“Blaming me, are you? Propped up the kid and vanished. Oh, you… overslept, you daft old…” Mary groaned, shaking her head side to side.
The old, rattling bus was stifling. Air heated to nearly 90 degrees rushed through the open windows, bringing not relief but clouds of road dust. Passengers dozed, sluggish from the heat.
Ahead, the golden domes of a small church peeked over wooden cottages, with the upper floors of red-brick council houses just visible behind. The passengers stirred, collecting their things. The quickest were already pressing toward the exit, eager to escape the sweltering tin can.
Only one woman sat motionless, staring out the window, her hands—veins tracing faint blue lines—resting on her knees. Faded blond hair, dark roots showing, hung in uneven strands, framing her thin, pale face. The corners of her lips drooped, her eyelids lined with fine wrinkles. She looked like someone life had thrashed about and left with no expectations.
With a final lurch, the bus shuddered to a stop in the square outside the church. The crowd jostled impatiently at the doors, desperate for fresh air.
“Love, this is the last stop,” called the balding, portly driver, peering around the divider.
The woman blinked. She was the only passenger left.
“Last stop, time to hop off,” he repeated.
She picked up her small bag at her feet, rose, and shuffled down the aisle.
“Ta,” she muttered, stepping off without looking back.
The bus doors hissed shut behind her. Slowly, she walked toward the cottages. Then—a single church bell tolled, followed by a merry pealing. She stopped, tilted her head skyward, then turned and walked toward the church.
Down the narrow path, bordered by wildflowers, she stepped into the open doors. Cool air, scented with incense, washed over her. A sunbeam, dancing with dust motes, slanted through the nave, pooling on the wooden floor.
Her heels tapped against the floor, scattering the silence. She glanced around and sank onto a bench near the door.
“Feeling poorly? Need water?”
A young woman appeared beside her—scarf knotted at her throat despite the heat, blue eyes full of earnest concern.
“Back in a tick,” the girl said, vanishing, then returning with a glass of water. “Here. Cold from the spring. Even in this heat, it stays fresh.”
Anastasia took the glass. The water was shockingly cold, sharp enough to sting her teeth.
“Anything else, just ask,” the girl murmured, her long dark skirt swishing as she retreated behind a wooden stall cluttered with church trinkets.
Anastasia finished the water and approached the stall, mindful of her heels.
“Ta. You local? Know everyone round here?”
“Small village. Who’re you looking for?” the girl replied eagerly.
“Mary… Featherstone. Know her?”
The girl straightened. “My gran. But she passed last year. You knew her?” She stepped closer, studying the stranger.
“You’re Anastasia, aren’t you?” she asked softly. “I’m Polly.”
***
Eighteen years earlier
Mary sat on the bench by the cottage door, squinting in the evening sun.
“Mum,” came a voice.
Mary turned, shielding her eyes. Standing before her was her daughter—Anastasia—who’d bolted over a year ago. One arm cradled a blanket-swaddled baby; the other clutched a duffel bag.
“Back, then? Knew it’d end like this. Here for good, or just passing through?” Mary asked sharply.
The curtain twitched in the neighbor’s window. Mary heaved herself up.
“Inside. No need to air our dirty laundry,” she grunted, bracing a hand on her knee.
Anastasia hesitated, then followed. Inside, she dropped the bag, crossed to the iron bedstead, and laid the sleeping baby down. She straightened, exhaling.
“Boy or girl?” Mary asked flatly.
“Girl, Polly,” Anastasia murmured, turning.
“Knew it,” Mary sighed. “City life didn’t pan out, eh? What’s your plan?”
“Not now, Mum. I’m knackered.” Anastasia tucked a stray hair behind her ear and sat beside the baby.
“Fine. No rush. Got milk, have you?” Mary eyed her daughter’s hollowed frame. “Suppose not. Off to Nelly’s—she’s got goats. Proper milk, none of that tinned muck.”
“I’ve got formula,” Anastasia said quickly, relieved the storm had passed.
