Orphaned at Six

I was orphaned at six. Mum already had us two girls when she went into labour with the third. I remember her screams, the neighbours gathering and weeping, then her voice falling silent… Why didn’t they fetch a doctor? Why not take her to hospital? I still can’t grasp it. Why? Was the village too far? Roads snowed under? There must have been some reason? Mum died giving birth, leaving us two and the tiny newborn, Daisy.
Dad was lost after Mum died. We had no kin out here in Cornwall; all were back East. No one could help. Neighbours urged Dad to remarry quickly. Barely a week after Mum’s funeral, he was courting. They suggested the village teacher, said she was a kindly sort. Dad went. Proposed and got a yes. Fancied him, I reckon. Young, handsome – tall, lean, coal-black eyes, Gypsy-like. You could stare all day.
Anyhow, Dad brought her back that evening to meet us.
“Brought you a new Mum, girls!”
Bitterness flooded me. My childish heart sensed something wrong. The house still smelt of Mum. We still wore the little dresses she’d sewn and washed. And already he’d found her replacement. Years later I understood, but then I hated him on the spot, and his bride with him. Whatever she imagined about us, she walked in arm-in-arm with Dad. Both a bit tipsy. She declared:
“Call me Mum, and I’ll stay.”
I nudged my little sister Lily:
“Not Mum. Our Mum’s dead. Don’t call her!”
Lily burst into tears. I stepped forward as the eldest.
“No! You’re not Mum! You’re a stranger!”
“Well, aren’t you the little chatterbox! Right then, I’m off.”
Out she swept. Dad made to follow, but on the threshold he froze. Stood there, head bowed. Then turned back, came to us, hugged us tight, and wept aloud. We joined him, bawling. Even baby Daisy whimpered in her crib. We cried for Mum; he cried for his beloved wife. But there was more grief in our tears – orphan’s tears are the same the world over; the longing for a mother is one language. It was the one and only time I saw my father cry.
Dad stayed another fortnight. He worked for the Forestry Commission, his crew heading into the woods. What choice? That was the only work. He paid a neighbour to cook for us, took Daisy to another, and went logging.
We were alone then. The neighbour came, cooked, lit the stove, then left. Her own brood to mind. Days we spent cold, hungry, scared.
The village sought a way to help. We needed a woman – not any woman, one special enough to take strange children as her own. But where?
Talk revealed a distant cousin to one villager, a young woman whose husband had left her barren. Or maybe she’d lost a child? Hardly anyone knew rightly. They got the address, wrote, and via gossipy Aunt Margaret, they summoned Susan.
Dad was still logging when Susan came to us at dawn. She entered so quietly we didn’t hear.
I woke. Footsteps in the house. Moving just like Mum. Pots clinking. And the smell! Scones baking!
Lily and I peeked through the crack. Susan worked quietly: washing up, scrubbing the flagstones. Finally, she heard us stir.
“Come on then, my little lambs, let’s eat!”
Little lambs! It felt funny. Lily and I were fair-haired and blue-eyed, like Mum. We gathered courage, went out.
“Sit to table!”
No need to ask twice. We stuffed ourselves with scones. Felt trust stir for this woman.
“Call me Aunt Susan,” she said. “Just that.”
Later, Aunt Susan bathed me and Lily, scrubbed our clothes, and left. Next day we waited: she returned! The house transformed under her hands. Clean and tidy again, like Mum kept it. Three weeks passed; Dad still away. Aunt Susan cared for us perfectly, yet she seemed anxious, holding us back, particularly Lily. Lily was only three. I was wary. This Aunt Susan was strict. Unsunny. Our Mum was merry, sang songs, loved a dance, called Dad “Jack”.
“Your Dad will come back, might not want me. What’s he like?”
I bumbled horribly, nearly spoiling it! Said:
“He’s good! Easygoing! Has a pint then straight to sleep!”
Aunt Susan stiffened.
“Often?”
“Often!” chirped Lily. I kicked her under the table.
“Only on bank holidays!”
Susan left, reassured. Dad returned that evening. Stepped in, looked around amazed.
“Thought you’d be in a right state, living like princesses!”
We tried to explain. Dad sat, thoughtful, then said:
“Right. Better meet this new mistress. What’s she like?”
“Beautiful!” Lily rushed. “Makes scones! Tells stories!”
Now I smile. Susan was no beauty by any measure. Wiry, slight, plain. But what do children know? Or perhaps only they see true beauty?
Dad laughed, got his coat, went to nearby Aunt Margaret’s.
Next day Dad brought Susan back himself. Up early, fetched her. She entered shyly, almost afraid.
I whispered to Lily:
“Let’s call this one Mum. She’s good!”
And together we shouted:
“Mum! Mum’s here!”
Dad and Susan fetched Daisy together. For Daisy, Susan became a true mother, dusting her off, cherished. Daisy didn’t remember Mum. Lily forgot. Only I and Dad remembered. I once overheard Dad, looking at Mum’s photo, murmur:
“Why leave so soon? Took all my joy with you.”
I lived with Dad and Susan only briefly. From Year 4, off to boarding schools; our village school was small. At sixteen, nursing college. Always in a rush to leave. Why?
Susan never hurt me by word or deed. Protected me as her own. Yet I kept distant. Ungrateful wretch?
Perhaps not random, my choice of midwife. I can’t go back and save my Mum. But I can save another mother.