A Mother's Sacrifice

by Jennie Felton

Genres: Sagas; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

'One of the nation's favourite saga writers' Lancashire Post

In the grand tradition of Josephine Cox, Dilly Court and Rosie Goodwin, comes a powerfully heartrending new saga from Jennie Felton. A Mother's Sacrifice is a story of family secrets, romance, and triumph in adversity.

Will she be able to save her children?

Martha Packer is much loved by everyone in the village of Hillsbridge. As the landlady of The Three Feathers, she runs a respectable establishment and is known for her generosity and care for her family and others around her - she even took in two orphan girls to save them from a life of cruelty in the workhouse.

So when Martha announces that she has killed her son, Garth, the community is shocked. Garth was undoubtedly a bad seed, but they knew how much Martha adored her first-born. What could have driven Martha to such extreme actions?

Martha refuses to give a reason but her other children cannot believe their mother is capable of murder and they begin to believe that she is protecting someone - maybe even one of them...

For more heartwrenching, heartwarming saga, look our for The Stolen Child, out now!

And don't miss Jennie's Families of Fairley Terrace series, which began with Maggie's story in All The Dark Secrets and continued with Lucy's story in The Miner's Daughter, Edie's story in The Girl Below Stairs, Carina's story in The Widow's Promise and Laurel's story in The Sister's Secret.

(P)2020 Headline Publishing Group Ltd

Release date: September 3, 2020

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 464

Sample

Prologue



Hillsbridge, Somerset – 1906

Sergeant Love was in bed and snoring loud enough to wake the dead when something disturbed him. He shifted restlessly, thinking that Alice, his wife, must have given him a poke in the ribs as she sometimes did to try to put a stop to the regular droning that she likened to sleeping in a farmyard.

‘Leave me be, can’t you?’

But now Alice’s hand was on his shoulder, shaking him.

‘Wake up, for goodness’ sake, Will. Can’t you hear there’s somebody at the door?’

‘What?’ He rubbed his fist over his chin to wipe away the dribble that had run from his open mouth.

‘Somebody’s at the door!’ Alice repeated impatiently, and simultaneously the knocking that had woken her came again, loud and insistent.

‘Oh, bugger.’

Sergeant Love struggled to a sitting position, rolled out of bed and reached for his dressing gown.

That was one of the drawbacks of living above the police station. You were always at the beck and call of anybody who wanted a policeman, whatever the time of the day or night it happened to be.

By the light of the moon that was streaming in through a gap in the curtains he could see that the hands of the bedside clock were showing twenty to three, and that surprised him. He’d have thought Constable Sparrow, who was on night duty, would have been in the office, having a cup of tea and making up his notebook. The town was usually quiet at this time of night. Perhaps Sparrow was out on his bicycle making a last round – or perhaps the dozy bugger had fallen asleep at his desk. That wouldn’t surprise the sergeant. Sparrow had looked even more lethargic than usual when he’d come on duty at ten.

Sergeant Love thrust his feet into his highly polished black boots, not bothering to lace them, and made his way down the stairs, through the small living room, and into the lobby. The door to the little office was open – no sign of Sparrow there – and before the sergeant could unlatch the door the hammering began again.

‘All right, all right, I’m coming!’ he called grumpily. If it was young tearaways having a laugh, they’d catch the rough end of his tongue.

But it wasn’t young tearaways. On the doorstep, her hand raised to knock yet again, was a middle-aged woman he recognised as Martha Packer, landlady of the Three Feathers, a pub at the very outskirts of his patch. And if her insistent knocking had not told him that her reason for being here was that something very serious had occurred, her grim expression certainly did.

Sergeant Love sighed inwardly, seeing the remainder of his night’s sleep disappear ‘down the Swanee’, as he described it, and thinking that he wouldn’t mind betting that whatever Martha’s problem was, it involved her son, Garth.

The Three Feathers, several miles outside Hillsbridge on the road to Bath, had been owned by the Packer family for as long as anyone could remember. Successive generations had served beer and spirits to the hardened drinkers of the nearby villages, at first from what had once been the front room of their home – a sizeable house with a cottage adjoining, and land that stretched to the surrounding fields and woods – then later, the ground-floor layout had been tinkered with so that there was a lounge as well as a public bar and a snug. Seb, Martha’s husband, had also built a skittle-alley in one of the outbuildings at the rear of the property so that the Feathers, as it was known, could raise a team from amongst their regulars to play in the local skittles league.

