My first story

My mother has always been a bit spooky. Oh, don't get me wrong, we have a brilliant relationship and I love her dearly, and she me. But spooky. Strange things would happen to her - odd little coincidences that you couldn't quite explain. She had an out-of-body-experience once. Another time, a little dish of earrings in her room spontaneously dematerialised one earring from each pair for them never to be found again. She would invariably know who was calling on the phone before answering it and she knew exactly when to hide behind the sofa and pretend we weren't in when the wrong someone came knocking.

I must have been about eight years old, Mum was pregnant with my little brother and I suspect that's why she started to tell me a story that happened when she was pregnant with me. Well, I couldn't resist a story about one of my favourite subjects from one of my favourite people and I settled down, listening intently.

Before I was born, she and my father lived in a little house called "The Lodge." It was a small cottage situated at the end of a long driveway which led to a much larger house owned by the Droitwiches. The gatekeeper used to live in "The Lodge" but it had remained empty for decades until my parents moved in. Dad was a builder and carpenter and was able to fix up the place to not only make it habitable, but cosy. I lived there for the first two years of my life but my only real memories of it are through the many photographs Dad took. I had a great time by the looks of it.

"The Lodge" stood opposite a forest with a, then quiet, road inbetween. The one-bedroom cottage was exposed on all sides with neighbours in walking distance, but not shouting distance.

My Mum was a good six or seven months along with me, a great big bump that shifted about often. Whilst Dad was at work, making London houses look boujie on the cheap, Mum would potter about in the garden of her little house. She would spend hours in her element, weeding, pruning, planting but with me growing in her belly she would eventually require an afternoon nap. And on this warm autumn day she got herself into bed, intending to drift off for an hour or so.

From the view of the bedroom window she could see most of the way up the drive, save for the birch trees marking the end of the garden. The window was partway open to let a little air in and in the breeze the sussuration of the birch leaves would usually send her off to sleep, but something had caught her attention.

She couldn't quite remember where they came from, only that they were suddenly just there and moving slowly but steadily down the drive. She first described them to me as Nuns. They were in long, black robes and she assumed a white wimple on each of their heads. Neither could she remember how many of them there were - more than three, less than seven - some. One was leading with the others close behind, like a skein of geese flying overhead.

My mother said the instant she saw them she couldn't keep her eyes from them, to look away, not even it felt, to blink. Their smooth progress up the drive was slow, but steady - the robes so long, she couldn't see their feet. And it occured to her that she couldn't hear their feet on the gravel, which was when she began to feel uneasy. Moreso, when she saw that they were now veering off the drive and into the garden, their path directly lined up with her window.

She tried to focus on their faces and found she couldn't. It was as if the light shining off the white headpieces were blinding her. But as they were fully into the garden she became sure the light was coming directly from them. So sure she must be dreaming she pinched herself hard on the arm. Later it would leave a vivid bruise, certain proof to my mother that she was fully awake.

How had they got into the garden? There was a fence and they were nowhere near the gate from that position. They were outside the window now. What did they want? She didn't call out, although she wanted to. Her heart hammered in her chest as, unexpectedly the beings outside the window walked through it as if walls were meaningless.

Their faces were made of light, their bodies dark. Mum scooted as best she could, up the bed and protectively put her hands on her belly. "Not my baby, don't take my baby!" The nuns advanced, and sank into the bed, into her stomach, into where I was, blissfully unaware of what was happening. They just melted away as if they had walked down an unseen flight of stairs. For some time my mother stay still, holding onto her bump, onto me, until I gave a reassuring kick.

The first time she told me this story she said she thought perhaps they were angels. Over the years she told it to me a number of times with only the thoughts of who or what the beings were, changing. A teenaged me joked that perhaps I was a nun in a past life and that I was making up for it in this one. I have told my own daughter the story. "The Lodge" is now home to my brother and his wife though neither have witnessed anything like my Mother did that day. I don't doubt for a moment that it happened. I can't with any certainty explain what it was that happened, but I do feel very strongly that one day I will find out.