**Diary Entry – 15th June, 1983**
She left me with a child and vanished. “Oh, you… foolish old woman…” Mary groaned, shaking her head side to side.
The ancient, rattling bus was stifling. Through the open windows, thirty-degree heat poured in, bringing not relief but road dust. The passengers dozed, sluggish from the oppressive air.
Ahead, the golden spire of a village church appeared, its wooden cottages clinging like barnacles to its sides. Beyond them rose the rooftops of brick terraced houses. The passengers stirred, gathering their things. The quicker ones lunged for the doors, eager to escape the sweltering bus.
Only one woman remained still, staring blankly out the window. Her hands—veins like blue twigs—rested on her lap. Her hair, bleached but dark at the roots, hung in uneven strands around her gaunt face. The corners of her mouth sagged; her eyelids, thin as parchment, were webbed with fine lines. She looked ill—or beaten down, as if life had wrung her dry.
With a final lurch, the bus groaned to a halt in the square before the church. The crowd jostled impatiently at the doors.
“Miss, this is the end of the line,” called the balding driver, leaning past his partition.
The woman glanced around. The bus was empty but for the two of them.
“Time to go,” he repeated.
She lifted the small bag at her feet and shuffled down the aisle.
“Goodbye,” she murmured, stepping onto the pavement without turning back.
The doors hissed shut behind her. She moved slowly toward the cottages. Then—a church bell rang. One deep note, then a ripple of lighter chimes. She stopped, lifted her face to the sky, then turned and walked toward the church.
A narrow path, flanked by wildflowers, led to the open door. Cool air, sweet with frankincense, washed over her. A shaft of evening light, dust motes dancing, slanted across the wooden floor.
Her heels clicked against the stone, shattering the silence. She sank onto a bench near the door.
“Are you unwell? Would you like some water?”
A young woman—scarf knotted at her throat despite the heat—stood beside her. Her blue eyes held gentle concern.
“Just a moment,” the girl said, vanishing, then returning with a glass. “Here. It’s from the spring nearby. Stays cold even in summer.”
Anastasia took it. The water was so icy it made her teeth ache.
“Ask if you need anything,” the girl murmured, rustling back to a small booth in the corner, where candles and prayer cards were laid out.
Anastasia drained the glass and approached.
“Thank you.” She set it down. “Are you from here? Do you know everyone?”
“It’s a small village. Who are you looking for?”
“Mary… Coleshaw. Do you know her?”
The girl froze. “She was my grandmother. She passed last year.” A pause. “Who are you?”
She stepped closer. “You’re Anastasia, aren’t you? I’m Polly.”
***
**Eighteen Years Earlier**
Mary sat on the bench outside her cottage, squinting against the sunset.
“Mum.”
She turned, shielding her eyes. There stood her daughter—Anastasia—who’d run off over a year ago. In one arm, she cradled a swaddled baby; in the other, a duffel bag.
“Back, then. Knew you’d crawl home. Staying for good, or just passing through?” Mary’s voice was flint.
The curtain in the neighbour’s window twitched. Mary heaved herself up.
“Inside. No need to give the gossips fodder.”
Anastasia hesitated, then followed. She left her bag by the door, laid the baby on the iron bedstead, and exhaled.
“Boy or girl?” Mary asked flatly.
“A girl. Polly.”
Mary sighed. “Knew it. City life didn’t suit you, eh? What’s your plan?”
“Not now, Mum. I’m exhausted.”
Mary’s gaze flicked to Anastasia’s hollowed cheeks. “You’ve no milk, have you? Skin and bone. I’ll fetch some from Nelly—she’s got goats.”
“I brought formula.”
“Poisoning the bairn with chemicals,” Mary muttered, stomping to the kitchen.
She returned with a jar, ignored Anastasia, and left. When she came back, Anastasia was asleep beside the baby. The child fussed, fists punching the blanket. Mary watched them both—the wayward daughter, the helpless granddaughter. Only when the baby wailed did she scoop her up.