Less than a year ago, Seb had died in a tragic accident that had devastated the family. His will had left everything to his three sons, Garth, Conrad and Lewis, but it was still Martha who ran the business and served behind the bar.

In her late forties, she was still a handsome woman, evidence that she’d been known for ‘a stunner’ when she was young. Though there were now broad streaks of silver in what had once been a fine head of coal-black hair, her face was remarkably free of lines and wrinkles, perhaps thanks to a tendency to plumpness, and her posture as upright as it had ever been, with no hint of the rounded shoulders or widow’s hump that afflicted many women of her age.

As for her nature, it was ideally suited to her role as a pub landlady. Although her manner was friendly, warm and welcoming, she could also be formidable if the occasion warranted, as any customers who became rowdy or overstepped the mark soon learned to their cost. Life had dealt Martha some hard blows; besides losing her husband, she had buried four children – three who had died in infancy and one stillbirth – but somehow the terrible losses had failed to break her. Instead they had made her stronger, so that now a core of steel lay beneath her generally pleasant demeanour.

This was the Martha Packer Sergeant Love knew – strong, resilient, optimistic. But now, as she stood on the doorstep of the police station, erect as ever, her face was ravaged, and her hands, tightly clasped around the bone handles of the tapestry bag she held in front of her like body armour, also spoke of something very wrong.

‘What’s up then, Mrs Packer?’ he asked.

Her chin rose; she hesitated for only a moment.

‘I need to talk to you, Sergeant.’

Another brief hesitation.

‘I have just killed my son.’

Chapter One



St Peter’s Workhouse – April 1896

‘Jeannie – hush, my love. Don’t cry, please!’

Eleven-year-old Ella Martin rolled as close as she could to the edge of her narrow bed and reached across to her little sister. There were eight beds in the dormitory and luckily Jeannie occupied the one next to her.

‘I want Mammy!’ Jeannie’s voice was thick with tears.

‘I know. So do I. But you mustn’t cry. Miss Hopkins will hear you and then . . .’ Ella broke off, not wanting to put into words what would happen if the housemother was disturbed. Children who cried at night were silenced with a rag soaked in chloroform to keep them quiet. And it did that all right. Not so long ago one girl had gone to sleep and never woken up again. Her bed, next to the door, was still empty, and Ella was terrified the same fate might befall her sister. ‘You don’t want to make her cross, do you?’ she finished.

‘N-no . . .’ Eight-year-old Jeannie’s sobs softened into hiccups and snuffles and her fingers curled round Ella’s, gripping them tightly.

‘You’ll see Mammy soon. When she’s well again,’ Ella whispered urgently, trying to ensure that Jeannie didn’t start crying again in earnest.

‘Really soon?’

‘Yes.’

But she knew it was an empty promise. Here in the workhouse families were separated, wives from their husbands, children from their parents, boys from girls. Siblings did get to see one another for two hours each afternoon when they were taught their lessons, either by the local rector or Miss Owen, who had once run a dame school in a nearby village. But it was only on Sundays, when they attended church, that the children had any contact with their mothers and fathers, and next Sunday was a whole week away. Six long days and nights. Even then, if Lilah was still ill they wouldn’t be allowed up to the infirmary where she was being looked after for fear of spreading germs. They hadn’t been allowed there today, and they hadn’t been allowed to visit their father when he was dying of the lung disease that had cost him his job in the pits and the house that went with it – the reason the family had ended up here in the workhouse.

Ella’s greatest fear was that her mother might follow him to an early grave. She had never been in good health since giving birth to Jeannie and Ella had only faint memories of the strong, fun-loving woman who had used to take her for long walks in the fields and woods behind their home, play hide-and-seek with her while she buried herself in the laundry basket or crouched behind the sofa, and sang her to sleep at bedtime. She’d been only three years old when Jeannie was born. But when Daddy had explained to her that Mammy wasn’t well and needed help with the new baby she had been eager to do her bit.

She’d taken soiled nappies to the soaking bucket and prodded them in with the wooden spoon Lilah kept especially for the purpose, and sat beside the crib, rocking it gently until Jeannie fell asleep, however long that took. Later, as Jeannie grew, Ella had kept her entertained when Lilah was tired, or forced to take to her bed, even preparing food for them, albeit mostly jam sandwiches or bread and dripping.

