I was orphaned at six years old. Mother already had two daughters when she went into labour with her third. I remember it all – Mother’s cries, the neighbours gathering, weeping, then her voice falling silent… Why didn’t they fetch the doctor? Why not take her to the hospital? To this day I can’t understand why. Was our Yorkshire village too remote? Had snowdrifts blocked the roads? There must have been some reason. Mother died in childbirth, leaving us two girls and newborn baby Agnes.
Father was lost after Mother’s death. With no family in those northern parts – all our kin being down south – he had no one to help manage us children. Neighbours urged him to remarry quickly. Barely a week after Mother’s funeral, Father became a suitor. They suggested he court the schoolmistress, saying she was kind-hearted. So Father went. He proposed and was accepted. Likely she fancied him – he was young and handsome then. Tall and straight with eyes black as coal. A man to catch your eye.
That evening Father brought his bride-to-be to meet us. “Here’s your new mother!” Bitter resentment washed over me. Though just a child, some deep instinct sensed wrongness in this. The house still smelt of Mother. We wore dresses sewn and laundered by her hands, yet already he’d found her replacement. Nowadays I comprehend his actions, but back then I hated them both at that moment.
What thoughts crossed the schoolmistress’s mind I’ll never know, but she entered arm-in-arm with Father. Both were slightly tipsy. “Call me Mama and I’ll stay,” she announced. I told my little sister: “She isn’t Mama. Our mama died. Don’t call her that!” My sister wept as I stepped forward: “No we shan’t! You’re not our mama. You’re a stranger!” “My, what a saucy tongue!” she exclaimed. “Then I’ll not stay.” Out she went. Father made to follow, but paused at the threshold, head bowed. Then he turned, gathered us up, and wept aloud – and we wailed alongside him. Even baby Agnes whimpered in her cradle. We mourned our mother, Father his beloved wife, yet our tears held greater sorrow. All orphans’ tears are the same worldwide, and a child’s longing for their mother transcends language. That single occasion remains the only time I witnessed Father weep.
Father stayed two more weeks. He worked for the timber company, where his team was bound for the northern woods. What choice had he? Other work was scarce in our hamlet. He arranged with a neighbour to cook for us, left coins for food, carried Agnes to another neighbour, and departed for the forests.
Now we were truly alone. The neighbour would come, warm the stove, cook, then leave – her own brood demanded attention. We spent endless days cold, hungry and terrified.
Villagers conferred about our plight. A woman was needed to save our family – but not just any woman. Someone extraordinary who’d embrace another’s children as her own. Where to find such a soul?
Through whispered conversations, they learnt of a distant cousin to one villager – a childless woman whose husband had abandoned her. Some said her babe had died; others that she’d never conceived. None knew the full tale, yet they found her address. A letter was sent through Aunt Martha to summon Ellen.
Father was still in the high woods when Ellen came to us at dawn. She entered so quietly we heard nothing. I woke to footsteps in our cottage – someone moving about the kitchen, clattering crockery like Mother used to. And that smell! Pancakes frying! My sister Mary and I peered through the door-crack. Ellen moved softly about her tasks: scrubbing dishes, washing floors. Finally she realised we were awake. “Come along then, little snowdrops! Time for our breakfast!” We marvelled at being called snowdrops – Mary and I really were fair-haired and blue
I became an orphan at six years old. Mother already had two girls when she went into labour with a third. I recall her cries, the neighbours gathering, weeping, until her voice fell silent… Why didn’t they summon a doctor? Why not take her to the hospital in Portsmouth? To this day, I cannot fathom it. Was the journey too far? Had the snow blocked the roads down to Plymouth? I shall never know the true reason. Mother died giving birth, leaving my sister and me, and the newborn baby, Olivia.
Father was lost after Mother’s passing. Our kin were all in the West Country, far from our home near the Welsh marches; no one could help him manage. The neighbours urged him to remarry swiftly. Barely a week after Mother’s burial, he was a suitor. They suggested he approach the village schoolmistress, praising her kind nature. He went, proposed, and she accepted. Perhaps he caught her eye? He was young and handsome – tall, slender, with jet-black, gypsy-dark eyes one could gaze upon forever.
Anyway, he brought his bride home by dusk. “And I’ve brought you a new mother!” Such bitterness surged through me, a childish heart sensing wrong where reason could not. The house still smelled of Mother. We still wore dresses sewn and washed by her hands, and already he offered a replacement. Now, years later, I understand him; then, I despised him and the woman with him. What she thought of us, I shan’t guess, but she walked in clinging to Father’s arm. Both were slightly merry with drink. “Will you call me Mother?” she asked us. “If you do, I’ll stay.”
