**Bluebells**
Emily and her mum missed the bus by just a few steps. The old vehicle clattered away from the stop, leaving them to wait at least fifteen minutes in the chilly evening air.
“You’re always dawdling!” Mum sighed. “How many times must I remind you? Hang your coat neatly, put your shoes awaythen we wouldnt waste time scrambling to leave. And why did you need those crayons? Couldnt they wait till morning?”
“Mum! You dont understand!” Emily squinted mischievously. “I promised Olivia yesterday. And *you* always say a promise must be kept, right?”
“Well I did say that. But must we miss the bus over it? Ive got the night shift, and your dress isnt ironed, nor is dinner or breakfast ready. Wholl do it? Granny Ethel?”
“Dont worry, Mummy. Itll all work outjust dont fuss. Granny Ethel says so. Oh! Look, Mummy! Flowers! What are they called?” On the bench lay a tiny, wilted bouquet.
“Bluebells. They grow in the woods. Someone picked them, then tossed them aside or forgot.”
“Theyre *so* pretty! Lets take them!”
“More clutter Fine, take them. But hurryour bus is coming.”
All the way home, Emily clutched the bouquet. The stems were bent, the petals crumpled, but to her, they were magicalpale violet, with a whisper of fragrance, like something from a fairy tale. A man on the bus said planting them might revive them. A pregnant woman shook her head: “No, just water. Only water.” Another passenger hissed, “Ridiculousshouldve bought roses!” Mum stared out the window, while Emily sniffed the blooms and whispered, “Ill hide you at home. Let them talk!”
They lived on the second floor. Below were Granny Ethel and Grandad Albertnot family, but neighbours who might as well be. Granny helped with chores; Grandad fixed doors or locks. They never asked for help, insisting they managed fine.
Under their balcony grew a lilac bushand beneath it, Emilys *secret spot*. Only she knew of it (though Grandad and Granny pretended not to).
Dashing home, Emily filled a bottle, dug a hole under the lilac, and planted the bluebells. They didnt perk up. “*Theyre just sleepy*,” she decided, racing back to help Mum.
At dusk, Granny Ethel found Emily crouched by the lilac, tears falling on the wilted flowers.
“Granny, they wont wake up! Are they gone?”
“Oh, love, theyre poorly. Picked flowers always suffer.”
“I didnt pick them! Someone left them!”
Granny fetched a matchbox of “magic powder” (flour), sprinkled it over the bluebells, and chanted: *”Work your charm, old and wise, bring joy beneath the skies!”*
“Will they *really* grow?”
“By morning, pet.”
As Emily slept, Grandad Albert took his rusty bicycle to the woods. At dawn, she rushed outsideand gasped. Where the muddy patch had been stood a cluster of fresh bluebells. She stroked their petals, whispering thanks, while Granny and Grandad watched from the balcony, smiling.
And who was happier? The child who believed in magicor the ones who made sure she did?