As time had gone by Lilah’s health had improved, but since they had been forced into the workhouse the awful conditions there had weakened her again, her reserves of strength eroded by the hard physical work, often in the laundry or the kitchens, and the cold and damp that permeated the place – even in summer the chill still emanated from the old stone walls. Ella had seen her grow thinner and paler, and during this last bitterly cold winter she’d developed a chesty cough that she couldn’t seem to shake off, which had worried Ella, though Lilah tried to reassure her that it was nothing that some spring sunshine wouldn’t cure.

Since the weather had taken a turn for the better this week, Ella had been in hopes that she’d see some improvement in her mother when they met in church on Sunday. But it wasn’t to be. Instead she was worse, and sick enough to have been taken to the infirmary, so that Ella and Jeannie hadn’t been able to see her at all. No wonder Jeannie had been in tears on and off for most of the day, Ella thought. She’d felt like crying too, and still did.

But at least Jeannie was quiet now, just sniffling occasionally, and when at last the snuffles stopped and her breathing became even, Ella whispered a little prayer of gratitude that the danger of her being quietened with a chloroform-soaked rag had passed – for now, at least.

Her hand, which Jeannie had been clasping tightly, had gone through the stage of pins and needles to being completely numb, but she had been afraid to move in case she disturbed her sister and set her off again. Now, however, she inched closer to the edge of the thin straw mattress so that she could reach across with her other hand and gently prise herself free of Jeannie’s fingers. Success. She rolled over on to her back, rubbing life back into her hand, then pulled the coarse blanket up as far as the neck of her nightgown – any higher and it would make her throat itch – and closed her eyes. But with all her worries about Mammy churning round in her head sleep felt as far away as ever.

Would she be all right? Would she get better? Or – the thought was so terrible it ran a shiver through her body and made her feel sick – might she die as Daddy had? If she did, Ella didn’t think she could bear it. And what would become of her and Jeannie? Ella felt as if all the cares of the world rested on her young shoulders.

A solitary tear escaped and rolled down her cheek and she turned her head to brush it away on the worn pillowcase. Crying would do no good. Somehow she had to be strong, for Jeannie as well as for herself. But oh – it wasn’t easy! And her bitter disappointment at not seeing Mammy today wasn’t helping either.

How, she wondered miserably, could a day that had started off so well have ended so badly?

Because it was Mothering Sunday the children were excused their morning chores for once so that they could go out to gather the wild flowers they would give to their mothers during Matins. Ella and Jeannie were both so excited that not even the icy cold water they had to wash in, stripped to the waist, for their morning ablutions, or the porridge and dry bread that made up their breakfast, could dampen their spirits, though they still sniffed enviously at the delicious aroma of crisp bacon rashers that wafted their way from the table where the staff ate. When the meal was over and they’d helped clear away the dishes, they were escorted out of the workhouse grounds and across the road to the open countryside beyond.

It was a beautiful spring morning, the sky the clean-washed blue of April and scattered with fluffy white clouds, the crisp air full of the fresh sweet scent of dew-wet grass. At first, given a little freedom, the children scattered, taking the opportunity to run about in this paradise, so different to the workhouse exercise yard, where a high wire fence divided the boys’ section from the girls’. Then, when Miss Sparks, the assistant mistress who had accompanied them, reminded them sharply why they were here in the meadow, they began hunting for wild flowers to make their posies.

Cowslips, buttercups and daisies nestled amid the rough tufts of meadow grass, clumps of primroses blossomed on the banks, and violets peeped out from the moss around the roots of trees. Ella picked some of each, careful not to damage the delicate stalks, and soon had enough to make a pretty posy. A little further on, in a copse that bordered the field and the river beyond, she spied a cluster of bluebells, and was just making her way towards them when Jeannie came running up to her.

‘Look, Ella! See what I found! Isn’t it lovely?’

She held out a long-stemmed dandelion.

‘Oh – not that one,’ Ella said, wrinkling her nose.

Jeannie’s face clouded. ‘Why not?’

Ella realised that Jeannie had never had the chance to learn about wild flowers – or butterflies and bees, for that matter. She’d been scarcely more than a toddler when they’d been forced to come and live in the workhouse, and never roamed the fields and meadows with Mammy as Ella had.

‘It’s a weed. We called it a wet-the-bed,’ she explained gently. ‘You don’t want that one.’

‘But it’s so pretty! It’s like the sun!’ Jeannie protested.

Ella shook her head, smiling, and sighed.

‘Oh, go on then. If you think Mammy will like it.’

‘She will! I know she will!’

