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might have been the most important day in the bride’s life, but I felt it was mine as well. Every mirror I passed was stopped at for me to admire my reflection. At the end of the day I went home still wearing my new clothes.
    ‘They are for you to keep,’ my younger aunt told me when I thought they must be returned. And I beamed at her with happiness.
    She bent down and gave me a kiss, and as I inhaled a mixture of soap and perfume, I knew then what it was that I so wanted. For twenty-four hours it was as though a curtain separating our two worlds had been pulled back, allowing me to step into her world. I wanted to be part of it – a world where houses were full of laughter, children wore nice clothes and little girls were told they were pretty. I wanted to feel special again. It was to be another year before I felt that – it was when I met the man who called me his little lady.

Chapter Seven
     
     
    W hen I look back on my parents’ marriage I think it had taken those five and a half years of my being an only child for my father to come to terms with no longer being single; certainly matrimony was not a state he appeared to enjoy. I learnt as I grew older that my parents’ marriage had been a rushed event, with me being born less than five months after the ceremony. When his eyes fell on me he seemed to remember that I was the cause of all his unwanted responsibilities. His brows would lower, thunderous looks were cast in my direction and at a very young age I quickly learnt to keep out of his way.
    When the first of my siblings arrived, a boy, the birth of a son appeared to please my father more than my presence ever had. The tiny red-faced scrap was leant over, smiled at and even on some occasions spoken to. For a brief interlude my mother also appeared content, but no sooner was my little brother crawling than she announced that another baby was on the way.
    Maybe the imminent arrival of another mouth to feed made him seek fresh employment, or perhaps with his surly manners and quick temper he had upset his employer. Whichever it was, my father took work on another farm, one where the wages were higher and the rent-free cottage larger.
    ‘Got a new job,’ he had announced at the supper table and named the farm that would be employing him.
    ‘We’ll be moving too, so you can start packing,’ was all he said about it.
    My mother only asked him where the cottage that was going to be our new home was.
    The woman my mother had been, before I came along, might have questioned him more, but seven years of marriage had taken their toll. She showed very little interest in herself and far less in what was happening around her.
    Her husband’s drinking and frequent violence, the greyness of poverty, and her total lack of independence, for my father controlled what little money there was, had slowly stripped away nearly all her youth and confidence.
    I was surprised that over the days leading up to our moving my mother suddenly appeared happy, put an effort into the evening meal and smiled at my father. She told us both that she had taken herself for a walk to inspect our new home, which was nicer than she had expected, and met our new neighbours.
    It was clearly the last part that had put the smile on her face.
    ‘The people next door seem very nice,’ she had said as she placed my father’s dinner of stew and potatoes in front of him. His response was to lift his fork and commence eating.
    ‘Yes, they do, really nice,’ she continued. But her words vanished into the silence of disinterest.
    Maybe it was then that I recognized the loneliness that my mother endured on an almost daily basis. For hours at a time she was alone in the house with just a brown Bakelite radio for company, and she longed for another adult to talk to. That evening I heard that barely concealed flicker of hope in her voice – hope that she might make a new friend and be able have a conversation with someone other than herself, her small