough theres hardly anything left of it now, after all that water! Lucy grumbled.

She didnt notice how, with every word, Miss Marys face grew darker, especially when she heard what had happened to the rescued pup. Miss Mary stroked the damp, ruined sketchbook with a gentle hand and began to speak softly

She spoke of green swirls and unfolding flowers, of a childs hard work and courage beyond his years. Of a boys heart unable to bear unfairness, and those bullies whod chucked the little creature in the ditch.

Then she stood, guided Lucy to the window, and pointed out across the estate: Theres that ditchTom could have drowned in it. But was he thinking of that? Or was he worrying about not smudging those flowers hed painted for your birthday?

Have you forgotten, Lucy? How, all those years ago in the nineties, you sobbed on the school bench, cradling a stray kitten youd rescued? How the whole class petted it, while you waited for your mum? How you couldnt bear to go home after your parentsso thoughtlesslythrew out that filthy bundle? Good thing they thought better of it, in the end.

Let me remind you of Tiddles, the cat you refused to part with. Remember Patch, that floppy-eared mongrel who trotted by your side all the way into sixth-form? The injured jackdaw you nursed to health in the classroom pet corner

Miss Mary drew a timeworn photo from the albumLucy, a delicate girl in a white pinny, cuddling a kitten as her smiling classmates gathered round. With a gentle yet firm voice, she continued:

Ill remind you of the kindness that, against all odds, bloomed in your heart like wildflowers of every colour.

Out slid an old drawingfaded, showing a small girl clutching a scrawny kitten in one hand, and clinging to her mother with the other.

If it were up to me, said Miss Mary in her soft-but-firm way, Id have hugged that puppy tightright along with Tom! And Id put those blotted flowers in a frame. Theres no better present for a mother than raising a child who cares.

She didnt notice Lucys pale and changing face, didnt see the worried glances cast toward Toms closed bedroom door, the tense grip on the ruined album.

Miss Mary! Please, would you mind keeping an eye on Tom for a few minutesjust a few minutesIll be right back!

Lucy grabbed her coat and rushed out of the house, tearing across the estate to the distant rubbish tip. She didnt care about her soaking feet; she peered under old boxes, rummaged through bags, called out for ages, glancing back at the lit windows of her flat in desperation. Would he forgive her?

*****

Tom, whos that nuzzling into the flowers youve drawn? Is that your friend, Digger?

Thats him, Miss Mary! Does he look the same?

He does indeed! Theres even the little white star on his paw. I remember scrubbing those paws with your mum, the teacher laughed kindly.

I wash his paws every day now, Tom said proudly. Mum says, If you have a friend, you look after him! She even bought us a special little tub for it.

Your mums a good woman. Miss Mary smiled. Are you drawing her another present?

Yes, I want to put this one in a frame. Shes got those old blotted flowers framed now, and she just smiles whenever she looks at them. Why would anyone smile at ink blots, Miss Mary?

At blots? Miss Mary chuckled, Sometimes, yesif they come from an honest heart. Tell me, hows art school going for you, Tom? Doing well?

Brilliantly! Ill be able to draw a portrait of Mum soon! Shell be over the moon. And look Tom rummaged in his bag and drew out a folded page. This is from Mumshe draws too.

Miss Mary unfurled the drawing and gently squeezed Toms shoulder.

There, across the white page, was a gleeful Tom, glowing, one hand resting on Diggers head, the dog gazing at him with total devotion.

To the right stood a tiny, fair-haired girl in an old-fashioned school dress, cuddling a small fluffy kitten.

And peeking from behind a teachers deskbooks piled highsmiled Miss Mary herself, her eyes alight with warmth and wisdom, watching the happy scene.

In every careful line and dab of paint, Miss Mary felt a pulse of quiet, boundless pridelike a mothers. She brushed away a sudden tear and, catching sight of a single word nestled in curly green script and painted petals in the very corner, she smiled radiantly.

The word was: Remember.Miss Mary traced the painted word with her fingertip, gazing at the image that spanned years, losses, and gentle victories. The laughter echoing from Toms lips mingled with memories of Lucys laughter in her own long-ago classroom, filling the quiet room with hope.

For a moment, everythingthe storms and misunderstandings, the mistakes and mended heartsseemed to fold together into one blooming swirl that time could not smudge.

Miss Mary looked at Tomhis eager hands now steady, his eyes bright with the belief that kindness matteredand felt her heart settle into a warmth that lingered like afternoon sun through a classroom window.

She laid the page carefully atop her old album, knowing it would remain therea testament. As she reached for a fresh sheet of paper to join Tom in drawing, she heard him whisper, unaware she was listening, Ill remember.

So would Miss Mary. And so, perhaps, would the worldeach time a childs clumsy, loving art found its way into a mothers heart, and a stray soul was gathered up, not left behind.