**Sophie**
Living in the same city—old, drizzly Worcester—did nothing to ease the ache. Sophie never called or wrote, only occasionally giving dry replies to the messages Margaret sent with ritual precision, every fourth morning. Not too often. Heaven forbid she seemed pushy.
Scraps of news about her granddaughter reached her through winding paths: Sophie spent the summer at a cottage near the Cotswolds, Sophie had taken up ballroom dancing, Sophie now owned a poodle. She heard none of this from the girl herself, but from her mother—a bitter, sharp woman after the divorce, who despised her ex-husband with relish and his mother with venom.
*”Hello, Sophie! Today in the park, I saw squirrels fighting over acorns. Then a little dog chased them up a tree. How are you? Love and miss you. Grandma.”*
*”Im fine.”*
Had the granddaughter caught indifference like a cold? Or had her mother deliberately fed her frost, like poison? Who knew. For two years now, the only thread between Margaret and Sophie had been these crooked little texts—one-sided pleas for love in a half-empty house where only photographs remained alive. Her son had left for Germany right after the divorce, relieved to forget both daughter and mother.
*”Hello, Sophie! I bought you a doll. She sings lullabies! Hope you’ll visit so I can give her to you. Grandma.”*
*”Dont like dolls.”*
Once, while speaking to Sophie’s mother, Margaret overheard a child’s voice through the receiver: *”Don’t want her to come! No!”* She dropped the phone. The room blurred. She stood over the device, staring at peeling wallpaper and a crack in the ceiling.
*”Dear Sophie, I’ve got a toy dinosaur now. He’s funny and wiggles his ears. Love you. Grandma.”*
*”Dont want it.”*
Then, one June evening, walking home from work through an overgrown park, she spotted a hedgehog. Majestic, bearded (or so she imagined), like their new headmaster—minus the briefcase. It vanished into the bushes, but the thought lingered: Sophie hadn’t replied to her last ten messages.
But today was the fourth day. She picked up her phone.
*”Sophie, guess what? A hedgehog lives with me now! I named him… Bertie,”*—she glanced at the telly, where *”Brief Encounter”* played—*”though he could be a George or a Reggie,”* she added aloud with a crooked smile.
*”Bertie can smile! Can you believe it? Hugs. Grandma.”*
A ping! She startled. Probably an advert… But no.
*”What else can he do?”*
She nearly dropped the phone. For a wild moment, she wanted to credit Bertie with everything—playing violin, dancing, chess. But caution won.
*”He puffs up his spines when cross. More tomorrow?”*
No reply came, but the ice in her chest thawed slightly. That night, she woke in terror—had she dreamt it? She snatched her phone…
*”What else can he do?”*
A real message. Real!
*”Sophie, today he tried reading. Gave him a book—he turned pages with his nose.”*
Silence. Fear prickled. What if Sophie’s mother mocked her? *”Pathetic old woman,”* she’d say. Margaret could hear it already.
Buzz!
*”What book?”*
*”The Railway Children,* by E. Nesbit. Read it?”*
A long pause. Then:
*”No. Is it good? What does Bertie eat?”*
From then on, the hedgehog became her purpose. He lived. He grew. He fetched slippers. Loved milk. Debated philosophy. Argued over his litter tray. Most importantly, he held the thread between their hearts.
A month passed. Then—a call:
*”Sophie wants to visit. Three days.”*
A blow. Sophie would come, see no Bertie, realise the lies—and leave forever.
That afternoon, Margaret called in sick—blood pressure, dizziness, chest pain. But her heart was the true culprit.
That evening, she poured herself a whiskey. Not for the taste—for courage.
Bertie didn’t exist. But she needed him.
She ran to the circus. A poster: *”TRAINED HEDGEHOGS!”* She begged the manager—*lend me one, three days, any price.*
*”Mad as a hatter!”* came the laughter.
Pet shops yielded nothing. One “breeder” reeked of neglect—drunk bloke, cramped cages, half-dead creatures.
Finally, at a market, a kind-eyed woman with a gold tooth sold her one. The hedgehog was sullen, ignored milk, slept under the radiator.
Next morning, she released him in the park. He tottered… then collapsed. Dead.
She wept bitterly. Every hope drained away.
Then—an idea. She snatched up the body. Not to revive. Not to bury.
To invent an ending.
When Sophie arrived, Margaret opened the door in tears:
*”Sophie… Bertie’s gone.”*
Shock, hurt, pity flashed across the girl’s face—then an embrace.
They buried Bertie in the park, made a marker, planted flowers.
For three days, Margaret spun tales—Bertie’s adventures, his secret life, his love for books.
*”The Railway Children* is wonderful, Grandma. Now I see why he liked it.”*
On the last day, Sophie hugged her tightly, like she used to.
*”You’ll come again, Sophie?”*
*”Of course, Grandma!”*
Even as the car drove off, Margaret smiled. Bertie was imaginary—but he’d returned what was lost.
She straightened the little marker, smoothed her crumpled hat, and walked into the park. Where leaves rustled, life hummed, and someday—perhaps—someone new might appear.
But Bertie would always be the cleverest hedgehog that ever lived.
