She wiped her damp hands, wincing from the pain, and moved to open the door. Margaret Whitmore dried her wet fingers, groaned from the ache in her back, and shuffled to answer the knock. It had been soft, but this was the third time. Shed been cleaning the window and hadnt heard it at first. On the doorstep stood a young woman, strikingly pretty but pale and exhausted.
“Mrs. Whitmore, I heard you might have a room to let?”
“Good heavens, 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 away and slowly started down the steps. Her shoulders trembled.
“Come back, girl! I never threw you out! Oh, this generationso sensitive, everything sets them off. Come inside, lets talk. Whats your name? Shall we drop the formalities?”
“Emily.”
“Emilylike the poet? Father a literary man?”
“I never had a father. I grew up in care. Didnt have a mother either. They found me on a stairwellkind souls took me to the police. I wasnt even a month old.”
“Dont fret. Come, well talk over tea. Are you hungry?”
“No, I bought a doughnut.”
“A doughnut! Oh, young peoplenever think of their health, then wonder why theyve got ulcers by thirty. Sit down, Ive still got hot pea soup. And well warm some tea. Plenty of jam, too. My husband passed five years ago, but I still cook for two out of habit. Eat first, then you can help me finish the window.”
“Mrs. Whitmore, could I do something else? I get dizzyIm afraid Ill fall off the sill. Im expecting.”
“Perfect! Just what I needed. Im a woman of principles. Is this child out of wedlock?”
“Why assume that? Im married. To Tomfrom the childrens home. Hes been called up. Came home on leave recently. When our landlady found out I was pregnant, she kicked me out straightaway. Gave me a week to find somewhere. We didnt live far. But you see how it is.”
“Well then What am I to do with you? Maybe move my bed into Simons old room. Fine, youll stay with me. I wont take a penny from you, dont even mention it. Go 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 on doors with it.”
And so they stayed together Emily was finishing school to be a fashion designer. Margaret had been on disability since a terrible rail crash years ago, so she stayed home, knitting lace doilies, collars, baby bootiesselling them at the local market. Her work was clever, delicate as sea foam, and sold well. Money wasnt tight, especially with the vegetables and fruit from their garden. Saturdays, they worked there together. Sundays, Margaret went to church while Emily stayed home, reading Toms letters and replying. She rarely wentunused to it. She complained of back pain and dizzy spells.
One Saturday, they were in the garden. The harvest was in; they were preparing the soil for winter. Emily tired quickly, so Aunt Margaret sent her inside to rest and listen to old records she and her husband had collected. That day, after raking, the expectant mother went to lie down. Margaret tossed dry branches into the fire, staring into the flames. Suddenly, Emilys scream pierced the air: “Mum! Mummy, come quick!” Heart pounding, forgetting her aching legs and back, Margaret ran to the cottage. Emily was clutching her stomach, crying out. Moments later, Margaret persuaded a neighbour, and in his rattling old Rover, they sped to the hospital. Emily moaned endlessly: “Mummy, it hurts! But its too soonIm not due till mid-January! Mum, pray for me, you know how!” Margaret wept, whispering prayers through her tears.
From A&E, Emily was wheeled away. The neighbour drove the sobbing woman home. All night, she prayed to the Virgin Mary to spare the child. At dawn, she called the hospital.
“Your daughters fine. At first, she kept calling for you and Tom, crying, but she calmed and slept. The doctor says the risks passed, though shell need to stay awhile. Her haemoglobins low. Make sure she eats well, rests plenty.”
When Emily was discharged, they talked late into the night. Emily spoke of nothing but Tom.
“Hes not some boyhes an orphan. We grew up together in care. Became friends in school, then fell in love. He looks after me. Its more than loveits everything. See how often he writes? Want to see his photo? Heresecond from the right. See his smile?”
“Handsome” Margaret didnt want to upset Emily. Shed needed new glasses for ages. The photo was small, blurryrows of soldiers. She couldnt make out second, third, or fifth. Just shapes.
“Emily, why did you call me Mum in the garden that day?”
“It just slipped out. From fright. In care, every adult was Mum or Dadthe director, the plumber. I unlearned it. But when Im scared or upset, it comes back. Sorry.”
“I see” Margaret sighed, disappointment plain.
“Aunt Margaret, tell me about you. Why no photos of your husband, children? Didnt you have any?”
“No. I had a son, but he died before his first birthday. After the crash, I couldnt have more. My husband was like a child to meI spoiled him, adored him. He was my world, like Toms yours. After the funeral, I put all the photos away. Im a believer, but without him it was hard. The pictures made me cry. So I hid themout of sight, out of mind. Now he needs my prayers, not tears. Emily, show me Toms photo again. Well frame it properly. Ive got spares somewhere.”
On Christmas Eve, Margaret and Emily decorated the house, spoke of the Christ Child, and waited for the first star. Emily fidgeted, rubbing her lower back.
“Youre restless, love. Not listening. Why so twitchy?”
“Aunt Margaret, call an ambulance. I think Im in labour.”
“Dont be silly, dear. Youve another week.”
“I mustve miscalculated. Pleasehurry, I cant bear it.”
Half an hour later, the ambulance raced to hospital. On the seventh of JanuaryChristmas Day for their faithEmily gave birth to a girl. That same day, Margaret sent the new father a telegram.
January was tense. The baby brought joy but also trouble. Emily, with Toms blessing, named her Lily. Margaret wept at the choice. Little Lily kept them busysleepless nights, thrush, fussing. But they were happy troubles. Margarets own aches eased.
One unseasonably warm winter day, Margaret went shopping. On her return, she met Emily with the pramthe young mother had taken Lily for air.
“Well walk a bit longer, all right, Aunt Margaret?”
“Stroll safely, dear. Ill start supper.”
Back inside, Margaret glanced at the tableand froze. There, in a frame, was her husbands photo. She smiled. “So she found them. Picked his youth, of course. The young dont care for old faces.”
The soup simmered when Emily brought Lily home. A neighbour carried the pram inside. Both women gently unwrapped the baby. Her tiny nose twitched sweetly. They tiptoed to the parlour.
“Emily,” Margaret smiled, “howd you know where Simons photos were?”
“I dont understand.”
“That.” Margaret pointed.
“That? You asked me to enlarge Toms photo. He went to a studio specially. The frame was on the bookshelf.”
Margarets hands shook as she reached for it. Only then did she seeit wasnt her husband. A young sergeant grinned at the camera. She sank onto the sofa, pale, gaze distant. When she turned, Emily was sobbing, clutching an ammonia-soaked cotton pad.
“Mum, look at me! Look in my eyes! Mummy, whats wrong?”
“Emily, open the wardrobe. Top shelfbring all the photos.”
Emily returned with albums, framed pictures. Staring down at her was Tom.
“My God! Whos this? Is it Tom? Nothis is old. Who is he, Mum?”
“My husband, Simon. Emily, love, where was Tom born?”
“I