“Poisoning the bairn, are you?” Mary waved her off and trudged to the kitchen nook.
She returned with a jar, ignored her daughter, and left. When she came back, Anastasia was asleep beside the baby, who kicked and grunted, fighting the blanket. Mary watched them both—her wayward girl, the squirming infant—until the baby wailed. Scooping her up, she muttered,
“Hush now. Mum’s here, isn’t she? Dead to the world, though.”
She carried the baby to the sofa, unwrapped her, sighed, dug a nappy from the bag, and changed her. Warming goat’s milk in a pan, she fed the baby, who drifted off content.
Half the night, mother and daughter spat venom, whispering curses. Anastasia wept, pleading for mercy; Mary spat stored-up fury. Dawn crept in before exhaustion claimed them.
A cry woke Mary. She bolted up, rushed to the wailing baby.
“Annie! Look at the state of her—soaked, and starving, no doubt! Annie!” she hissed. No answer but the baby’s shrieks.
“Christ,” Mary whispered, sinking onto the bed. She clutched her chest. “Gone. Bloody bolted. Left me with the lot. You stupid old cow—slept right through it.” She groaned, shaking her head.
“Gone. Clean vanished. Damn you—” The baby’s wails drowned the rest.
“Hush!” Mary snapped. The baby fell silent.
“That’s better. Crying won’t fetch her back. Too far now.” Mary stomped to the kitchen, clattered pans, returned. Changed the sodden nappy, settled the baby with a bottle.
“Like that, do you? Proper milk, not that rubbish. Now what? How do I manage? What’d I do to deserve this? Nearing my grave, and she dumps a baby on me. Coward. The shame of it—”
Anastasia never returned. Polly grew under Mary’s stern hand—fed, clothed, but never coddled. Missteps earned sharp words or a swipe from the broom.
When Polly asked about her mother, Mary shut it down: “Dead. No father either. Just me. And soon, not even that.” She’d cross herself before the grimy icon on the shelf.
Polly would cling, begging, “Don’t die, don’t leave me.”
“Pray I last, then.”
Once, Mary caught Polly gazing at photos of Anastasia. She snatched them, fed them to the stove.
“No mother. No father. Orphan.”
One photo survived—blurred—hidden away for furtive glances.
Polly finished Year 9.
“College. Learn a trade. Your mum scraped through school, still thick as pig muck.”
But Polly dug in, started Year 10.
“Plan to freeload till I croak?” Mary grumbled but relented.
That winter, Mary fell ill—coughs shaking her frail frame. Polly washed her soiled sheets without complaint, warmed milk with honey in the dead of night. By spring, Mary rallied.
Then autumn stole her legs. She refused the hospital. A month later, she was gone.
Polly was alone. Potatoes in the cellar, jars of pickles, jam. She’d manage.
Father Paul visited, crossed himself before the icon, asked her to help in the church.
“Old Annie’s blind as a bat now. Folk don’t pay much, but they bring food.”
Polly agreed. Weekdays: school. Weekends: candle stall, hymns with blind Annie, sweeping up.
Boys gave her wide berth, called her “nun.” She didn’t mind. They’d knock, bolt. No one crossed Father Paul—rumored he’d seen combat before the cassock, carried a soldier’s scars.
So Polly lived, shielded by Father Paul and God.
Finished school, enrolled in nursing college—the only course in town.
Once, she asked Father Paul: “Prayers for Mum—living or dead?”
He pondered.
“Mary said dead? For her, maybe. But I think your mum’s out there—too ashamed to come. Light a candle for the living. Pray she finds her way.”
So Polly did. And waited.
***
“Wait, I’ll just—” Polly scurried about the church, snuffing candles, locking up.
They walked home in silence. Polly didn’t know what to say; Anastasia feared to start.Polly squeezed Anastasia’s hand as they stepped into the cottage, and for the first time in eighteen years, the kettle on the stove whistled like a promise.