“Hush now. Your mum’s right here—though dead to the world.” She changed the nappy, warmed the milk, fed the child.
That night, whispers sharp as knives flew between mother and daughter. Anastasia wept, pleaded; Mary spat grievances like cherry pits. They slept at dawn.
A cry woke Mary. She bolted up.
“Annie! The babe’s wet—and hungry! Annie!” Silence. The baby shrieked louder.
“Lord above—” Mary’s hands flew to her chest. The bed was empty. “She’s gone. Left me with the child. Oh, you wicked girl—!” She rocked, groaning. “Gone, the little parasite—!”
The baby’s wails drowned her curses.
“Quiet!” Mary snapped. The child stilled.
“That’s better. Crying won’t bring her back.” She shuffled to the kitchen, clattered pans, returned. Changed the nappy, shoved a bottle into the baby’s mouth.
“Like that, do you? Proper milk, none of that powdered rubbish. What am I to do with you? Punishment, this is…”
Anastasia never returned. Polly grew under Mary’s stern hand—fed, clothed, but never coddled. When she asked about her mother, Mary shut her down: “Dead. No parents. Just me.” She’d harp on her own looming death, how Polly would be alone.
The girl, terrified, would cling to her. “Pray I live,” Mary would say, crossing herself before the soot-dark icon.
Once, Mary caught Polly staring at a photo of Anastasia. She snatched it, flung it into the stove. “No mother. No father. Orphan.”
But one picture survived—blurred, hidden, cherished.
Polly finished school. “Apprenticeship,” Mary urged. “Your mother had schooling, and look where it got her.”
But Polly insisted on sixth form.
“Think I’ll feed you forever?” Mary grumbled, but let her be.
That winter, Mary fell ill—coughing so hard she wet herself. Polly washed the sheets without complaint, warmed milk with honey at night. By spring, Mary recovered.
But autumn crippled her. She refused hospital. A month later, she was gone.
Polly, alone, lived off the cellar’s potatoes, preserves.
Father Paul visited. “Help at the church,” he offered.
She agreed. Weekdays at school; Sundays running the votive stand, singing hymns with blind Granny Agnes, sweeping the nave.
Boys mocked her—“nun”—but dared no more. Father Paul’s shadow loomed; whispers said he’d seen war before the priesthood.
She finished school, trained as a nurse. Once, she asked Father Paul: “Do I light a candle for Mum’s soul… or her health?”
He pondered. “Mary said she was dead. To her, perhaps she was. But I think your mother lives—somewhere, afraid to return. Light one for her health. Pray she finds her way back.”
So Polly did. And waited.
***
“Wait—” Polly scurried about the church, snuffing candles. Then she locked the heavy door.
They walked home in silence. A neighbour called, “Polly! Company?”
Polly nodded, hurried on.
“That’s Nasty’s girl,” the woman muttered behind them. “Mary swore she was dead.”
Anastasia flinched.
Polly unlocked the cottage. “There’s boiled potatoes. I’ll fry them, fetch milk—”
“Wait.” Anastasia’s voice cracked. “Let me look at you.”
Polly untied her headscarf.
“Lovely hair. Don’t hide it.”
“…How long are you staying?”
Anastasia’s eyes brimmed. “Nowhere else to go. Won’t… send me away?”
Polly’s breath hitched. “No. It’s your home too.”
Anastasia sank to her knees. “You say ‘you.’ I understand—I’m no mother to you. But forgive me, Polly. I meant to leave you at the hospital… but I couldn’t. Your gran wasn’t kind, but she was blood—”
Polly recoiled. “Get up—!”
Anastasia clutched her waist, sobbing into her skirt.
“Ask God’s forgiveness, not mine. But… I forgave you long ago.”
And as the firelight danced on the cottage walls that night, Polly realized that some love, no matter how broken, still finds its way home.
