Mind The Trams ……
PROLOGUE — The Last Arrival at Paddock
The tram bell clanged at the foot of the hill, sharp as a warning, before it
groaned its way past the convent wall. Even in daylight, Paddock House
looked half-swallowed by its own shadow — tall stone, shuttered
windows, iron crucifix leaning like it, too, had grown weary.
Sister Philomena stood at the gate with her hands tucked into the sleeves
of her habit, breath a faint cloud in the morning cold. She had been told to
expect “a late arrival,” nothing more. At Paddock, children arrived the
way winter did — quietly, inconveniently, with no say in the matter.
Down the path came a boy carrying a girl. He could not have been more
than twelve, his boots too large, his coat patched at the elbows, but he
walked with a stubborn dignity that made him seem older. The girl —
four years old at most — clung to his collar, her small face buried against
the wool.
As they reached the gate, Sister Philomena stepped forward.
“What is your name, child?” she asked gently, aiming the question at the
girl.
The boy answered for her.
“She’s Doris,” he said. “Doris Whittaker.”
Philomena turned her gaze to him. “And you are?”
“Sam,” he replied. “Her brother.”
The girl lifted her head then, just enough. She was a plain little thing at
first glance — pale, smudged cheeks, hair flattened from sleep — but
when her eyes met Philomena’s, something unexpected happened: Doris
smiled.
It was small, quick, almost unsure — but it altered the entire geometry of
her face. Light moved where there had been none. Fragile, yes, but
unmistakably there.
Philomena’s heart — usually armoured in starch and discipline —
twinged. Just once. A flicker, as brief and disconcerting as a bird
brushing a windowpane.
Sam saw it too. Hope loosened something in his posture.
“She’s good,” he said. “She’s always been good.”
Philomena nodded, though she could already feel the Mother Superior’s
shadow lengthening behind her.
“And your mother?” she asked.
Sam lowered his eyes. “Gone.”
Philomena hesitated. “Gone where, lad?”
He shook his head, jaw tightening. “Just gone.”
Then, after a breath: “But she knew this place. My mam did. She told me
once… if anything happened… Paddock would take us.”
A thin confirmation — something Philomena would later question — but
enough for now.
Sam reached into his coat and pulled out a small locket on a string. The
metal was beaten from years of being clutched, polished by worry rather
than wealth. He placed it in Doris’s palm and closed her fingers around it.
“It were Mam’s,” he murmured to her. “You keep it.”
Doris looked at the locket, then at him, uncertain. The tram rumbled past
again behind them, its wheels shrieking as it took the bend. Sam flinched.
“Mind the trams,” he whispered, stroking her hair. “Mind the trams, Dot.
And mind the shadows.”
Philomena watched the exchange, feeling something in her chest she
preferred not to name.
“You cannot stay,” she said, though she softened her tone as much as she
dared. “This is a house for orphans, not a lodging for brothers.”
“I know.” Sam’s voice cracked just once. “But I’ll be back for her. When
I can. You’ve my word.”
Philomena studied him — the oversized boots, the dirt under his
fingernails, the desperation stitched through his stubbornness. A promise
like that, from a boy his age, belonged more to longing than likelihood.
Still… she inclined her head.
“We will see to her,” she said.
The words tasted like a vow she had no right to make.
Sam kissed Doris’s hair, quickly, so quickly the gesture nearly vanished.
Then he handed her into Philomena’s arms. The moment she let go of
him, Doris whimpered — not a cry, just a soft, bewildered sound. Her
little hand grasped at the air where her brother had been.
But Sam was already stepping backwards down the path, already turning
away, already swallowed by the morning fog rolling off the tram tracks.
He didn’t look back. Perhaps he couldn’t.
Philomena closed the gate.
Doris pressed her face into the stiff fabric of Philomena’s habit, small
fingers clutching the locket so tightly it left marks on her skin.
Inside the convent, Mother Superior was already waiting.
And somewhere in the corridor — faint, out of place — a cough echoed.
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