We despised her the moment she crossed the threshold of our cottage in Kent. Her coat was plain, but her hands were unlike Mothers the fingers short and stout, clutched together as if in a permanent fist. Her legs were slimmer than Mothers, and her feet were oddly long.
My brother William, then seven, and I, nine, spent the afternoon hurling slingshots at her. Long Mile she is, a whole kilometre, not a mile at all! wed shout, mimicking the old rhyme. Father, noticing our contempt, snapped, Mind your manners! How uncouth of you!
Will she stay with us long? William asked, his voice full of impudent curiosity; after all, he was just a boy.
Forever, Father answered.
We could hear his irritation rising. If he lost his temper, it would not bode well for us, so we kept our tongues in check. An hour later, Ethel gathered her things to leave. As she slipped on her shoes, William tried to trip her, and she nearly tumbled into the hallway.
Father rushed over, Whats happened?
I tripped over another pair of shoes, she said, not looking at William.
Everythings a mess. Ill tidy it up, he promised eagerly.
In that instant we realised he cared for her. We could not, despite our best efforts, erase her from our lives.
One afternoon, when Father was away, Ethel, irritated by our mischief, spoke in a steady voice, Your mother has passed away. It happens, sadly. She now sits on a cloud, seeing everything. I doubt she approves of your behaviour. She knows you act out of spite, clinging to her memory.
We were taken aback.
William, Lucy, youre decent children! Is this how you honour a mothers memory? Good deeds, not thorns, make a person. Her words gradually dampened our urge to be cruel.
Later I helped her unload the groceries from the market. Ethel praised me, gently ruffling my hair. Though her fingers were not Mothers, the touch felt warm. William grew jealous. He set the clean mugs back on the shelf, and Ethel praised him, too. That evening he boasted to Father about how helpful we were, and Father beamed with pride.
Her foreignness lingered, keeping us uneasy. We wanted to let her in, but could not. A year passed, and we could barely recall life without her. After a certain incident we fell for Ethel, losing all sense of judgment, just as Father had.
When William reached seventh form, life grew hard. A bully, Thomas Hramley, of similar height but far braver, tormented him. The Hramley family was welloff; Thomass father shoved his son forward, shouting, Youre a man, ladstand up and fight. Thomas chose William as an easy target.
Thomas began to punch William openly, landing blows whenever he passed. I managed to coax the information from William after seeing bruises on his shoulders; he believed a man should not lay his troubles on his sister, however older. Unseen, Ethel lingered by the doorway, listening.
William begged me not to tell Father, fearing worse trouble. He also pleaded that I not go after Thomas at once, though I wanted to defend my brother. Involving Father would only pit him against Thomass father, and prison was a short step away.
The next day, a Friday, Ethel pretended to go to the shop but escorted us to school, then slipped away to seek Thomas. I showed him where he was, saying, Let him know hes not welcome.
A Russian lesson began for William. Ethel, hair neatly tied, entered the classroom with a pleasant tone, asking Thomas to step out because she had business with him. The teacher, unsuspecting, allowed it. Thomas, thinking Ethel a new organizer, left calmly. She grabbed him by the shirt, lifted him, and hissed, What do you want from my son?
What son? he stammered.
From William Ryabinin! she declared.
If you lay a hand on my brother again, Ill have you stripped of everything, she warned, her voice like steel. Your father will be behind bars for corrupting a child.
Thomas fled the room, muttering apologies. He never looked at William the same way again, avoiding him entirely. He offered a brief, awkward apology that very day.
Ethel begged us not to tell Father, but we could not keep silent; we recounted everything, and Father was astonished. She set me on the right path, and I fell, at sixteen, into a reckless love that clouded my mind.
I recall the shameful liaison with an unemployed, perpetually drunk pianist. He spun tales of being my muse, and I melted in his arms like wax. My mother visited him once, asking, Does he ever sober up, and how will we survive? With a concrete plan she promised to support our future, provided he took responsibility for my upkeep. One cramped flat was not enough for serious intentions.
He was five years younger than Ethel, while I was twentyfive years older than him. She cared little for propriety. I will not recount his answers, but I was mortified when Mother said, I thought you were smarter.
That affair ended badly, though neither the pianist nor Father ever went to prisonEthel intervened just in time.
Many years have passed since. William and I now have families built on love, respect, and the willingness to defend a loved one who errs. Those values were taught to us by Ethel. No woman has ever given as much to us as she did. Father is happy, wellkept, and loved.
Long ago a family tragedy struck Ethel, unknown to William and me; Father never mentioned it. She fell for our father and left her husband. She had once a son, lost to her husbands cruelty, a grief she could never forgive.
We like to think we eased some of Ethels pain. Her immense influence on our upbringing was never, and will never be, understated. The whole family gathers around her; we never know which slippers will suit her feet best, but we cherish and protect her. True mothers, even when hindered by others harsh steps, never stumble.