Jeannie was probably right, Ella thought. She’d like anything Jeannie had picked especially for her. But wild garlic grew here beneath the trees – the air was full of the smell of it – and Ella didn’t want Jeannie picking any of the pretty little white flowers because she thought they looked like stars.

‘Don’t touch that, Jeannie!’ she cautioned as her sister made a beeline for the plants. ‘Your hands will stink all day. And so will Mammy’s if you give it to her.’

‘Come along now! Time to go back!’ Miss Sparks was calling and clapping her hands.

Reluctantly the children abandoned their treasure hunt and headed in her direction, some – eager to please – making haste, some dawdling. But a small knot of three boys, two big and one little, ignored her altogether, and it looked as if a fight was starting between the two older ones.

‘Leo! Arthur! Stop that!’ Miss Sparks called, but again she was ignored, and the scuffling only worsened as they fell to the ground, rolling over and over, punching and gouging.

Miss Sparks hitched up her skirts and ran towards them with surprising speed, followed by some of the boys who were eager not to miss a good fisticuffs, while the girls hung back, looking frightened. Not so Ella. Leo Fisher, one of the combatants, was her best friend in the workhouse.

They’d first formed their alliance last summer when they had both been assigned tasks in the garden – Ella a flower bed where she was to deadhead the roses and do some weeding, Leo to dig the vegetable patch and prepare it for planting. Ella had hit a problem with brambles that were invading the rose bed and in trying to remove them she’d scratched her hands and arms so badly that they were bleeding. Leo had noticed, and when the supervisor wasn’t looking, he’d come over and helped her cut the brambles back.

‘Just give me the nod if there’s something you can’t manage,’ he’d said.

‘Thanks.’ But she knew she wouldn’t call on him. If they were caught they would both be in trouble – especially Leo, who would almost certainly be thrashed with a split cane. But he’d taken that risk today, and she was really grateful. Here in the workhouse acts of kindness were in short supply.

From that day on they’d always exchanged a smile when their paths crossed, and chatted when they had the chance. Ella learned that he was a year older than her, and an orphan who had spent his whole life in the workhouse. As their friendship grew she came to think of him as the big brother she’d never known, but about whom Lilah had often spoken. Mark was his name, and he had died before she was born, when he was just a baby. She’d often wished things had turned out differently and he’d lived to grow up. He would be there for her and Jeannie, looking out for them, making her feel safe, taking some of the burden off her shoulders. But now there was Leo, filling the empty space in her life that Mark would have occupied.

When winter had come and there was no work for her to do in the garden, Ella had seen him mostly only through the wire fence when they were sent out to exercise, or in the classroom, but that happened less frequently now, as Rector Evans who taught the older children had recently singled him out for private tuition. Ella missed him, but took consolation from the fact that there was no risk of him getting into trouble for helping her with her sums, as he had once, when he’d been sitting next to her and seen her struggling, by passing her a slip of paper with his workings and the answer written on it. She’d quickly hidden it beneath her exercise book, but she’d been terrified for the whole of the rest of the lesson, knowing that if the rector found out they’d be severely punished, either with a beating, or, worse, locked for hours in the hell-hole that was the punishment room – bitterly cold, damp, with not so much as a glimmer of daylight, and probably nothing to eat or drink.

When she’d next seen Leo in the exercise yard she’d whispered to him through the fence that he must never do such a thing again, but he’d just grinned and winked at her, his clear blue eyes sparkling like sapphires, and she wasn’t convinced he wouldn’t risk it.

But that was Leo all over. Kind, clever – his hand was always the first to go up when a question was asked in class – easy-going and fearless. Despite being tall, and quite strong from the hard physical work he had done in the garden during the summer, he wasn’t one to throw his weight about or get into fights, even though he was often taunted for being an orphan with no family of his own, or teased about the colour of his hair. ‘Ginger’ they called him. But Ella thought it was the loveliest shade of red-gold she had ever seen.

Now, as she ran towards the scene of battle, Ella wondered what on earth had happened to involve Leo in such a violent punch-up. Admittedly, Arthur Durbin, the boy he was fighting with, was known for being a bully, but she couldn’t imagine what he could have done or said to rile Leo so.

A few moments later she found out.

Eddie Thomas, the little five year old who had been beside them, had now retreated from the scene of the fracas and was watching from a distance, tears and snot running down his freckled face. Taking pity on him, Ella stopped and dropped to a crouch on the springy grass beside him.

‘It’s all right, Eddie,’ she said. ‘Nothing to cry about. Just the big boys being silly.’

Eddie rubbed his hands across his face, leaving streaks of dirt and pollen.

