Margaret dried her damp hands on her apron, wincing as a sharp twinge shot through her lower back, and hurried to answer the door. The bell had chimed softly, yet insistently, for the third time. Shed been polishing the front bay window and hadnt reached the hallway straightaway. On the doorstep stood a slight, fair-haired girlpretty but wan, with shadows under her eyes.
“Margaret, they told me you might have a room to let?”
“Oh, those busybodies down the lane! Always sending strangers my way! I dont let rooms, never have.”
“But I heard youve three bedrooms going spare.”
“What of it? Since when must I share my home? I like my peace and quiet.”
“Im sorry. They said you were kind. I thought”
The girls voice wavered. She blinked hard, turned, and began shuffling down the steps, her thin shoulders quivering.
“Come back, duck! I havent said no! Young ones these days, so quick to despair. Inside with youlets talk properly. Whats your name? Shall we drop the formalities?”
“Charlotte.”
“Charlotte, eh? Bet your dads a schoolmaster or something, isnt he?”
“I never knew him. Grew up in a childrens home. No mum either. A couple found me in a church porch and took me to the constables. I wasnt a month old.”
“Right, no need for tears. Well have a cuppa and sort this. Hungry?”
“No, I bought a sausage roll earlier.”
“A sausage roll! Lord, you youngsters live on scraps, then wonder why youre poorly by thirty. Sit downtheres leek and potato soup warming. Ill put the kettle on. Plenty of jam in the cupboard. My Harold passed six years back, but I still stock up like hes here. Eat first, then you can help me finish the windows.”
“Margaret, could I do something else? Im feeling lightheadedscared Ill topple off the sill. Im expecting.”
“Well, thats just dandy! A girl in the family way. Ive my principles, mind. Did you land yourself in trouble?”
“Why assume the worst? Im married. Jameswe grew up in the same home. Hes been called up for service. Came home on leave last month. My landlady found out about the baby and gave me notice. Ive a week to find somewhere. We lived close by, but well, you see how it is.”
“Aye. How it is. Suppose Ill shift my bed to the spare room, then. Take my chamberand not a word about rent, or Ill box your ears. Fetch your things.”
“Wont take long. All mine and Jamess bits are in a holdall by the gate. The weeks up today, and Ive been traipsing about since dawn.”
So they became two. Charlotte studied dressmaking at the technical college. Margaret, pensioned off after a rail collision years prior, spent her days knitting lace trims and baby bonnets to sell at the parish market. Her work, fine as cobwebs, fetched a fair price. Money wasnt tight, especially with the veg patch yielding well. Saturdays were for gardening; Sundays, Margaret attended Mass while Charlotte stayed home, poring over Jamess letters. The girl seldom went to churchit wasnt a habit yet. She often complained of backaches and dizzy spells.
One Saturday, after barely an hour among the runner beans, Charlotte faltered. Margaret packed her off to the settee with a stack of gramophone records theyd picked up at a jumble sale. Raking leaves alone, Margaret fed branches to the bonfire, watching flames lick the dusk, when a cry pierced the air: “Mum! Mum, come quick!” Her bad knees forgotten, Margaret bolted inside. Charlotte clutched her belly, face contorted. A neighbours ancient Morris Minor got them to hospital, Charlotte moaning, “Mum, its too soonIm due mid-July! Pray for me, you know how!” Margarets tears fell into her clasped hands as she whispered Hail Marys.
Admitted at once, Charlotte was wheeled away while the neighbour drove a weeping Margaret home. She prayed through the night, begging Our Lady to spare the child. At first light, she rang the hospital.
“Your girls stable. Asked for you and James, cried a bit, then slept. Doctor says the dangers passed, but shell stay a fortnighther bloods low. Feed her up proper when shes home.”
Once discharged, they talked till the small hours. Charlotte spoke of James.
“Hes not just any orphan. We were in the home together since infants. Schoolmates, then sweethearts. Hes my everything. See how he writes? Want his photo? Heresecond from right, grinning.”
“Handsome lad.” Margaret squinted. Her spectacles needed updating, and the snapshot was tinyjust blurry lads in uniform. “Charlotte, whyd you call me mum in the garden?”
“Oh! Force of habit. In the home, every adult was mum or dad. Nearly broke it now except when frightened. Sorry.”
“I see.” Margarets voice held quiet disappointment.
“Aunt Margaret, what about you? No photos of Harold or children. Youve none, right?”
“Had a son. Lost him as a babe. After my injury, no more came. Harold was my lad, really. Doted on him. When he went, I put all pictures away. Even knowing hes with God, the sight brought tears. Better to pray for him than weep over photos. Ask James for a proper portraitweve frames somewhere.”
On Christmas Eve, they decked the halls, speaking of the Christ Child, awaiting the first star. Charlotte fidgeted, rubbing her spine.
“Love, youre miles away. Whats amiss?”
“Call an ambulance. Its time.”
“But youre a week early!”
“Mustve miscounted. PleaseI cant bear it.”
By midnight, Charlotte delivered a bonny girl. That morning, Margaret wired James the news.
January was a whirlwind. Baby Annie (named so with Jamess blessing) brought bliss and exhaustion. Margarets aches seemed lighter somehow.
One unseasonably mild afternoon, returning from the shops, Margaret spotted Charlotte pushing the pram.
“Well walk a bit longer, alright?”
“Of course. Ill start tea.”
At the parlour table, Margaret froze. A framed photo of Harold sat there. “Found it, did she? Picked his youthful oneyoung folks always do,” she mused.
Soup simmered when Charlotte returned, a neighbours boy hauling the pram. They hushed as they settled the sleeping babe.
“Charlotte,” Margaret smiled, “howd you know where Harolds photos were?”
“What? You asked for Jamess picture. He had this taken specially. I used that frame from the shelf.”
Margaret lifted it with shaking hands. Not Harold. A young sergeant smirked up at her. Her face drained of colour. Charlotte, panicked, thrust smelling salts under her nose.
“Mum, look at me! Whats wrong?”
“Open the wardrobetop shelf. Bring every photo.”
Albums tumbled onto the table. One face stopped Margaret cold. James? Nothe image was decades old.
“Charlotte, where was James born?”
“Dont know. He came to the home from Birmingham after a train crash. They said his parents died.”
“Oh, mercy! They showed me a bodya shirt like hisbut the face my boy, William! Youre alive! Your wife and child are here, and I never knew! Charlotte, pass me that picture.”
Bewildered, Charlotte obeyed. Margaret kissed it, tears raining down. “William, my darling boy!”
“James,” Charlotte whispered.
“Call him what you will, but this is my son! Lookthe very image of his father!”
Doubt lingered. “Charlottea birthmark. Star-shaped, above his right elbow? After the crash, all I had was his age and clothing. His arm was mangledI couldnt check. Why so quiet? Is there one?”
“There is. Like a little star. Oh mum there is.”
They clung together, weeping, as baby Annies cries floated in from the nursery. Sometimes, life circles back to mend what was brokenif were brave enough to open the door.
