Sophie
The fact that they lived in the same city—old, rainy Manchester—did nothing to ease the pain. Sophie never called or wrote, only occasionally replying with short, clipped answers to the messages Lydia sent with ritual precision every fourth morning. No more often than that. God forbid she seem desperate.
Bits of news about her granddaughter reached her in roundabout ways: Sophie had spent the summer at a cottage near the Lake District, Sophie had taken up ballroom dancing, Sophie had a poodle now. None of these scraps came from the girl herself, but from her mother—a brittle, bitter woman after the divorce, who hated her ex-husband with relish and despised his mother with special venom.
*”Hello, Sophie! Today in the park, I saw squirrels—they were fighting over acorns. Then a little dog chased them up a tree. How are you? Love and miss you. Nan.”*
*”I’m fine.”*
Had her granddaughter caught the same indifference? Or had her mother deliberately poisoned her with coldness? Nobody knew. But for two years now, the only thread left between Lydia and Sophie had been these short, crooked texts: one-sided pleas for love in a half-empty house where the only living things left were the photographs. Her son had moved to Germany right after the divorce and, with quiet relief, forgotten both daughter and mother.
*”Hello, Sophie! I bought you a doll. She sings lullabies! Hope you’ll visit so I can give it to you. Nan.”*
*”I don’t like dolls.”*
Once, Lydia overheard a child’s voice through the phone during a call with Sophie’s mother: *”No! I don’t want her to come! No!”* She dropped the phone. The room blurred. She stood over it, staring at the peeling wallpaper and a crack in the ceiling.
*”Dear Sophie, I got a toy dinosaur. He’s silly and wiggles his ears. Love you. Nan.”*
*”Don’t want it.”*
Then one June evening, walking home through an overgrown park after a meeting, she spotted a hedgehog. He looked dignified, almost bearded (or so it seemed), like their new headmaster—just missing a briefcase. He vanished into the bushes, and Lydia walked on, thinking how Sophie hadn’t replied to her last ten messages.
But today was the fourth day. She picked up her phone.
*”Sophie, guess what? I have a hedgehog now! Named him… Gerald,”* she typed, glancing at the telly, where *Brief Encounter* played.
*”Or George. Or Geoff,”* she muttered aloud with a crooked smile.
*”Gerald can smile—can you believe it? Hugs. Nan.”*
Then—*ping!* Lydia startled. Probably spam… But no.
*”What else can he do?”*
She nearly dropped the phone. For a second, she wanted to give Gerald every skill—violin, dancing, chess. But she held back.
*”He puffs up his spikes. I’ll tell you more tomorrow, alright?”*
No reply came, but the ice in her chest melted a little. That night, she woke in a panic—what if she’d dreamed it all? She grabbed her phone…
*”What else can he do?”*
A real message. Real! Not a dream!
*”Sophie, today he tried reading. I gave him a book—he turned the pages with his nose.”*
Silence. A chill ran through her. What if Sophie’s mother mocked her? *”Silly old bat”*—that’s exactly what she’d call her. Lydia could almost hear her voice.
*Buzz.*
*”What was he reading?”*
*”Five Children and It.* By Nesbit. Have you read it?”
No reply for ages. Then:
*”Haven’t. Is it good? What does Gerald eat?”*
From then on, the hedgehog became her purpose. He lived. He grew. He fetched slippers. He loved cream. He was an artist and a philosopher. He learned to read. He argued with Nan, especially about where his bowl belonged. But most of all—he kept the thread between their hearts alive.
A month passed. Then—a call:
*”Sophie wants to visit. For three days.”*
It was a blow. Sophie would come—and see there was no Gerald. She’d know Nan had lied. That it was all fake. That she couldn’t be trusted. And Sophie would leave. Forever.
That same day, Lydia took sick leave—blood pressure, dizziness, chest pain. But the real issue wasn’t her heart.
That evening, she poured a shot of gin, drank it—not for the taste, but for the courage.
Gerald didn’t exist. But she needed him.
She ran to the circus. A poster—*TRAINED HEDGEHOGS!* She begged the manager: *”Lend me a hedgehog. Three days. Any price.”*
*”You’re off your rocker!”*—only laughter in reply.
Next, she scoured ads. One “breeder” turned out to be a squalid shed—stench, cages, a drunk bloke, half-dead creatures.
Finally, at the pet market, an old woman with kind eyes and a gold tooth sold her one. The hedgehog was listless, wary. Ignored cream, sniffed at ham. Slept by the radiator.
In the morning, she took him to the park and let him go. He walked… walked… then—rolled onto his side. And died.
She sobbed. Long, hard. The tears washed everything out—dreams, stories, hope. Everything that had kept her alive for two years.
Then—a thought. She grabbed the dead hedgehog, ran home. Bring him back? No. Bury him? No.
Just—invent an ending.
When Sophie arrived, Nan opened the door in tears.
*”Sophie… Gerald died.”*
Emotions flickered across the girl’s face—shock, hurt, pity… Then—a hug.
They buried Gerald in the park. Made a little marker. Planted flowers.
And then… for three days, Nan told her everything: Gerald’s adventures, his secret life, his love of books.
*”‘Five Children and It’ is lovely, Nan. I see why he liked it.”*
On the last day, Sophie hugged her tight—just like when she was small.
*”You’ll come back, won’t you?”*
*”Nan, don’t be daft. Of course!”*
Even as the car drove away, Nan smiled. Gerald might’ve been imaginary—but he’d given back what was lost.
She straightened the marker by the grave, smoothed her crumpled hat, sighed—and walked into the park. Where leaves rustled, where life hummed, and where perhaps, someday, someone new might appear.
But Gerald would always be—the cleverest, finest hedgehog there ever was.