‘He’s got my flowers!’ he wailed.

‘Who has?’ Ella asked.

‘Arthur Durbin. He took them away from me and wouldn’t give them back. And then . . .’ he began to sob again, ‘and then he stamped on them!’

‘Oh, he shouldn’t have done that,’ Ella said, shocked. But she understood now why Leo had gone for Arthur. He would have been infuriated by the boy’s cruelty.

By now Miss Sparks had separated the scrapping pair, and was chastising them both equally. Ella knew Leo would never snitch on another boy, however much he might deserve it, and certainly Arthur wouldn’t own up to what he had done. If anyone was to save Leo from certain punishment for standing up for little Eddie, it would have to be her.

She grasped the child’s hand.

‘Come on, Eddie. Let’s go and tell Miss Sparks what happened.’

He looked up at her, his lip trembling.

‘If you tell her, I expect she’ll let you pick some more. And I’ll help you.’

The boy brightened at once, wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt, and Ella led him over to Miss Sparks, who broke off her rant at Leo and Arthur and turned impatiently to Ella and Eddie.

‘What?’ she asked, so sharply that tears started to Eddie’s eyes again.

‘Arthur took Eddie’s flowers and stamped on them,’ Ella said. ‘Isn’t that right, Eddie? Leo was just standing up for him.’

Miss Sparks looked to be on the point of ridiculing her, but there in the grass, flattened by the boys’ rough and tumble, lay the unmistakable evidence. Cowslips, celandines, even another dandelion or two lay there, crushed and ruined.

‘Is this true?’ she demanded of Eddie.

The little boy nodded miserably and cringed against Ella, clearly afraid of what Arthur might do to him for dobbing him in.

Ella put an arm round his shoulders. ‘I told him you’d let him pick some more, and I’d help him,’ she ventured.

Miss Sparks hesitated for a moment, then relented. ‘Very well, if that’s the case. But be quick about it. Leo – you can help too as long as you stay out of trouble. And Arthur . . .’ she grabbed the bully by the collar of his shirt, ‘you come with me. We’ll see what Mr Yarlett has to say about this.’

Mr Yarlett was the master of the workhouse, and a figure to be feared.

As Miss Sparks started back across the field, dragging a red-faced Arthur along with her, Leo turned to Ella.

‘Thanks,’ he said, rubbing his cheek. A bruise had already begun to darken and swell, but apart from that, and his shirt hanging loose over the back of his trousers, he looked none the worse for the scrap. ‘You saved my bacon there. But you shouldn’t have. You might have been for it for speaking out of turn.’

‘I wasn’t going to let Arthur get away with it and see you in trouble,’ Ella said, blushing a little at the praise from her hero.

‘Well, we’d better get on with picking these flowers before she changes her mind,’ he said, and the smile he gave her made her heart sing.

Leo had helped her out so often; at least now she’d been able to do something for him in return.

Back at the workhouse the children were lined up for inspection to make sure they were clean, tidy and presentable. Then the girls formed a crocodile with Miss Hopkins, the housemistress, at the front, and Miss Sparks bringing up the rear. The boys, supervised by two of the masters, followed. Of Arthur there was no sign. Perhaps he’d been locked in the punishment room, Ella thought. But she wasn’t going to waste her pity on him. What he’d done had been cruel; picking on a boy half his size, stealing the flowers he’d gathered so lovingly for his mother and wantonly destroying them was unforgivable. If he had been put in the punishment room perhaps he’d think twice next time.

The adult inmates were already in church, a dejected bunch in their drab clothes, sitting in the pews halfway down the nave. The children were ushered in behind them. They always arrived just a few minutes before the service began; the longer they had to sit still and wait the more likely they were to be disruptive, in the opinion of the authorities. As they filed into their places some of the adults turned round, seeking out their own child for a wave and a beaming smile.

‘Where’s Mammy?’ Jeannie whispered anxiously, tugging on Ella’s sleeve. ‘I can’t see her.’

‘Neither can I . . .’ Ella bowed her head as Miss Sparks shushed her into silence, then quickly raised it again, scanning the rows of women for a glimpse of Lilah. Now that they’d turned back to face the altar it was difficult to tell one from the other in their workhouse uniforms and with their hair tucked into mob caps. But she felt sure Mammy wouldn’t have turned away without having made eye contact first. A worm of anxiety wriggled in Ella’s stomach.

Where was she?

