“Left me with a baby and ran off. Oh, you… Overslept, useless old thing…” groaned Mary, shaking her head from side to side.
The rattling old bus was stifling. Through the open windows poured air heated to thirty degrees, but instead of relief, it brought only road dust into the cramped interior. The passengers dozed, sluggish from the oppressive heat.
Up ahead, the golden domes of a small church came into view, surrounded by wooden cottages. Beyond them rose the brick roofs of five-story council blocks. The passengers stirred, gathering their things. The quicker ones were already crowding the doors, eager to escape the bus’s stale air.
Only one woman sat motionless, staring blankly out the window. Her hands, veined with blue, rested on her knees. Faded blonde hair with dark roots hung in uneven strands around her thin face, accentuating its pallor. Her lips drooped mournfully, her thinning eyelids creased with fine wrinkles. She looked like someone life had beaten down, expecting nothing good ahead.
With a final shudder, the bus wheezed to a stop at the cobbled square before the church. The crowd jostled impatiently at the doors, desperate to get out.
“Love, we’re here—last stop,” called the balding, portly driver, leaning around the divider.
The woman glanced around. The bus was empty except for her and the driver.
“Here we are, time to hop off,” he repeated.
She lifted the small bag at her feet, stood, and shuffled down the aisle.
“Ta,” she murmured at the open door, not turning back.
The second her foot hit the pavement, the doors hissed shut behind her. She trudged toward the cottages. Suddenly, a bell tolled from the church. Before its echo faded, a melody of chimes began. She halted, tilting her face to the sky, then turned and walked toward the church.
A narrow path lined with wildflowers led her inside. Cool air, fragrant with incense, washed over her. A shaft of evening sunlight, alive with dancing dust motes, cut through the nave and pooled on the wooden floor.
Her heels clicked against the stone, startling the quiet. She glanced around and sank onto a bench by the door.
“Feeling poorly? Need water?”
A young woman appeared beside her, a scarf wrapped snugly around her neck despite the heat. Blue eyes brimmed with kindness.
“Be right back,” the girl said, vanishing—then returning with a glass of water. “Here. From the spring nearby. Stays cold even in this heat. Go on.”
Anastasia took the glass. The water was so cold it made her teeth ache.
“Need anything, just ask,” the girl said, her long dark skirt swishing as she retreated to a little stall by the wall, stacked with prayer books and candles.
Anastasia drank, then approached the stall, trying to muffle her steps.
“Ta. You from round here? Know everyone?”
“Village is small. Who’re you looking for?” the girl replied.
“Mary… Know a Mary Whitaker?”
“‘Course. That’s my nan. But she passed last year. You knew her?” The girl 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 door, squinting in the evening sun.
“Mum,” a voice said.
Mary turned, shielding her eyes. Before her stood her daughter, Annie, who’d run off over a year ago. One arm cradled a baby swaddled in a thin blanket; the other clutched a black duffel bag.
“Back, then. Knew it’d end like this. Staying, or what?” Mary asked sourly.
A curtain twitched in the neighbor’s window. Mary heaved herself up.
“Inside. No need to give the gossips fuel.” She hobbled up the step, bracing a hand on her knee.
Annie hesitated, then followed. Inside, she dropped the bag, laid the sleeping baby on the iron bedstead, and exhaled.
“Boy or girl?” Mary asked flatly.
“Girl. Polly,” Annie said, turning.
“Knew it,” Mary muttered. “Must’ve been rough out there, coming crawling back. What’s your plan, then?”
“Not now, Mum. I’m knackered.” Annie tucked a loose strand behind her ear and sat beside the child.
“Right. No rush, is there? You’ve no milk, have you?” Mary eyed her daughter’s gaunt frame. “Not surprised. Wait here—I’ll fetch some from Nina’s goat.”
“I’ve formula,” Annie said quickly, relieved the first storm had passed.
