Orphaned at Six: My Mother Was Awaiting Her Third Child
I lost my mother when I was just six years old. She already had two daughters, my younger sister and me, and she was due to have her third child. I can remember it all, as if it were yesterday the way my mother screamed, the neighbours gathering in the small cottage, the way they wept the moment my mothers voice faded away…
Why didnt anyone call for the doctor, or take my mother to hospital? I never understood. Was it because we lived so far away, tucked in our little village in the Cotswolds? The roads outside, thick with ice and snow? I still dont know, but there must have been some reason. My mother died giving birth, leaving my older sister and me, and our newborn, Penelope.
After her passing, my father was utterly lost. We had no family around they were all up north, far from us, and no one to help Dad look after us. Well-meaning neighbours urged him to remarry quickly. Barely a week after Mums funeral, Dad was already engaged.
They suggested he court the villages schoolteacher, saying she had a kind heart. My father paid her a visit and she agreed, seemingly fond of him. I admit, Dad was a handsome man, young and striking, tall and slim with the darkest brown eyes eyes you could almost drown in.
Anyway, that evening, Dad brought his fiancée home to introduce her.
Ive brought you a new mother, he announced with forced cheer.
Anger and bitterness welled inside me. I couldn’t understand it then, but I knew, even in my little girls heart, something was terribly wrong. The house still smelled of Mum. We wore dresses that shed sewn and washed, and already he was giving us another mother. Looking back, I see why he did it, but at the time, I hated them both. I cant tell what she thought of us, but she entered arm-in-arm with Dad, both of them a little tipsy.
She said,
Call me Mummy, and Ill stay.
I whispered fiercely to my younger sister,
Shes not our mum. Ours is gone. Never call her that.
My sister burst into sobs, and I, being oldest, stepped forwards.
No, we will not call you Mummy. Youre not our mother. Youre a stranger!
Such fire from a little girl! Then I shant stay with you, the teacher replied, offended.
She left, and Dad seemed torn, lingering at the doorway. Then he gathered us up and wept in a way I hadnt seen before loud, hot tears we shared together. Even tiny Penelope in her crib woke and whimpered. We mourned Mum, and Dad mourned his beloved wife, but somehow our grief was heavier. Orphan tears really are the same everywhere, and longing for a mother is universal, whatever tongue you speak. That night was the first and last time I saw Dad cry.
Dad stayed just two more weeks his work was in the timber yards, and his shift was due to leave for the woods. What could he do? There were no other jobs to be had in the village. He arranged for a neighbour to keep us fed, left a bit of money (about thirty pounds) for our meals, handed Penelope to another neighbour, and set off.
We were left to ourselves. The neighbour would stop by, heat the stove, cook a meal, then leave again. She had her own family and matters to attend to. All day, my sister and I were alone cold, hungry, frightened. The village soon began to murmur and worry about us. It was clear we needed a woman who would embrace someone elses children. But where could Dad find such a woman?
Word spread, and it turned out a cousin of one of the villagers knew a young woman, abandoned by her husband because she couldnt have children of her own or maybe shed lost a child, after which no others came, no one knew for sure. They found her address and, through another aunt (Auntie Beatrice), they wrote and invited her.
Dad was still away in the woods when Auntie Beatrice Bea arrived one early morning. She entered so quietly we didnt hear a thing. I woke up to the sound of footsteps about the house someone in the kitchen, the clatter of cutlery, and the smell of pancakes drifting toward our little room.
My sister and I peeked through a crack in the door, watching as Bea washed dishes and swept the floors. At last, she heard us moving and called out,
Come along, my little blondies! Breakfast is ready!
We were startled she called us that fair-haired, blue-eyed, just like our mum had been.
Summoning our courage, we slipped out of our room.
Sit down, you two! she ordered warmly.
And we did, tucking in to the best pancakes wed had in ages, beginning to trust this lady.
You may call me Auntie Bea, she said.
Later, Auntie Bea bathed us, bundled up our clothes, and then left. She returned the next day, set the house to rights so clean and tidy, just as it was when Mum was alive. For three weeks more, while Dad was in the woods, she cared for us, doing her best, but always a touch distant, never allowing my little sister to grow too attached, though little Victoria, being just three, tried desperately. I was more cautious. Where our real mother had been so joyful, fond of singing and dancing, calling my father Harry, Bea was strict and reserved.
Bea would ask questions:
What will happen when your father gets back from the woods? What sort of man is he?
Trying to make Dad sound splendid, I blurted,
Hes wonderful! Ever so gentle! When hes had a drink, he falls asleep straight away!
At this, Bea grew suspicious,
Does he drink often?
Oh yes! piped up Victoria, and I nudged her under the table. No, no, just on special occasions, I tried to correct.
That evening, Bea seemed appeased, and that very night Dad returned from the forest. He entered and took in the sight a clean, warm home, tidy children.
I expected you to be in rags, but look at you! Like little princesses!
Pleased, we told him everything about Auntie Beas pancakes and stories. Dad sat, thoughtful, then declared,
I ought to meet this new housekeeper. Whats she like?
Shes beautiful, said Victoria, and she makes pancakes, and tells stories.
I smile now when I think back to that. By village standards, Bea was hardly beautiful slight, plain and quiet but what do children know about true beauty?
Dad laughed, slipped on his coat, and went to the cottage next door. The very next morning, he collected Bea and brought her back, she shy as a mouse, like she didnt dare put a foot wrong.
I whispered to Victoria,
Lets call her Mummy. Shes kind.
And in unison, we shouted,
Mummy! Mummys here!
Dad and Bea fetched Penelope together. To her, Bea was nothing less than a real mother. She doted on her a beloved treasure. Penelope would never remember her birth mother, Victoria would all but forget, but I remembered as did Dad. I once caught him staring at mums old photograph, whispering softly,
Why did you leave so soon? When you left, you took all my joy away.
I didnt stay long with Dad and Auntie Bea. By my fourth year of primary, I was sent off to boarding school no upper school round our way then off to technical college by year seven. Id always wanted to leave home, though I never knew why. Auntie Bea had never once been unkind, never raised a hand or voice, always protected me as her own, but still, I avoided letting myself love her. Does that make me ungrateful?
I chose to become a midwife, perhaps for a reason. I can’t go back to save my own mother, but I will be there for others to guard another mothers life.
Looking back, the lesson I learned is that wounds can heal, even if scars remain. Love can come from the most unexpected places, and sometimes, the family we make is as precious as the one we lose.
Orphaned at Six: My Mother of Two Was Expecting a Third Child—A Childhood Marked by Tragedy, Stepmot…
