MOTHERING SUNDAY
Dawn saw a boat-load of haggard faces under the walls of the Pride.
There was water as far as eye could see, and the grim light filtered
through six great gaps in the bank. The Let had given in all
directions, and from Watch How the whole Wythe valley showed like one
vast lagoon.
Lup stood up in the stern to hail, and found his voice a dead thing in
his throat. All night long it had been calling, but it was dumb, now.
In his pocket his icy fingers crushed the forgotten violets meant for
his mother.
Lancaster, at an oar, looked up at his terrible face, and shivered.
Somebody called, and they rowed closer. Across the sill of an upper
room the wind had blown the silvery strand of a woman’s hair. They
hailed once more, and drew towards it; but when they saw the watermark,
they were silent.
So, on Mothering Sunday, Lup Whinnerah came home again.