ORPHANS
There were already two little girls in our family, and Mum was having her third child. I remember it all: Mums cries, the neighbours gathering round, their tears, how her voice gradually faded away
Why didnt anyone call the doctor, or take her to the hospital? I still cant make sense of it. Was the surgery too far? Had the road been snowed in? Ill never know why. There must have been a reason. Mum died in childbirth, leaving the two of us and our tiny newborn, Emily.
Dad was lost after Mum died. We had no relatives here, in the north of Yorkshire; everyone was back in the south, so there was no one to help Dad with us girls. The neighbours advised Dad to marry again, and he did. It wasnt even a week after Mums funeral before Dad was courting.
They advised him to propose to the schoolteacher, said she was a kind woman. So off he went, proposed, and she agreed. I suppose Dad took her fancy. He was young and rather handsomea tall, slender man with deep, dark eyes; one of those men you cant help but notice.
Anyway, that evening Dad brought the fiancée home.
Ive brought you a new Mum! he announced.
A wave of bitterness washed over me. My heart sensed something wrong, not my head. The house still smelt of Mum. We were still wearing dresses shed sewn and washed for us. Yet here he was with a new mother. Looking back now, I understand him, but back then I resented him and the new woman with all my being. Whatever she may have thought of us, I dont know, but she walked into the house with Dad, both of them slightly tipsy, and she said,
Call me Mum, and Ill stay.
Shes not our mother. Our real mum is dead. Dont call her that, my little sister sobbed.
I stepped forward as the eldest. No, we wont! Youre not our mother. Youre a stranger!
Well, someones talkative! In that case, I wont stay with you lot.
With that, the teacher left, and Dad looked as if hed follow, but paused at the doorframe, didnt move. He stood there, head low, then turned, came to us, hugged us tight, and suddenly burst into loud tears. We all started sobbing along with him. Even little Emily began to whimper in her cot. We mourned the loss of our mum, and Dad, his beloved wife, but there was more sorrow in our tears than in his. Orphans tears are the same everywhere, and the yearning for a mother is the same in any tongue. That was the first and last time I ever saw Dad cry.
Dad stayed with us for a couple more weeks before heading back to work at the forestry commission. His crew were setting off for the woods, and there was no other work in the village. He made arrangements with a neighbour: left money for food, left baby Emily with another neighbour, and off he went to do his job.
So, we were left alone. The neighbour would stop by, cook, light the fire, then head off again; she had enough of her own to do. And we spent our days alone in the cold, hungry and frightened.
The village fretted over what to do with us. We needed a woman to bring our family together again. Not just anyonea woman whod accept us as her own. But where could you find one like that?
Eventually, in their talk, they remembered a distant cousin of a villager, a young woman called Margaret, whose husband had left her because she couldnt have children. Or perhaps shed lost her child and never had anotherno one really knew. Either way, they got her address, sent off a letter, and our neighbour Aunt Betty managed to get Margaret to come.
Dad was still away in the woods when Margaret arrived early one morning.
She came in so quietly we didnt hear her. I woke up to the sound of footstepssomeone moving around, just like Mum used to, pots and pans clinking in the kitchen and oh, the smell! Pancakes were frying!
My sister and I peeked out timidly. Margaret moved softly as she tidied, washed dishes and scrubbed the floors. At last, she twigged from the noises that we were awake.
Come along now, blondies, breakfasts ready! she called.
It sounded funny to be called blondies. But she was rightwe were as fair as could be, blue eyes and yellow hair like Mum.
Gaining our courage, we came out.
Sit yourselves down! she said.
We didnt need telling twice. We gobbled the pancakes and began to feel at ease with this woman.
You can call me Aunt Margaret, she said.
Later, she bathed us, washed all our things, and left. Next day we waited; she came again! The house was transformed under her hands: spotless and homely, just as Mum liked it. Three weeks passed and Dad was still off in the woods. Aunt Margaret looked after us as if we were her own, but you could tell she kept emotionally distant. My little sister clung to her, naturallyshe was only three. Me, I was wary; Aunt Margaret was strict, didnt smile much. Our Mum had been cheerful, loved to sing and dance, called Dad Johnny.
Aunt Margaret once asked, Your daddyou think hell accept me? Whats he like?
I awkwardly tried to sing Dads praises, but nearly said too much. Hes a good man! Quiet, really. Gets drunk and then just sleeps, I blurted.
Does he drink a lot? she asked.
Often! piped up my sister, so I kicked her under the table and said, No, just on holidays.
Aunt Margaret left that evening reassured, and Dad arrived home from the woods that night. He looked around in surprise.
I expected to find you miserable, and yet you look like princesses!
We told him all that had happened. Dad sat in thought, then said, Well, I suppose Id best meet this new housekeeper. Whats she like?
Shes beautiful! piped up little Vera. She makes pancakes and tells stories.
Looking back, I cant help but smile. By no ordinary measure could Margaret be called a beauty. She was small, thin, rather plainbut what do children know? Or perhaps only children really know where the true beauty lies.
Dad laughed, put on his coat and went to see Aunt Betty, who lived just down the road.
Next morning, Dad brought Margaret to us himself. He got up early, fetched her over, and she tiptoed into the house as if she was afraid.
I whispered to Vera, Lets call her Mumshes good!
And we both called out together, Mum, Mums here!
Dad and Margaret went to fetch baby Emily, and it was for her that Margaret became a real mother. She cherished her endlessly. Emily wouldnt remember Mum. Vera had already forgotten, but I never would, and neither would Dad. Once, I overheard Dad looking at an old photograph of Mum, quietly saying,
Why did you leave so soon? You took away all my happiness with you.
I didnt spend much more time at home after that. By year four I was away at a boarding schoolthere werent proper schools nearbyand after year seven I went on to college. I was always eager to leave home sooner rather than later. Why was that? Margaret never once raised her voice or a hand against melooked after me as her ownyet I always kept her at arms length. Was I ungrateful?
I dont think it was by chance that I became a midwife. I cant go back in time and save my mum, but perhaps I can save anotherMaybe I wanted to save other mothers, to keep their children from aching like I did. Maybe I wanted to stand in that quiet space between life and death, with steady hands and a calm heart, to tip the balance toward hope. So many nights, in dim-lit cottages and hushed hospital wards, I heard the first gasping wail of a newborn and watched mothers faces kindle with joy, and something in me slowly healed.
Years later, when I had children of my own, I saw in Margarets small gesturesthe way she folded a blanket, or tucked hair behind an eara quiet, relentless love. She was in the way my daughter curled into my arms, in the patient untangling of my sons laces. I understood, then, how love settles in without asking, and how it grows roots in places you thought were only emptiness.
One winter, I visited Margaretnow silver-haired, stooped but sharp-eyedbringing her thick socks and ginger biscuits. We sat by the fire, sharing tea, and in the hush that falls between old companions she took my hand in hers, dry and gentle.
You did well, she said, not meaning my job or my home or anything you could list on paper. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears, pride mingled with the tender pain of our years apart. You carried on.
In that simple warmth, forgiveness wove itself through my heart, quiet as snow drifting over the Yorkshire hills. Grief remaineda softness inside mebut so did gratitude. I remembered the scent of pancakes at dawn, the steadying hand on my back, the hard-won gift of another mothers love.
When I said goodbye and stepped into the dusk, I looked back once. Light spilled from Margarets window. Inside, old sorrows had made space for something softer: a home, pieced together and held fast by all of usmy father, my sisters, Margaret, and the memory of Mumeach lending a different kind of love. And in the world outside that window, I carried it forward, certain finally that no child need ever truly be an orphan, so long as someone, somewhere, was willing to begin again.
