Oh, the day I became motherless at six is etched in my memory as clearly as yesterday. Mum already had two daughters when she went into labour with her third. I recall her cries, neighbours gathering to weep, and then… that terrible silence settling in. Why didn’t they fetch a midwife? Why not take her to hospital in the village? Even now, it haunts me—was the distance to town too far? Were the lanes snowed under? Some reason must’ve existed, yet I’ve never untangled it.
Mum died bringing little Olive into this world. Dad was lost afterwards. With no family nearby in the Highlands—everyone down south—he’d no help managing us. Neighbours urged him to wed quickly. Barely a week after Mum’s burial, he was courting again. They suggested the local schoolmistress, praising her kindness. Off he went, and she accepted. He must’ve charmed her—tall, handsome with those striking dark eyes, like a Romany’s—one could gaze at him forever.
That evening, he brought his bride home. “Brought you a new mum!” Bitter resentment swelled in me. Something felt deeply wrong, a childish instinct raging. Mum’s scent still lingered on our dresses, sewn and scrubbed by her hands, yet here was a replacement. Age has brought understanding, but back then? Pure hatred—for him and her.
Tipsy, arm-in-arm with Dad, she declared, “Call me Mama, or I shan’t stay.”
My younger sister whimpered. I stepped forward. “You’re not Mum. Ours is dead. Don’t call her that!”
“Well, aren’t you outspoken?” She shrugged. “Then I’ll not remain.”
She vanished out the door. Dad moved to follow, but halted on the threshold. Head bowed, he turned back, gathered us in his arms, and sobbed aloud. We howled with him—even wee Olive fretting in her crib wept. We mourned Mum, he his beloved wife, yet our sorrow felt heavier. An orphan’s grief needs no translation—it’s the same ache in every tongue. That single glimpse of Dad’s tears remains with me.
He stayed a fortnight. Working for the Forestry Commission meant his crew labouring deep in the Highlands. No other jobs existed in our hamlet. He left some pounds with a neighbour for meals, placed Olive with another, and vanished into the pines.
Alone. The neighbour cooked, lit the stove, then hurried off to her own brood. Days were cold, empty, and terrifying.
The village conferred. To save our family, we needed a woman—someone rare enough to love another’s children. Where to find her? Gossip revealed a distant kinswoman of Martha, spinster in our parish: a childless lady whose husband had left her barren, or so the whispers said. A letter was dispatched.
Dad was still felling trees when Agnes arrived at dawn. Her tread was so soft, we scarcely heard. I woke to footsteps circling our kitchen—chiming dishes, the scent of pancakes! My sister and I peered through a crack. Agnes scrubbed floors, washed crockery, quiet as mist. Sensing movement, she called, “Come along, my snowdrops—let’s eat!” Snowdrops? How curious. Lilibet and I, blonde-haired and blue-eyed like Mum, crept out. “Sit down!” No need to ask twice. Fed full of pancakes, trust bloomed. “Call me Aunt Agnes,” she instructed.
She bathed us both, laundered our worn clothes, then vanished. Next day? She returned! The house transformed under her care—clean and orderly, just as Mum kept it. Three weeks passed, Dad still in the wilds. Aunt Agnes cared perfectly, yet held back, perhaps fearing we’d cling. Little Lilibet adored her instantly; I was wary. Agnes seemed stern, un-smiling. Mum had been lively—singing, dancing, calling Dad “Jimmy.”
“What’s your father like?” Agnes asked once.
Clumsily, I praised him: “Good and gentle! When he drinks, he just sleeps!”
Her face tightened. “Drinks often?”
“Often!” piped Lilibet.
Kicking her under the table, I added, “Only on holidays!”
Agnes left reassured. Dad returned that night, gaping at the tidy home. “Thought you’d be wretched, yet you live like princesses!” We babbled our tale. Thoughtfully, he
He looked at her quiet strength and tenderness, and I knew then, deep in my bones, that Agnes would finally be Mum to us all, proper Mum.
