Isla Wanted a Kind Word

Isla wanted to say one kind word to the man with the wheelbarrow, before the bell rang.

He had come late to the greenhouse, when everyone else was packing up. The air was warm and steamy. Red tomatoes hung in rows like little lanterns. Isla was helping Gran fill a basket, and the man was a stranger, with muddy boots and a very droopy hat.

"Gran, he looks sad," Isla whispered.

"The bell rings at five," said Gran. "Then the gate shuts."

Isla walked up to him. Her kind word got stuck. Out came only a squeak.

"Eep."

"Pardon?" said the man.

She tried a whisper. But the fans whirred and the pipes hissed, and he cupped his hand to his ear. So she tried a big loud voice.

"TOMATO!"

The man blinked. "Yes," he said. "Tomato." He sighed.

Isla looked in his wheelbarrow. There was a crate of tiny green seedlings, every one flopped over from the bumpy road. He touched one gently, the way you touch a sleeping bird.

Isla stopped. She did not need a big word. She needed a true one.

She picked the reddest tomato on the vine and held it up. Then she said, in her ordinary voice, "Thank you for bringing them. They came a long way. They are brave."

The man's droopy hat lifted a little, because his eyebrows had gone up. Then he smiled all the way across his face.

"Well," he said. "That's the nicest thing anyone's said all day."

Clang! went the bell.

Isla gave him the tomato. He tucked it in his pocket, pushed the wheelbarrow out through the gate, and walked into the evening fog. The fog was the kind that keeps whatever is left in it until morning.

Isla stood at the gate and listened. Soft as cotton wool, in the grey, the words hung there.

"Brave," said the fog, very quietly. "They are brave."