The service began and as Ella continued to try in vain to locate her mother her anxiety grew. The other children were singing lustily – one of their favourite hymns, ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’ – but Ella could only whisper the words and she scarcely noticed the beautiful floral decorations that adorned each window sill and filled every hollow in the great stone pillars that ran the length of the church, even though the rector drew attention to them. Beside her, Jeannie too looked worried, her small face solemn, her lip trembling.

At last it was time for the children to present the flowers they’d gathered to their mothers, who were now assembled at the back of the church in the large open space between the porch and the font. Ella was certain now that Mammy wasn’t here – she would have seen her when she’d filed past the pew where the children were sitting – and sure enough as she and Jeannie moved into the aisle Miss Sparks drew them aside. As the signal was given for the line of children to move off she put a restraining hand on each of their shoulders.

‘Not you two. Your mother isn’t here – she’s not well.’ Her voice was almost lost in the triumphant music swelling from the organ, but both girls knew what she had said. They’d known it already.

Jeannie gave up the struggle to control her wobbling lip and began to cry, and Ella could feel tears pricking behind her own eyes, but she blinked them back, her fierce pride refusing to allow her to cry in front of Miss Sparks and the entire congregation.

‘Hush up now, Jeannie,’ Miss Sparks whispered urgently. ‘And go back to your seats, both of you.’

As she ushered them back into the pew, Ella could see Leo two rows behind them. As an orphan he had no one to give flowers to either, and had remained in his seat. Now he caught Ella’s eye with a questioning look.

She gave a small shake of her head and mouthed the words: ‘Mammy’s ill.’

‘Oh no!’ he mouthed back.

Usually a sympathetic word or look from him could cheer Ella. Not today. Once again she bit back her tears and concentrated on trying to comfort her little sister.

Now, lying on her thin mattress with sleep refusing to come, Ella relived every moment of the day that had begun so well and ended so badly.

When the service was over and they had all filed out into the spring sunshine, she had approached Miss Sparks, still clutching her posy.

‘Please, miss, can we take our flowers to Mammy when we get back?’

‘I shouldn’t think so. She’s in the infirmary,’ Miss Sparks said shortly.

‘Please!’

‘It’s not my place to say yes or no,’ Miss Sparks said. ‘You’d better ask Miss Hopkins.’

She turned her attention to marshalling her charges into line, and Ella, nervous but determined, went back to the church porch where the housemistress was talking to Rector Evans. She was a formidable figure in her long black cloak, which Ella always thought made her look like a great black crow as it flapped around her angular frame. Iron-grey hair was drawn back into a severe bun and topped with a black felt hat, and a face that Mammy described as ‘enough to turn the milk sour’ completed the daunting picture. Beside her, Rector Evans looked like a big bird too in his own black cape, only perhaps with his white vestments showing at the neck and hem he looked more like a magpie. One for sorrow . . . Ella shivered. There was something about Rector Evans she didn’t like at all.

As she approached the pair, Miss Hopkins swung round, glaring.

‘Where do you think you are going?’ she demanded. ‘Rejoin the others at once!’

Gathering her courage, Ella stood her ground. ‘Our mammy wasn’t well enough to come to church today. Please, could we see her later on so we can give her our flowers?’ She held out her bunch imploringly, and added, ‘Miss Sparks said to ask you.’

‘That won’t be possible,’ Miss Hopkins said shortly. ‘She is in the infirmary, I believe.’

‘I know. But . . . it is Mothering Sunday, and we picked them specially . . .’

‘I suggest you lay them on one of the graves. Or take them into church and leave them in front of the statue of the Virgin Mary. But whichever it is, do it quickly. You’re holding everyone up.’

Ella wasn’t going to give up so easily. She didn’t want to put her flowers at the feet of a plaster statue or on the grave of someone she’d never known. She wanted to give them to Mammy. Especially if she was ill. Especially if, as Ella feared, this might be the last Mothering Sunday when she’d be able to give her flowers.

‘Jeannie has some too,’ she said, nodding in the direction of her sister, lined up and waiting in the crocodile with the other children. ‘She’s going to be so disappointed if she can’t give them to Mammy. And they’d cheer Mammy up. Make her feel better.’

‘Ella Martin!’ The housemistress’s voice rose threateningly. ‘Do as you have been told at once, or—’

Rector Evans interrupted her, placing a hand on Ella’s shoulder. ‘Couldn’t an exception be made in this case?’ His tone was conciliatory. ‘It is Mothering Sunday, after all, as Ella says.’

Ella cringed at his touch, even though she was grateful f