Tilly’s Gift
WRITTEN BY GLYNIS SCRIVENS
My young neighbour had come to the right place for a helping hand with her birthday emergency…
Hello, Mrs Higgins, can we please talk about Dad’s birthday?”
It was my nine-year-old neighbour Tilly, calling over the side fence. I could just make out the top of her head above the hedge.
“Why don’t you ask your mum if you can come over for a cup of tea?” I suggested. After all, she wouldn’t want her father to overhear.
It was seven on Saturday morning.
“Everyone’s still asleep,” she called back. “So I can’t come over. But we can talk here.”
Her head and shoulders appeared over the hedge. She must be standing on one of their garden chairs. She was in her cream floral nightie, blonde curls tousled.
“That’s better,” she said. “I need your help. I tried talking to Mum last night but she doesn’t understand.”
I felt out of my depth.
“What’s the problem?” I asked, hoping I wouldn’t hear something I ought not to.
Mum just doesn’t realise I’m not a little kid any more.
Tilly had six-year-old twin brothers. Little dynamos.
“You said something about your father’s birthday?’ I asked, hoping to steer our conversation into safer waters.
“Please just wait and let me explain.”
I mimed zipping up my mouth, which pleased her. Learning her elbows on the hedge, she continued.
“Mum said the twins are giving Dad socks and I’m giving him a coffee mug. But it isn’t really a present from me, is it?” she said. “Just something Mum’s bought.”
That was the problem. This was fixable.
“And you’d like to choose your own gift for him, wouldn’t you?”
“I knew you’d understand.” A frown appeared. “But I don’t have any money. And his birthday’s tomorrow.”
“Presents don’t have to cost money.”
“Yes, they do,” she returned.
“My kids often made presents for my birthday,” I explained. “And sometimes they’d give me vouchers for jobs. None of that cost any money and they were great presents.”
She looked interested.
“What was your favourite one?”
I had to think about this. “I don’t remember one favourite,” I ended up saying. “There were so many good ones.”
“Tell me about them.”
“One year my son baked me a banana cake,’ I said. “And your mum gave me an I.O.U. to paint my toenails.”
She laughed. “I can’t paint Daddy’s toenails. But if I could, I’d do them purple.”
“We’ll save that idea for your mum. But you could bake him a cake, couldn’t you? Ask your mum if you can come over to my place this morning. That way it can be a surprise.”
Her eyes lit up at that idea.
“We’ll make him a chocolate cake.”
“Is that Daddy’s favourite?” I asked. “Or yours?’
Her eyes gleamed. “He likes it.”
“You know what I mean, Tilly. What’s his very favourite cake?”
“Madeira cake,” she said. “But that’s boring. It doesn’t even have icing.”
“Who’s the present for?”
My words sank in.
“Could you please help me make a Madeira cake today?” she asked.
“I’d love to. And my chickens have helpfully laid enough eggs for us to do it.”
A voice came from next door’s kitchen window. “Tilly, where are you?”
“See you later.” She disappeared.
At ten past eight there was a knock on the door. It was Tilly with her mum.
“Tilly tells me she’s making a Madeira cake with you,” Laura said. “Are you sure you don’t mind?”
“I’ve already got the ingredients out,” I reassured her.
Tilly raced down the hall.
Half an hour later as I put the tin into the oven, I felt both relieved and pleased. We sat at the table with cups of tea and digestive biscuits.
“Why don’t you make a birthday card while the cake’s cooking?” I suggested.
The card she made gave me a warm glow. She’d drawn the two of us in my kitchen, the mixing bowl on the bench, scattered egg shells, and the cake tin. We had smiley faces and she’d given me blue and red hair.
Next morning I discovered she’d made a second card. It was sitting on my doormat.
Dear Mrs Higgins, you’re invited to morning tea. Love Tilly xx
There was a drawing of the cake with her family gathered around the table. I sat with them. This time my hair was purple – and so were my toenails.
As we all sat sharing the cake later, I thought that one day Tilly might be telling a youngster about the time she didn’t have any money but found a way to give her dad something special on his birthday. Love doesn’t have a price tag.
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Allison Hay
I joined the "My Weekly" team thirteen years ago and, more recently, "The People's Friend". I love the variety of topics we cover both online and in the magazines. I manage the digital content for the brands, sharing features and information on the website, social media and in our digital newsletters.
