For Angela, one of Stocksbridge Writing Group who sadly died recently. She would always regale us in the antics of her character Dirty Berty.

Berty walked along the street with a little spring in his step. The morning sun poured golden light across the rooftops and warmed his cheeks. Today felt different somehow. Good, maybe. Like the sort of day where nice things might happen.

Even though the sky was clear and blue, Berty still wore the green wellies Mrs Butler had given him a few months ago. They were a little scuffed now, with dried mud around the soles, but he loved them. They made his feet feel safe.

A ginger cat sat stretched along a low stone wall, soaking up the early sunshine as though it belonged to it.

Berty slowed down.

“Morning,” he whispered.

The cat lifted its head and blinked sleepy yellow eyes at him. Berty held out his hand. After a moment, the cat leaned into it.

Berty smiled.

He stroked its warm fur, soft as feathers under his fingertips. Animals always seemed to trust him. Cats and dogs never laughed when he spoke too quietly. They never pointed or whispered behind his back. They never called him names or told him he couldn’t play.

They just stayed.

And sometimes staying was enough.

Then, from across the village, the school bell rang. Not a gentle ring. A loud, sharp clang-clang-clang that bounced off the houses like it was cross with the whole world.

Berty jumped.

Late again.

“Sorry,” he told the cat.

He gave it one last stroke and ran as fast as he could, his wellies thudding against the pavement.

By the time he reached school his chest hurt, and his breath came in little gasps. Inside the assembly hall everyone was already lined up. Berty slipped quietly into place and looked around. That was when he noticed Mrs Butler wasn’t there. His stomach gave a strange little twist. Mrs Butler was always early. Always smiling. Always busy arranging hymn books or whispering something funny to one of the teachers.

Maybe she slept in, Berty thought.

He almost smiled to himself, wondered if the headmistress would tell her off for being late like she did him. He hoped not.

Assembly felt longer than usual. The hymn dragged. The prayer dragged even more. When they finally went back to class, Berty waited for the usual story before arithmetic. But it didn’t come. Miss Windsor stood at the front with her hands folded tightly together.

“Page twenty-six,” she said quietly. “Times tables.”

A groan rose inside Berty’s head.

Times tables. His least favourite. He opened his book and stared at the numbers until they blurred into each other like tiny black ants marching across the page. Usually Miss Windsor walked around checking everyone’s work. Today she stayed at her desk, staring out of the window.

Berty thought about Mrs Butler. When he’d been in her class she made times tables into songs. Two times four is eight, don’t be late, don’t be late. She used to clap while they sang until everyone laughed.

Even Berty.

Especially Berty.

He wished he was back there now.

The playtime bell rang. Outside, the playground buzzed with noise. Girls hopping over chalk squares. Boys kicking an old tin can across the yard like it was a football. Children shouting.

Laughing.

Running.

But not with Berty.

He wandered slowly past them all until he found a wall to sit on.

Then he heard a voice.

“Hey, Dirty Berty.”

David.

Berty’s shoulders tightened.

“Have you heard Butler snuffed it?”

Berty frowned.

He didn’t understand.

One of the boys beside David snorted.

“He doesn’t know what that means.”

David grinned.

“Oh yeah. Forgot.”

He stepped closer.

“Mrs Butler’s dead.”

The words hit Berty like cold water.

Dead?

No.

That couldn’t be right. Mrs Butler couldn’t be dead.

Not Mrs Butler.

Not the person with warm peppermint humbugs in her pocket and chalk on her sleeves. Not the person who always made room for him.

His eyes stung. He blinked hard. Too late.

“Dirty Berty’s crying!” David shouted.

The others joined in.

“Dirty Berty’s crying! Dirty Berty baby!”

Berty leapt off the wall and ran. Past the skipping ropes. Past the football game. Past the playground gate.

Mrs Butler wasn’t dead. David was lying. He had to be.

Miss Windsor stopped him at the school door.

“Berty? Where are you going?”

He could barely get the words out.

“Miss… David’s saying things… he said Mrs Butler… he said…”

Miss Windsor looked at him properly then. Saw his wet cheeks. Saw the panic in his eyes. She gently took him by the shoulders and led him back inside the classroom.

“It’s not true, is it?” Berty whispered.

Miss Windsor didn’t answer straight away, but before she turned around, Berty already knew. When she faced him again, tears shone in her eyes.

“I’m so sorry, Berty,” she said. “It’s true.”

The room suddenly felt too still.

Too quiet.

As though all the air had left it. Berty’s tears spilled over before he could stop them.

Mrs Butler.

Gone.

His mind filled with memories all at once.

Her bright laugh. Her soft cardigans that smelled faintly of lavender. Her hands pinning his paintings proudly on the classroom wall beside everyone else’s. Not tucked away in the corner. Not forgotten. Right in the middle. The way she bent down to help him with his sums without ever making him feel silly. The way she told David to leave him alone. The way she always smiled when Berty walked through the classroom door, as if she’d been waiting for him. When he cried, she always had a humbug ready.

When the rain lashed against the windows and everything outside looked grey and miserable, Mrs Butler somehow made the room feel sunny anyway. She made ordinary days feel warm.

Safe.

Like belonging.

“I wish she was here,” Berty whispered.

Miss Windsor sat beside him.

“So do I.”

For a while neither of them spoke.

Then Miss Windsor said softly, “Try to remember the happy times with her, Berty. She wouldn’t want us to only think about being sad. She’d want us to remember the laughter. The songs. The kindness she gave everyone.”

Berty nodded, though tears still rolled down his cheeks.

He looked down at his muddy green wellies.

Mrs Butler had knelt beside him one rainy afternoon and handed them over with a smile.

“Every explorer needs proper boots,” she’d said.

Berty touched the worn rubber with his fingertips. And in his mind he saw her face again.

Smiling.

Bright as summer.

He knew then that every time he pulled those wellies on, every splash in every puddle, every muddy walk to school, he would carry a little piece of Mrs Butler with him.

And somehow that made the sadness ache a little less.