I nudged my younger sister. “She isn’t our mother. Our mother died. Don’t call her that!” My sister wept, but I, the eldest, spoke up. “No, we won’t! You’re not our mother. You’re a stranger!” “Such a chatterbox!” she scoffed. “Well then, I shan’t stay.” The teacher turned to the door. Father moved to follow but halted on the threshold. He stood, head bowed, then turned back, gathered us in his arms, and wailed. We wept with him. Even little Olivia fretted in her cot. We mourned our mother; he wept for his beloved wife. Yet in our tears lay greater desolation. An orphan’s grief is the same across the world; the ache for a lost mother knows but one tongue. That was the only time I ever saw Father weep.
He remained another fortnight. He worked for the Forestry Commission, his crew bound for the woods near Sheffield. There was no other work. He paid a neighbour to mind our provisions, left Olivia with another, and departed for the forests.
Then we were alone. The neighbour would cook, light the stove, and leave – her own chores demanded. We spent long days cold, hungry, and afraid. The village debated how to aid us. A woman was needed to save the household. Not just any woman, but one capable of embracing another’s children as her own. Where find such a person?
Through talk, they discovered a distant relation of a villager: a young woman abandoned by her husband because she was thought barren, or perhaps she’d lost a child – none knew for sure. They found her address, sent a letter through Aunt Martha, and summoned Zina for us.
Father was still away logging when Zina arrived at dawn. She stepped in so silently we never heard. I awoke to footsteps in the house. Someone moved like Mother, dishes clinked in the kitchen, and the scent… pancakes! My sister and I peeked through a crack. Zina worked quietly: washing dishes, scrubbing floors. Finally, sensing we were awake, she said, “Come on then, poppets, time for breakfast!”
We marvelled at her calling us ‘poppets’. My sister and I, fair-haired and blue-eyed like Mother, took courage and entered. “Sit at the table!” No need to ask twice. We devoured pancakes and began to trust this woman. “Call me Aunt Zina,” she instructed. Later, she bathed me and Vera, washed all our clothes, and left. The next day, we waited. She came! The house transformed under her touch. Clean and tidy once more, like Mother kept it. Three weeks passed. Father returned from the woods. Aunt Zina cared for us perfectly, faultlessly, yet she seemed anxious and held us at a distance. Vera especially reached for her. She was only three. I was cautious. This Aunt Zina was stern, unsmiling. Our mother had been merry, singing songs, loving to dance, calling Father ‘Johnny’.
“What’s your father like?” she asked one day. “Suppose he returns and doesn’t want me?” Clumsily, I began praising him and nearly ruined everything! “He’s good!” I blurted. “Gentle! Has a drink and goes straight to sleep!” Aunt Zina stiffened. “Often?” “Often!” piped up Vera. I kicked her under the table. “No! Only at Christmas!” Aunt Zina left that evening calmer. Father returned late. He entered, looked around astonished. “I feared you’d be utterly forlorn, yet you live like little duchesses!”
We told him everything we could. He sat, thoughtful, then said, “Right. Best go and set eyes on this new keeper of my hearth. What’s she like?” “A beauty,” Vera rushed in. “She makes pancakes and tells stories!” Remembering now, I smile. By no measure was Zina a beauty—petite, thin, rather faded. But what do children grasp of such things? Or perhaps only they see true beauty?
Father chuckled, put on his coat, and went to nearby Aunt Martha’s. The next morning, he brought Zina back himself. He rose early, fetched her, and Zina entered timidly, as if fearing something. I whispered to Vera, “Let’s call *her* Mother. She’s good!” And Vera and I cried out together, “Mother! Mother’s here!” Father and Zina fetched little Olivia together. For Olivia, Zina became a true mother, doting on her. Olivia knew no other. Vera forgot our first mother. Only I remember her always, and Father remembers. I once overheard Father, looking at Mother’s portrait, whisper softly, “Why did you leave so soon? You took all my joy with you.”
I didn’t live long with Father and stepmother. By fourth form I went to boarding school; our village lacked a proper grammar school. After secondary school, I trained at the technical college. I always yearned to leave home early. Why? Zinadia – for that was her proper name – never wronged me by word or deed; she cared for me as her own. Yet I remained distant. Was I ungrateful?
Choosing midwifery for my profession felt no accident. I cannot turn back the clock and save my own mother, but keeping other mothers safe has become the purpose of my days. She ensured that her own loss became a shield against the sorrow of others.
