**June 12th**
We missed the tram by half a stepEmily and I. The old carriage clattered away from the stop, leaving us to wait a good fifteen minutes.
“Honestly, youre always dawdling!” I sighed. “How many times have I told you? Hang up your coat neatly when you come back from nursery, put your shoes awaythen we wouldnt waste time scrambling. And why on earth did you need those crayons? Couldnt it wait till we got home?”
“Mum! Dont you get it?” Emily gave me a sly squint. “I promised Lily yesterday. And you always say if you make a promise, you have to keep itright?”
“Well I did say that. But now weve missed the tram, and Ive got the night shift. I still need to iron your dress, make dinner, pack your lunchwhos going to do all that? Gran Betty?”
“Mummy, dont worry. Itll all work outjust dont get cross. Thats what Gran Betty says. Oh! Look, Mummy! Flowers! What are they called?” On the bench lay a tiny, wilted bunch.
“Bluebells. They grow in the woods. Someone picked them, then tossed them aside. Or forgot them.”
“Mummy, theyre so pretty! Lets take them!”
“More rubbish to carry Fine, take them. But hurryour trams coming.”
All the way home, Emily clutched that bouquet. The stems were bent, the petals crumpled, but to her, they were the loveliest flowers in the worldsoft lilac, with a faint, sweet scent, like something from a fairy tale. A man on the tram said if she planted them, they might come back to life. A woman with a round belly shook her head: “No, no, put them in water. Only water.” Another passenger hissed as she left, “What nonsenseshouldve bought carnations instead!” I stared out the window while Emily sniffed the blooms and whispered, “When we get home, Ill hide you. Then they can say whatever they like.”
We live on the second floor. Below us are Gran Betty and her husband, whom everyone calls “Mr. Albert”though Emilys dubbed him “Grandad Al.” Gran Betty and Grandad Al arent family, just neighbours. But they might as well be. Gran Betty helps with chores, and Grandad Al fixes thingsloose cupboard doors, sticky locks. They never ask for help in return. “Weve got all we need,” they say.
Under their balcony grows a lilac bushand beneath it, Emilys secret spot. A hidden little nook no ones meant to know about. (Though, truth be told, Grandad Al and Gran Betty know. They just play along. Whats a secret if its not kept?)
Emily sprinted from the tram stop, desperate to plant her bluebells before they “died,” as that woman had said. While I cooked and ironed, she dug a hole under the lilac with a trowel, tucked the flowers in, and watered them. They didnt perk up. “Theyre just sleepy,” she decided. “Ill check on you after Mummy leaves for work.”
After dinner, she raced backeven forgetting Lilys crayons. The sun had set, and dusk draped the city like a grey blanket. Gran Betty was about to fetch Emily (she stays with them when I work nights) when Grandad Al gestured from the balcony. There, crouched by her secret spot, Emily was crying. The bluebells lay limp in a puddle.
Gran Betty crept outside. “Whats wrong, love?”
“Gran Betty, they wont wake up!” Emily sniffled. “I gave them so much water, but they just lie there! Are they dead?”
“Goodness, no. Theyre poorly, thats all. Picked flowers always are.”
“But I didnt pick them! They were on the benchsomeone threw them away.”
“Well, that happens. Dry your eyes. Lets try something.” She hurried inside, scooped flour into a matchbox, and returned. “Magic powder. Just a pinch left, but itll do.” She sprinkled it over the flowers, murmuring, “Hocus pocus, bloom for us!” then dusted the rest around the puddle. “There. Now they need rest. The magic will work by morning.”
“Is it really magic?”
“Cross my heart.”
“When will they wake up?”
“Well see at sunrise. Now off to bed.”
With a worried glance at her bluebells, Emily followed.
She was fast asleep when Grandad Al grumbled his way onto the balcony, fetching his old bicycle.
“Al, did you pack the torch?”
“Course I did.”
“And your trowel?”
“What, dig with my hands?”
“Ive put tea in the thermos.”
“Dont need it. Its not an expedition.”
“Dont linger in the woodsIll fret.”
“Wont take long. Did you pack the tarp?”
“Yes, yes. Go on, then.”
He wheeled the bike out quietly. Gran Betty shut the door and tiptoed back to bed.
At dawn, the sparrows chirpedand so did Emily. Barefoot in pyjamas, she dashed to her secret spot.
And there it was: a miracle. Where a muddy puddle had been stood a cluster of fresh, living bluebells. She stroked their petals, whispering to them, while Gran Betty and Grandad Al watched from above, smiling.
Who was happier? Emily with her “magic” flowersor the two whod made sure shed believe in it?
**Lesson:** Sometimes, the best magic is the kind we make for those we love.
