The Ribbon Weaver Read Free Page A

chair, and as Bessie held her blue feet out to the warmth of the fire, the hem of her skirt began to steam.
    It was not until she had taken two great gulps from the mug of scalding hot tea that Molly had placed into her perished hands that she was able to answer. ‘There were no one there,’ she said gravely, looking her neighbour straight in the eye.
    Molly’s mouth stretched in disbelief. ‘What do yer mean, woman? O’ course she were there – the poor love were almost at death’s door. What do yer think she did, just got up an’ walked away?’
    Bessie shrugged. ‘I’m tellin’ yer, love. There was no one there. As God’s me witness, she were gone.’
    Molly couldn’t believe it and began to poke the fire in her agitation. ‘Perhaps someone else found her after I left?’ she suggested hopefully.
    ‘That is a possibility,’ her weary neighbour admitted. ‘Unless … you imagined it.’
    Molly bristled with indignation. ‘I did not imagine it, me gel. I ain’t taken to fancy, as well yer should know.’ Suddenly a thought occurred to her. ‘Her bag!’ she cried. ‘Why, bugger me, I’ve got her bag. Yer know – the one I told yer she insisted I take? Why, I’d forgotten all about it.’
    She rushed to the side of the door where she had put down the bag when she first entered the room. Lifting it, she carried it to the hearth and placed it down on the brightly coloured peg rug. ‘There,’ she said triumphantly. ‘ Now tell me I imagined it.’
    Bessie grinned at her sheepishly. ‘Sorry, duck, but come on then – open it. It might give us some idea as to who she was.’
    Molly bent and after fumbling with the catch, she opened the bag. As she peered inside, the colour suddenly drained from her face.
    ‘What is it, love?’ Bessie’s voice was concerned.
    Without answering, Molly reached into the bag and lifted out what appeared at first sight to be a bundle of clothes. Carefully she laid it on the hearth and as she did so, Bessie’s face paled too.
    ‘Why, God in heaven … It’s a baby .’ Bessie could hardly believe her eyes.
    Solemn-faced, Molly nodded. ‘So, the poor love weren’t delirious after all.’ Looking at Bessie with fear shining in her eyes, she whispered, ‘But why is it so quiet?’
    Dropping to her knees beside her, Bessie began to unwind the clothes that the baby was wrapped in. The outer layer consisted of a black skirt, worn but neatly wrapped around a tiny pair of bloodstained scissors darned and obviously of a fine quality. Next was a white blouse, with tiny mother-of-pearl button slightly frayed at the cuffs, and lastly a shawl of pure blue silk, the like of which neither woman had ever seen. However, it wasn’t the shawl that held their attention but the tiny child wrapped inside it. It was a little girl and she was beautiful. A mop of tiny auburn curls framed a perfect heart-shaped face with long dark eyelashes that curled on to pale dimpled cheeks. But she was so still and silent that Molly gazed at Bessie in terror.
    ‘Is … is she dead?’
    Pulling herself together with a great effort, Bessie took control of the situation. ‘Right – get me some warm water,’ she ordered briskly, and without a murmur Molly scuttled away to do as she was bid. She felt sick inside, for the sight of that little innocent had reawakened memories that she had thought were long gone.
    In her mind’s eyes she saw again three tiny graves all lying side by side in the churchyard – the graves of her own three stillborn babies – and the heartbreak of losing them one after the other all those years ago swept through her afresh. She and Wilf had lived in Atherstone, a neighbouring town, back then. Molly had not met and wed him until she was in her thirties, and they had dreamed of having a large family. But each pregnancy had resulted in a stillbirth, and even now never a day went by when she did not mourn her lost girls. Still, her consolation had been her beloved husband. It was