Once upon a time, in a quiet corner of Yorkshire, there lived a girl named Poppy, the daughter of the neighbour downstairs. To fifteen-year-old Alfie, she was nothing short of a nuisance. That scrawny, dark-eyed child was often left in his care on chilly evenings.
Auntie Margaret raised her alone, barely scraping by on her wages as a care assistant, darting between shifts and odd jobs to make ends meet. She tried, now and then, to find a husbandalways in vain. One decent fellow had turned out to be married.
The neighbour would appear at their door without warning, eyes downcast, whispering urgently, “Victoria, just for an hour or twoIll owe you, its late, how can I leave her alone?” Poppy would stand beside her, sullen, head bowed low.
Though his mother sighed, she never refusedbetter the girl sit with them than alone in a dark flat. His father, of course, grumbled about it later.
The burden fell to Alfie, who was ordered to entertain their uninvited guest with “something to watch.” Poppy would huddle at the far end of the sofa, silently enduring whatever violent film he chose, hands pressed to her kneesinfuriatingly meek.
Once a week, Auntie Margaret pressed crumpled five-pound notes into his palm and begged him to walk the little first-year to the corner, since their schools were in the same direction anyway.
That morning, Poppy had glowed like a polished teapot, even managing a few words: today was their winter recital, and she was to recite *The Snowflakes Song*. Alfie smirkedin that ridiculous woolly hat, the silly thing looked more like a cosmonaut germ.
After first period, pupils streamed toward the canteen for break. Alfie reached for his cheese sandwich when something made him glance back.
A commotion had broken out among the younger children. Theyd crowded around Poppy in her frilly dresssome laughing, some pointing, others offering napkins. He edged closer. Worst possible sight: her entire outfit was drenched in strawberry yoghurt.
She stood frozen, trembling, tears silent and unblinking.
Then, out of nowhere, a breathless Jamie tugged his sleeve. “Alfie, come on! Lauras sorting out about the partyshe *asked* for you, mate! Youll miss your chance!”
Laura. Just to chat with herevery lads dream. And now she wanted him there. He took a step toward the door. Not his problem, was it? Let someone call Auntie Margaret, let them scrub the dresswhatever.
Deep down, he knew no one would bother. Theyd shove Poppy into a corner, and shed shrink into herself, invisible as ever.
With a sigh just like his mothers, he turned back.
“Miss Thompson, whens the recital?”
“Oh, Alfie, not for another hour! I trusted her with a line, and look whats happenedhow can she go on like this?”
Poppy stood trembling, splattered and pale as if she might be sick. Alfie pried the empty cup from her grip.
“Ill take her homemaybe she can change.”
“Oh, Alfie, bless youhurry, Ill square it with Mrs. Wilkins.”
There was no other dress. He cursed under his breath as he scrubbed the stains, dried the fabric with a hairdryer, ironed the ruffled pink folds straight. Poppy, bony in her vest and tights, hovered anxiously. They sprinted back, his hand tight around her mittened one.
He never did speak to Laura that dayskipped lessons altogether to watch the first-years recital.
Poppy rattled off her poem without a stumble. And as her class filed past, she suddenly darted from the line, flung her arms around him, and blurted:
“Alfie, if it werent for you, Id have died today. Proper died.”
Silly girl.
