Left Alone at Six Years Old.

I became an orphan at six. Mum already had us two girls when she went into labour with the third. I remember her screams, the neighbour women gathering, weeping, how her voice suddenly fell silent…
Why didn’t they fetch a doctor? Why didn’t they take Mum to hospital in Norwich?
I still don’t understand. Why? Too far to the village? Roads blocked by snowdrifts? I’ll never know the real reason.
Mum died giving birth, leaving us two and tiny newborn Rosie.
Father was lost after Mum passed. No relatives were near us, here in rural Norfolk; they were all back West. Nobody to help him manage us. The neighbours suggested he remarry quickly. Barely a week after Mum’s funeral, he became a suitor.
Folks advised him to court the schoolmistress, saying she was a kind soul. Father went. He proposed and she accepted. Guess he caught her eye? He was young and handsome, that’s true. Tall, slim, piercing dark eyes. Quite striking.
Anyway, he brought her home that evening to meet us.
“Got you a new mum!” he declared.
Bitterness washed over me. I felt it in my childish heart, not my head, something deeply wrong. The house still smelled of Mum. We wore dresses she’d sewn and washed, and already he found us a replacement. Now, years later, I understand him. Back then, I despised him and his bride too.
What that woman thought of us, I don’t know, but she entered arm-in-arm with Father. Both were slightly tipsy. She said:
“Call me Mum, and I’ll stay.”
I nudged my little sister: “She’s not Mum. Our mum’s dead. Don’t call her!”
Vera bawled. As the elder, I stepped forward. “No, we won’t! You aren’t our mum! You’re a stranger!”
“Listen to the chatterbox!” She turned. “Then I won’t stay.”
She left. Father moved to follow, then froze on the threshold. He stood head bowed, turned back, hugged us both, and wept openly. We wailed with him. Even infant Rosie grizzled in her cot. We mourned our mum; Father mourned his beloved wife. But our tears held more sorrow than his. An orphan’s tears, the aching loss of a mother – that’s the same sorrow everywhere. Only time I ever saw Father cry.
He stayed with us another fortnight. He worked Forestry Commission; his crew went deep into Thetford Forest. No other work locally. He paid Mrs. Higgins next door to cook for us, took Rosie to another neighbour’s, and left for the woods.
We were alone. Mrs. Higgins would come in, cook, light the stove, then leave. Busy with her own. We spent days cold, hungry, scared.
The village talked of helping. A woman was needed to save the family. Not just any woman – one who’d take on strange children as her own. But where to find her?
Through talk, they discovered a distant cousin of a local woman: Clara, young, left by her husband because she was barren. Or maybe she’d had a child who died? God granted her no more. Details were unclear. They got an address, wrote a letter, and through Aunt Martha, fetched Clara for us.
Father was still away when Clara arrived early one morning. She entered the house so quietly we didn’t hear.
I woke to footsteps. Someone moved like Mum! Plates clattered in the kitchen… and the smell! Pancakes!
Vera and I peeked through a crack. Clara was quietly housekeeping: washing dishes, scrubbing floors. Finally, she sensed we were awake.
“You alright then, duckies? Come and eat!”
We were puzzled she called us ‘duckies’. We *were* fair-haired and blue-eyed, like Mum.
We braved it, came out.
“Sit yourselves down!”
We needed no second invite. Fed on pancakes, trust bloomed.
“Call me Aunt Clara. Just Aunt Clara.”
Then Aunt Clara bathed Vera and me, washed everything, and left. We waited next day. She came back! The house transformed under her hands. Clean and tidy again, like with Mum. Three weeks passed; Father in the forest. Aunt Clara cared for us perfectly, yet held back, wouldn’t let us grow close. Vera especially reached out. She was only three. I was wary. Aunt Clara seemed stern. Unsure of smiling. Our mum had been joyous, loved singing, dancing, called Father “Teddy.”
“What’s your father like?” she asked once. “What if he comes back… and rejects me?”
I bungled praising him terribly! “He’s proper good! Very quiet! Has a pint, then straight to sleep!”
Aunt Clara tensed. “Drinks often?”
“Often!” Vera chirped. I kicked her under the table. “No! Just holidays!”
Clara left, appeased. Father returned that evening. He stepped in, looked around amazed.
“Thought you’d be in dire straits. Living like princesses!”
We told him everything best we could. He sat thoughtful, then said, “Right. Best go meet this new mistress. What’s she like?”
“A beauty!” Vera rushed. “Makes pancakes! Tells stories!”
Recalling it now makes me smile. Clara was no beauty by any measure. Small, thin, rather plain. But children understand such things? Perhaps only they see a person’s true beauty.
Father chuckled, dressed, and went to Aunt Martha nearby.
Next day, Father brought Clara himself. Up early, went for her. She entered shyly, almost afraid.
I whispered to Vera, “Let’s call *her* mum. She’s good!”
In unison, we shouted, “Mummy! Mummy’s here!”
Father and Clara fetched Rosie together. For Rosie, Clara became a true mother, cherished her utterly. Rosie remembered no other mother. Vera forgot. Only I recall our mam, and Father too. Once, I overheard Father looking at her picture, muttering sadly, “Why did you leave so soon? Took all my joy with you.”
I didn’t live with Father and Clara long. Boarding school from Year 4—no secondary in the village. College after Year 9. Always trying to leave home early, I wonder why?
Clara never hurt me, word or deed. Protected me like her own. Yet I held back. Ungrateful, was I?
Choosing midwifery probably wasn’t chance. I can’t go back, save my mother. But I’ll save another. No child should lose their mother like we did. That’s the weight I carry, the care I give. One loss spares countless others, I hope. That’s the lesson life etched deep.