Left to Navigate Life at Six

I became an orphan at six. Mother already had two girls when she bore the third. I remember it all – her cries, the neighbor women gathering, weeping, how Mother’s voice finally fell silent…
Why didn’t they fetch the doctor? Why not take her to hospital in Lancaster? Even now, I can’t fathom it. Why? Was the village too far? The roads blocked? I still don’t know; surely there *was* a reason?
Mother died giving birth, leaving us two and tiny new-born Poppy. Father was lost after her death. No family here in the Lake District; all were back East. No one to help him manage. Neighbors advised a quick remarrying. Not a week passed after Mother’s funeral before Father was a suitor.
They suggested courting the village schoolmistress, said she was a kindly soul. Father went. Proposed. She consented. Did she fancy him? He was young, handsome certainly: tall and straight, eyes black as pitch – Gypsy eyes. You could get lost in them.
Still, he brought his bride home that evening for us to see.
“I’ve fetched you a new mum!” Bitterness, sharp and thick, rose in me. A child’s heart sensed something wrong. The house still smelled of Mother. We wore dresses stitched and washed by her hands, and already he’d found a replacement. Now, with years passed, I understand him. Then? I hated him, and her with him. What tales she spun about us, I’ll never know, but she entered arm-in-arm with Father. Both slightly tipsy. “Call me Mum,” she said, “and I’ll stay.”
I whispered to my little sister, “She isn’t our mum. Ours died. Don’t call her!”
Violet burst into tears. As the elder, I stepped forward. “No! We won’t! You’re not Mum. You’re a stranger!”
“Cheeky little madam! Well, then I shan’t stay.” The teacher marched out. Father made to follow, stumbled on the threshold, and halted. Stood head bowed. Then turned. Came to us. Embraced us. And wept – wept aloud. We wailed with him. Even little Poppy fretted in her cradle. We lamented our mother; he, his beloved wife. But our tears held deeper sorrow. An orphan’s tears are the same across the world; an orphan’s longing for Mother, one tongue beneath all skies. That was the first and last time I ever saw Father cry.
Father stayed two weeks more. He worked for the Forestry Commission; his crew went deep into the moors. What else? No other work. He arranged with a neighbor, left Pounds for food, took Poppy to another, and vanished into the trees.
Alone. Neighbor came, cooked, lit the stove, left. Her own tasks piled high. We were alone, days long: cold, hungry, afraid.
The village pondered aid. Needed a woman to save this family. Not just any. Special. One to take strange children as her own. Where find such?
Through town whispers, they learned of a distant cousin to a villager: a young woman cast aside by her husband for barrenness. Or perhaps a child once, but lost; God granted no more – the truth was murky. They found an address, wrote a letter, and through this auntie Marge, fetched us Ada.
Father was still in the logging camp when Ada arrived at dawn. She entered so softly, we didn’t hear.
I awoke. Footsteps inside. Moving, just like Mother! The clink of pots and pans! And a smell! Pancakes baking!
Violet and I peeked through a crack. Ada worked quietly: washing dishes, scrubbing floors. Sensing our wakefulness from the sounds:
“Come along then, snowdrops! Let’s eat!”
Snowdrops? We were puzzled. Violet and I were fair-haired, blue-eyed – like Mother.
We gathered courage. Crept out.
“Sit down!” We needed no second asking. Gorged on pancakes, already trusting this woman.
“Call me Auntie Ada. So you shall.”
Later, Auntie Ada bathed Violet and me, washed our things, and left. Next day we waited: she returned! The house transformed under her care. Clean and tidy again, like under Mother. Weeks blurred into days. Father roamed the moors. Auntie Ada cared faultlessly, yet seemed to us to hold back, denying attachment. Violet especially clung. Only three then. I was wary. This Auntie Ada was stern. Unsunny. Our mother had been joyful, singing, dancing, calling Father “Jackie.”
“When your father returns… suppose he won’t have me. What’s he like?”
I botched my praise so badly, nearly spoiling things! “He’s good! Quiet, like! Drinks ale and straight to sleep!”
Auntie Ada stiffened. “Often?”
“Often!” piped Violet. I kicked her under the table. “Only holidays!”
Auntie Ada left, appeased. Father returned that dusk. Entered. Looked around, amazed. “Thought you’d be despairing! Living like princesses!”
We told the tale best we could. Father sat. Paused. Then, “Well… I’ll go see this new housekeeper. What’s she like?”
“A beauty!” Violet rushed. “Bakes pancakes! Tells tales!”
Now, remembering, I smile. By no measure could Ada be called beautiful. Thin. Small. Faded. Yet… beauty? What do children know? Or perhaps… only they truly understand it?
Father chuckled. Dressed. Went off to Auntie Marge down the lane.
Next day, Father brought Ada himself. Rose early, fetched her. Again, she entered timidly, afraid.
I nudged Violet. “Let’s call *her* Mum. She’s kind!”
We shouted together, “Mum! Mum’s here!”
Father and Ada fetched Poppy together later. For her, Ada became a true mother. Brushed every speck from her. Poppy recalled no mother. Violet forgot. Only I remember, always. And Father remembers. Once, eavesdropping, I heard him, gazing at Mother’s photograph, murmur softly, “Why so soon gone? You took all my joy with you.”
I lived little longer with Father and her. Boarding school from Fourth Form – no large school in the village. Trade college after Form Seven. Always rushing to leave. Why?
Ada never hurt me, word or deed. Protected me as her own. Yet I hung back. Ungrateful?
Midwifery? My chosen path wasn’t chance. I cannot wind the clock, save my mother… but I can guard another’s dawn.