**Mum for Little Annie**
“Paulie, come and eat,” said Nanny Tilly softly.
“No,” he muttered, staring out the window. “No.”
“Paul, come on.”
“Nooo!” he shrieked, stamping his skinny little legs in knitted brown tights, his feet twisted in protest. “No, Mummy’s there!”
“Mummy will come later. Let’s go.”
“What’s all this noise? Miss Tilson, what’s going on here? Get him to the table now!”
A sharp-faced woman grabbed Paul by the scruff of his shirt and dragged him to the table, forcing cold, grey spaghetti into his mouth as he writhed and wailed. “Eat it, you little brat! Eat!”
The other children clattered spoons against their aluminium bowls, eyes down.
“Why are you like this, Miss Dean? They’re just children,” whispered Nanny Tilly, choking back tears.
“Children?” The woman spat the word like poison. “Little criminals, the lot of them. Just like their thieving, murdering mothers.”
“Aaah!” Paul howled, collapsing to the floor, red-faced and gasping. “Wan’ Mummyeeeee!”
“Shut your mouth, you filthy little runt!”
“What’s all this racket?” Another woman barked from the doorway, and even Paul fell silent.
“This one’s causing trouble. Won’t eat.”
“Who’s his mother?”
“Little Annie Dawson.”
“Oh, *that* madwoman. Take him out—his mum’s here.”
Paul shrieked and bolted past them, crashing into bony knees, scrambling up into thin, familiar arms.
“Mum, Mum, Mum!”
His mother sank to the floor, clutching him, pressing kisses to his ribs, whispering words only they could hear.
“I can’t bear it,” sniffed old Nanny Doris, who’d seen enough sorrow to fill ten novels. “Look how he loves her, and her? Wild as a storm, that one, but loves that boy like nothing else. Shakes with it.”
“Pfft. Loves him? She loves leniency. He’ll be taken soon enough, and she’ll just pop out another. I know their sort.”
“Cruel, you are, Leni.”
“A woman ought to know better, Leni. Have you no heart?”
“She’s got no kids of her own—how could she understand?” muttered a staff member.
“Oh? Tilly’s got none either, but she’s not turned to stone. Forgive me, Tilly.”
“Lot of saints here, ain’t there? They don’t care how many brats they squeeze out or who fathers ’em. Hypocrites.”
“She loves him *here*, but wait till he’s three—she didn’t lift a finger to keep him from the care home, did she? Relatives could’ve taken him. No, she don’t want him. Just a show of tears.”
Tilly walked home after her shift, chewing over Leni’s words. Was she right? Harsh, maybe, but truthful? She’d grown fond of Paul—and his young mum, sharp-eyed Annie Dawson, locked up on a heavy charge.
Oh, Lord.
Tilly had worked her years. Time to retire. Enough saved for her little cottage, waiting empty since her mother passed. No sisters, no brothers, no one left.
Not hardened, no.
She’d raised convicts’ children for years, never letting one under her skin—until Paul.
Paul stood by the window, waiting. His tiny heart *knew*. Any minute now…
“Mummy—”
“Paulie.”
They crumpled into each other, sobbing. What could anyone do?
“Annie,” Tilly called. The girl turned, guarded, smile vanishing. “Annie, we need to talk.”
Trust didn’t come easy here.
“What’s it to you?” Annie asked flatly, after listening. Head tilted, wary.
“It’s for me, not you. I’m alone, Annie. Paul feels like my own. And you… could’ve been my daughter. Not—not that I’m pushing. Just… I want to help. It’ll be hard for him, so little. He’ll forget.”
“I’ll think,” Annie muttered, walking off.
Two days and nights she thought.
“Lose your nerve, Dawson?” a bunkmate sneered. “Your boy’s bound for the care home soon.”
Annie just stared, silent. Unusual for her.
“Sick or something?” the women whispered.
“You meant it? Or was it just talk?”
“I meant it, Annie.”
Annie flinched—*Gran*. That’s what she’d called her as a child.
“How? You’re no one to me.”
“We’ll manage, Annie. Try. If it fails, I’ll go to him. Work at that home. Stay close as long as it takes.”
“Why? I’ve got nothing to pay you.”
“Paul pays me, Annie. With his love.”
“Fine. We’ll try.”
No smile. No thanks.
Tilly pulled every string, called every favour—and somehow, it worked. Paul stayed with her.
“Ta,” Annie rasped, lips dry.
“Mum, I’m goin’ with Gran, then I’ll come back, yeah?”
Annie wiped tears, forcing a smile.
And so her days turned greyer than before. Is this the life she’d wanted?
Then, one day—a visit.
“Dawson, long-term. First in three years.”
Not *him*. Please not—
“Your mum’s here. Go.”
“Muuuum? No, no, tell ’em I’m sick—dead—no!”
“Move it, you little lunatic!”
A shove sent her stumbling into the room—
“Mum! Mum!”
“Paulie—”
It wasn’t her mother. It was Nanny Tilly.
Three days together. By the third evening, Annie spoke haltingly.
“Lived with Gran. Mum had her own life. When Gran died, Mum came back, sold the house. Mine by will, but I was thirteen. She took me in.”
At first, it was almost fun. No rules. Skip school? Fine. Smoke? Go ahead.
Then she found a bloke. Nice at first. Bought things. Took them to the seaside.
Then he started with the ‘discipline.’ The hitting. Her. Then me.
Met Ian at sixteen. He was eighteen.
A year together.
Then… then… *that one* cornered me. Ian came in time. He didn’t get far.
Ian beat him bloody.
He left us alone awhile. Then…
“You took the blame,” Tilly whispered. “They pinned it on you. You were pregnant, underage—but you turned eighteen before Paul came. He talked you into it.”
Annie wiped her eyes. Said no more.
That night, Paul slept pressed to his mother for the first time in his small life.
“Mum wrote a statement. Said she hated me. Said *he* was good. You’re right.”
They never spoke of it again.
Tilly visited with Paul when she could. Annie thawed, bit by bit. Tilly knew the truth—once free, Annie would take Paul and vanish. What then? She didn’t let herself think.
On one visit, she ran into old colleagues.
“You look well, Miss Tilson!”
“Sea air,” Tilly laughed. “And my boy.”
“You’re a fool, Tilly.”
“How’s that, Leni?”
“That convict’ll gut you first chance. Clean you out. Dump the brat in care anyway.”
“You’re cruel, Leni.”
“Better than stupid.”
Annie grew warmer with each visit. Once, she wrote a letter. They replied. Letters flew back and forth—bold on paper, shy in person.
Paul started school. They waited for Annie’s word—when to fetch her.
Then a call from the prison.
Annie’d been released a week ago.
Tilly wept, clutching Paul.
“Gran… Mum’s gone wrong, ain’t she?”
Oh, this tiny soul—what hadn’t he endured?
“No, Paulie. She’ll write soon. We’ll go get her.”
“Gran… look.”
Tilly turned.
There stood Annie, head dipped, smiling.
“Mum!”
“Paulie—”
They clung, sobbing.
Annie rose, met Tilly’s eyes.
“Hello… Mum.”
“Annie. My Annie.”
——————
“Just started school, and now he’s getting married!”
“Oh, Mum, I’m nervous!”
“Me too!”
“Gran, Mum—quit fussin’! All perfect, yeah?”
“Annie, maybe *you* should marry. Always said no ’cause of Paul—”
“Nah, Mum. Better with you. Grandkids next.”
Tilly knew Annie had a man. Sometimes she came home with flowers. Never introducedAnd so the three of them stood together, the past behind them like a fading bruise, while the future stretched ahead—soft, unbroken, and finally theirs.
