Why Evelyn took up knitting booties, she couldnt quite say.
Her daughter had turned forty two years past. A widow now, shed never had children of her own. Last year, she remarrieda man much younger, who insisted he wasnt ready for fatherhood just yet.
Evelyns son had long since moved to Canada with no plans to return. Her nieces and nephews had grown, but none had started families of their own. The house held no childish laughter, no whispers of little feet to come.
One day, in the market, Evelyn spotted skeins of woolsoft hues of English yarn that caught her eye. Shed meant to knit herself a cardigan, bought slender needles and a hook, yet somehow, she found herself making booties instead.
By evening, the first pair was done. She had plenty of wool left. The next day, she stitched a bonnet, then a little jumper and matching trousers. To finish the set, she rummaged through an old tin of buttons and chose the prettiesttiny golden suns.
She washed the pieces in a basin with gentle wool soap, laid them out to dry on a soft towel. Gazing at the tiny outfit, she sighed.
“Ill die without ever holding a grandchild.”
But then another thought came.
“Somewhere, theres a child who needs these.”
She opened her laptop, searching for childrens homes nearby. After reading a few articles, she gathered herself and returned to the shopthis time for shades of blue.
Within days, shed knitted a set for a boy. Then ten more pairs of booties, ten snug hats, each a different colour. Packing them in a box, she set off for the childrens home.
“Without certificates, we cant accept handmade items,” the matron explained. “Nappies are always needed, though.”
Evelyn stood there, clutching her knitted gifts, tears welling.
“Right then,” the woman relented. “Come along, lets try them on the little ones.”
Evelyn cradled the babies, stroked their soft cheeks, and slipped booties onto tiny feet. For the older ones, she fitted the hats.
At home, she told her husband, “They said nappies would be better.”
“Fair enough,” he replied. “Well buy some tomorrow. Now, lets get the potatoes on.”
“Theyll never let us adoptwere too old. Im sixty-one, youre sixty-two,” Evelyn murmured.
“Maybe not,” he said calmly. “But no ones barred the door. We can visit, help out. Booties and socks will always be needed.”
“Theres a pairtwins, a boy and girl. Fair-haired. Nearly two,” Evelyn mused. “I think knitted suits would suit them. A bit big now, but children grow fast. The booties fit just rightI made them like little plimsolls.”
“Lets go together,” he offered. “Ill sort it. Well visit them.”
And he did. For four months, they volunteered at the home. Evelyn knitted new suits and booties for the twins, who soon called her “Mum.” But one day, when they arrived, the children were gone.
“Would you believe it? Theyve been adoptedboth at once,” the matron said. “We took photos in your knitted suits, and a couple rang that very day. Months of paperwork, and this morning, they were collected. We worried no one would take two together.”
Tears pricked Evelyns eyes.
“Now then, dont cry, love,” her husband chided gently. “This is good news.”
That evening, their daughter called.
“Mum, Dad, can you come over? I need help.”
“Is it the tap again?” Evelyn asked. “Or the neighbours flooding you?”
“No, its the cot,” her daughter replied. “Will you come? Dont ringjust use your key.”
“Right, were on our way,” Evelyn nodded.
They climbed into their Rover and drove over. The flat was spotless, the kitchen rich with the smell of supper. Evelyn and her husband kicked off their shoes.
“Wash up and wait in the lounge,” their daughter called from the kitchen. “Be there in a tick.”
They settled on the sofa, the telly murmuring news. Then her husband nudged her.
She looked up. In the doorway stood her son-in-law, Tom.
In his arms were the twins, dressed in Evelyns knitted suits and tiny plimsoll booties. The boy clutched a slice of apple; the girl, cheeks smeared, grinned and tried to snatch it. Tom was smiling.
“Dont quite know how to say it Well, youve grandchildren now. We kept quietwasnt sure itd work out. Janines just making their porridge.”
Janine rushed in, flushed and beaming.
“Mum, Dad, meet Emily and William. Saw their photo on the Children Waiting page. Twins, like me and my brother.”
She held up an old snapshottwo toddlers in knitted plimsolls. “Recognise these? Tom took one look and said, ‘Theyre ours.'”
Tom set the children down. They toddled to Evelyn, small hands reaching, voices shrill.
“Mum! Mum!”
She swept them up, kissing their faces, wiping her tears.
“Im not Mum, darlings. Im your gran. Granny.”
Softly, she repeated it. “Gran Gran Gran”
Her husband chuckled.
“Now then, whats all this? Time to buy more wool. Socks nextbooties wont fit for long.”