“None of that muck. Proper milk for a babe.” Mary waved her off and shuffled into the scullery.
She returned with a jar, ignored Annie, and left. When she came back, Annie was asleep beside the baby, who was fussing against the blanket. Mary watched them both—her wayward girl, the tiny stranger. Only when the baby wailed did she scoop her up.
“Hush now. Your mum’s right here. Dead to the world, isn’t she? Suppose she’s had it hard.”
She changed the nappy, warmed the milk, and fed the baby, who drifted off content.
Most of the night, mother and daughter argued in hissed whispers—Annie weeping, begging for understanding; Mary spitting years of stored bitterness. They slept near dawn.
A cry woke Mary. She bolted up, hurrying to the baby.
“Annie! Look at her—soaked through. Hungry too. Annie!” No answer. Just louder wails.
“Christ!” Mary sagged onto the bed. “She’s gone. Left me with the baby. Bloody coward. Overslept, useless old—” She groaned, shaking her head.
“Gone. Proper done a runner. Little bitch—” The baby’s cries drowned the rest.
“Shut it!” Mary snapped.
The baby fell silent.
“That’s more like it. Screaming won’t bring her back. Too far gone now. Right.”
She stormed to the scullery, clattering pans. Returned, changed the nappy, and shoved a bottle into the baby’s mouth.
“Good, eh? Proper milk, not that powdered rubbish. What’m I meant to do with you? Punishment, is it? Nearing my end, and she drops a baby on me. Bloody cuckoo. The shame…”
Annie never returned. Polly grew up with Mary—fed, clothed, but never coddled. Scolded fiercely, even swatted with a broom. When Polly asked about her mum, Mary shut it down: “Dead. No father either. Just me. And I won’t be here forever…”
Terrified, Polly would cling to her. “Don’t die, Nan. Don’t leave me.”
“Pray I last, then,” Mary would say, crossing herself fervently before the grimy icon on the shelf.
Once, catching Polly with Annie’s photos, Mary snatched them and tossed them into the stove. “No mother. No father. Orphan, you are.” But one photo survived—faded, hidden, secretly studied.
Polly finished Year 11.
“College, girl. Learn a trade. Your mum did A-levels, and what good’d it do her?”
For once, Polly dug in her heels. Stayed for sixth form.
“Planning to mooch off me till I croak?” Mary grumbled but relented.
That winter, Mary fell ill—coughing so hard she lost control. Polly washed the sheets without complaint, rising at night to warm milk with honey. By spring, Mary rallied. But come autumn, her legs failed. She refused hospital. A month later, she was gone.
Polly was alone. Potatoes in the cellar, jars of preserves. She’d manage.
Father Paul visited once, making the sign of the cross before the icon. “Old Annie’s gone blind. Help at the church, won’t you? Folk’ll bring food—pies, pasta, whatnot.”
Polly agreed. Weekdays at school, Sundays behind the candle stall, singing hymns with blind Annie, tidying up.
Though she lived alone, lads kept their distance—mocked her as “the nun,” but never crossed the line. Nobody fancied tangling with Father Paul, rumored to be ex-military, shell-shocked.
So Polly lived, sheltered by the priest and the Lord.
Finished school, enrolled in nursing college—the only option in town.
Once, she asked Father Paul: “Mum—do I light a candle for the living or the dead?”
He pondered. “Mary said she’d died? For her, maybe she did. But I reckon your mum’s out there—too ashamed to come back. Light one for the living. Pray she finds her way.”
So Polly did. Every Sunday.
***
“Wait—just a tick,” Polly flitted about the church, snuffing candles. Then she heaved the iron door shut.
They walked home in silence—Polly unsure what to say, Annie too afraid to start.
“And as the morning sun cast its golden light through the lace curtains, Polly stirred the porridge on the stove, her heart lighter than it had been in years, while Annie sat at the table, fingers tracing the grain of the wood, both of them silent but knowing—this was where they belonged, together at last.
