Life has a way of surprising us in the most unexpected moments, leaving us to wonder at the twists of fate. I still remember that crisp October afternoon when I was walking back from the market in the next village over. In those days, buses were scarce, and I had to make the journey on foot, grumbling under my breath about the muddy lanes and the heavy sacks of potatoes I carried.
At forty-two, I lived alone, save for a ginger tomcat named Marmadukea portly creature who resembled a cushion with a mischievous glint in his eye. After my divorce, my personal life had faltered, and my relationship with my children had grown distant. I worked at the village library, knitted jumpers in the evenings, and watched tellyjust the quiet life of an ordinary woman from the countryside.
I was halfway home, wondering if I had the strength to lug those wretched sacks any farther, when I spotted her. A small figure in a threadbare coat sat huddled beneath an ancient oak, arms wrapped tightly around her knees. At first, I thought my eyes were playing trickswho in their right mind would leave a child alone on such a dreary stretch between villages?
“Little one, where are your parents?” I called, stepping closer.
She lifted her heada pale face, wide frightened eyes, and silence. She only pulled her coat tighter.
“Are you lost? Where do you live?”
Still nothing. Just the faintest tremble of her lips.
“Good heavens, you’re frozen through!” I set down my bags and crouched beside her. “I’m Margaret Atwood. What’s your name?”
“E-Elsie,” she whispered.
“Elsie, would you like to come home with me? Ill make you a nice cup of tea, warm you up, and well sort this out.”
She gave a timid nod, and I hoisted the sacks with one hand, taking her icy little fingers in the other. So we walkedme puffing under the weight of the potatoes, and her trotting beside me like a sparrow.
At home, I wrapped her in a blanket, lit the fireplace, and put the kettle on. Marmaduke, usually indifferent to visitors, promptly curled up in her lap, purring like a motor.
“Look at thathes taken to you,” I smiled, setting out a plate of biscuits. “He doesnt do that for just anyone.”
Elsie tentatively stroked his fur, and I saw the tension ease from her shoulders.
“Elsie, how old are you?”
“Five I think.”
“Do you know your surname? Or where you live?”
She shook her head, and my stomach tightened. Something was very wrong here.
That evening, I fed her stew and a slice of treacle tart (thank goodness for my habit of baking ahead), tucked her into my bed, and settled on the sofa. I scarcely sleptI rang the constable, the parish council, even the neighbouring villages, but no one had reported a missing child.
Weeks passed. Elsie slowly warmed, even smiling when I read her bedtime stories. But she remembered nothingor chose not toabout how shed come to be on that road.
When the child welfare officer shrugged helplessly once more, I knew I had to make a choice. The orphanage? The thought turned my stomach.
“Elsie,” I said one evening as she bent over her drawings, tongue peeking out in concentration. “Would you like to stay here? Permanently?”
She paused, gripping her pencil, then looked up.
“Really?”
“Yes. Youd be my daughter.”
“And can Marmaduke stay too?”
I laughed. “Of course.”
She slid off the chair, walked over, and hugged me tight. As I smoothed her hair, I thoughtcome what may, wed manage.
Then came the endless visits to the authorities, paperwork, and inspectionsbut thats another tale.
I remember her first day at school as if it were yesterday. Elsie clung to my hand as though facing a den of lions rather than a classroom. A new gingham dress, white ribbons Id spent an hour trying to tie just righteverything proper.
“Mum, what if I cant do it?” she whispered as we neared the schoolhouse.
That word”Mum”sent warmth blooming through my chest. Shed first called me that a month earlier, when Id been laid up with fever, and shed brought me tea, spilling half along the way.
“Of course you can,” I knelt to adjust her ribbons. “Youre my clever girl.”
“What if they laugh?”
I knew what she meant. In a village, everyone knows everything, and whispers about the “foundling” had already sprouted wilder with each telling.
“Here,” I said, pulling a small notebook with puppies on the cover from my bag. “Take this. Write down all the interesting things you learn today. Then tell me everything later. Deal?”
She nodded, clutching the notebook to her chest, and we walked on.
The first months were hard. Elsie struggled with sums, but in art class, she was a different childquiet no longer, but alive with colour.
“Mrs. Atwood, might I have a word?” Miss Pemberton, the art teacher, stopped me after parents evening.
I braced myselfteachers didnt keep you back for good news.
“Elsie has a remarkable gift,” she said, opening a sketchbook. “Look.”
On the page was our lane in autumnbut as only Elsie could see it. Every leaf, every puddle reflecting the sky
“She ought to nurture this. Theres an art school in the county town”
I sighed. Art school meant fees. On a librarians wages, we scraped by as it was.
“Ill think on it,” I said.
That evening, as Elsie did her sums and I stirred the stew, there was a knock. Mrs. Whitby, our neighbour, stood on the step.
“Margaret, here” She held out a basket. “Apples from my tree. The child needs her vitamins. And some blackberry jam.”
I blinked. “But Edith, you shouldnt”
“Take it,” she waved me off. “AndI do a bit of housekeeping in town now and then. If youd like, I could put in a word. They pay fair.”
So began my “under the table” weekendstwice a month, Id take the train to clean houses. Elsie stayed with Mrs. Whitby, who taught her to bake scones and told stories of the old days.
By years end, wed saved enough for art school. It meant two bus rides, but Elsie never complained.
Trouble came in secondary school. Adolescence is hard enough without the weight of unanswered questions.
“Why did they leave me?” she asked one night over tea. “Was I bad?”
My heart clenched.
“Elsie, listen”
“No, you listen!” She jumped up, knocking over her cup. “Everyone else knows who their parents are! And IIm no one! Just some stray!”
“Thats enough!”
“Does the truth sting?” She stormed out, slamming the door so hard the teacups rattled.
Marmaduke, now ancient and even rounder, bolted under the sofa.
I didnt follow. In such moments, she needed space. I sat wiping spilled tea, wonderinghad I failed her? Should I have
The front door banged. I startledit was near ten.
“Elsie!”
Silence.
I grabbed my coat and ran outside. Rain misted down; every other lamp was out. Where would she go?
I checked the green, the old millnothing. Dark thoughts swirledhighwaymen, accidents
I found her at the churchyard, sitting on Mrs. Whitbys grave.
“Elsie”
She looked updrenched, shivering.
“Im sorry,” she whispered. “I didnt mean”
I draped my coat over her shoulders and sat beside her.
“You know,” I said after a long silence, “when I found you, I thought youd stay a while, then move onto a home or kin, if they turned up. But then you started drawing those creatures on the wallpaper”
“They were dragons!”
“Especially the green one with three heads,” I smiled. “And I knewI couldnt let you go. Because youre mine. Not by blood, but by heart. And whoever your first parents were doesnt matter. To me, youre real.”
She buried her face in my shoulder and wept. We sat like thatwet, cold, but somehow lighter.
“Mum,” she said as we walked home. “Can I paint my room? Purple?”
“Lavender or violet?”
She shrugged. “Lets try both?”
That weekend, we painted. I still couldnt say which shade it was, but Elsie beamed.
By fifteen, she knew shed be an artist. Her work won county contests; one even went to a London exhibition.
“Mum, look!” She burst in waving a letter. “Ive
