She wiped her damp hands, wincing in pain, and moved to open the door. Mary Whitcombe dried her wet fingers, groaned from the ache in her back, and shuffled toward the entrance. The knocking had been soft but persistentthis was the third time. Shed been cleaning the window, so she hadnt hurried to answer. Outside stood a young woman, lovely but pale and exhausted.
“Mrs. Whitcombe, I heard you might have a room to let?”
“Oh, those neighboursalways sending people my way! I dont let rooms. Never have.”
“They told me youve got three bedrooms.”
“And what of it? Why should I rent one out? Im used to living alone.”
“Im sorry. They said you were a woman of faith, so I thought”
The girl, fighting back tears, turned and began slowly descending the steps. Her shoulders trembled.
“Come back, love! I didnt turn you away! Goodness, young people these daysso sensitive, tears at the drop of a hat. Come inside, lets talk. Whats your name? Shall we skip the formalities?”
“Emily.”
“Emily Sea-born, then? Father a sailor?”
“I never had a father. Grew up in care. No mother either. Good folks found me in a stairwell as a baby and took me to the police. I wasnt even a month old.”
“Dont fret. Come, well talk over tea. Are you hungry?”
“No, I bought myself a doughnut.”
“A doughnut! Tch, youthno thought for themselves, and by thirty theyve got ulcers. Sit down, Ive got pea soup still warm. And well heat the tea. Plenty of jam too. My husband passed five years back, and old habits die hardI still cook for two. Well eat, then you can help me finish the window.”
“Mrs. Whitcombe, could I do something else? I get dizzyafraid Id fall off the sill. Im expecting.”
“Just what I needed! Im a stickler for rules. This childout of wedlock?”
“Why assume that? Im married. Tom, from the childrens home. But hes been called up. Came home on leave recently. When my landlady found out I was pregnant, she gave me a week to clear out. We lived close by. But you see how it is.”
“Well then What am I to do with you? Suppose I could move my bed into Simons old room. Fine, youll stay with me. And dont you dare offer rentnot a word. Fetch your things.”
“Its not far. All mine and Toms belongings are in a bag by the door. The weeks up, so Ive been knocking about with it.”
And so the two stayed together Emily was finishing her studies in fashion design. Mary Whitcombe had been on disability since a terrible rail crash years ago, so she kept busy at home, knitting lace doilies, collars, and baby booties to sell at the local market. Her wares were cleverdelicate as sea foam, they sold well. Money wasnt tight, especially with the veg from her garden. Saturdays, she and Emily worked the plot. Sundays, Mary went to church while Emily stayed home, poring over letters from Tom and writing back. She rarely joinedunchurched, she claimed her back ached and her head spun.
One Saturday, they were tidying the garden for winter. Emily tired quickly, so Auntie Mary sent her inside to rest and play old records she and her husband had collected years ago. That afternoon, after raking, the expectant mother dozed. Mary tossed dry branches into the fire, lost in thought, when Emilys shriek cut through: “Mum! Mummy, come quick!” Heart pounding, her own aches forgotten, Mary raced inside. Emily clutched her belly, gasping. In no time, Mary had a neighbour bundle them into his old Rover, and they sped to hospital. Emily moaned nonstop: “Mummy, it hurts! But its too soonIm not due till mid-January! Mum, pray for me, you know how!” Mary wept, whispering prayers through tears.
From A&E, Emily was wheeled away. The neighbour drove a sobbing Mary home. All night, she begged the Virgin to spare the child. At dawn, she phoned the hospital.
“Your daughters fine. Called for you and Tom at first, cried a bit, then settled. Doctor says the scares over, but shell need bed rest. Haemoglobins lowmind she eats well.”
When Emily was discharged, they talked past midnight. Emily couldnt stop speaking of Tom.
“Hes not a lad like me. An orphan. We grew up together. Friends at school, then more. He looks after me. Its deeper than love. See how often he writes? Want his photo? Heresecond from the right. Smiling”
“Handsome” Mary didnt want to hurt her. Her glasses needed replacingthe photo showed a crowd of squaddies, small and blurry. She couldnt pick out second or fifthjust shapes.
“Emily, whyd you call me Mum in the garden?”
“It just came out. Fear, maybe. In care, all adults were Mum or Dadcooks, plumbers, everyone. I unlearned it. But when Im scared it slips. Sorry.”
“I see” Mary sighed, disappointment plain.
“Auntie Mary, what about you? Why no photos of your husband or kids? Didnt you?”
“No. Had a songone before he turned one. After the crash, no more children. My husband was my child, in a way. Doted on him. He was my Tom. When I buried him, I put all photos away. Believer or not, living without him was hard. Photos just made me cry. Hid them to resist. Now he needs prayers, not tears. Em, lets enlarge Toms photoframe it. Ive spares somewhere.”
On Christmas Eve, they decked the halls, spoke of the Christ Child, and waited for the first star. Emily fidgeted, rubbing her lower back.
“Youre restless, love. Not listening. Whats the matter?”
“Auntie Mary, call an ambulance. I think its time.”
“Dont be daft! Youve a week yet.”
“Mustve miscalculated. PleaseI cant bear it.”
Within half an hour, the ambulance sped off. On Twelfth Night, Emily bore a girl. That same day, Mary wired the new father.
January was a whirlwind. Little Renee brought joy and chaos. Emily, with Toms blessing, named her so. Mary wept. Renee was a handfulsleepless nights, thrush, fussingbut happy troubles. Marys own pains eased.
One unseasonably warm day, Mary shopped early. Returning, she met Emily with the pramthe young mum had ventured out.
“Well walk a bit more, all right?”
“Stroll on, love. Ill start supper.”
Inside, Mary glimpsed the tableher husbands photo in a frame. She smiled. “Found it at last. Picked his youth, though. Young folks dont fancy old faces.”
Borscht simmered when Emily brought Renee home. A neighbour carried the pram in. They unwrapped the baby gentlyher tiny nose twitched sweetly. Tiptoeing, they left her sleeping.
“Emily,” Mary smiled, “howd you find Simons photos?”
“What dyou mean?”
“This.” Mary pointed.
“That? You asked for Toms enlargement. He went to a studio special. Frame was on the bookshelf.”
Marys hands shook as she reached. Only now she sawit wasnt her husband. A young sergeant beamed at the camera. She sank onto the sofa, pale, staring into space. When she turned, Emily was weeping, clutching an ammonia-soaked cotton pad.
“Mum, look at me! Look in my eyes! Mummy, whats wrong?”
“Emily, open my wardrobetop shelf, the photos. Bring them.”
Emily fetched albums full of framed shots. From the top, Tom stared back.
“Good Lord! Whos this? Is it Tom? No, this is old. Who is he, Mum?”
“My husband, Simon. Emily, love, where was Tom born?”
“I dont know. He came to our home from Londonafter a train wreck. They told him his parents died.”
“Oh God, what a horrible mix-up! Michael, my boythey showed me a body, and I identified it! He wore a shirt like Toms. But the face unrecognisable. No birthmarks. Michael, darlingyoure alive! Your wife and child are here, and I didnt know! Lord, you brought Emily to me. Love, hand me that photo.”
Bewildered, Emily obeyed. Mary kissed it, weeping
