Elizabeth realised at once when she tugged at the scrap of fabric poking from the bush. The rag turned out to be an old, faded baby blanket, and she pulled harder. Then she frozethere, in the corner of the blanket, lay a tiny child.
At dawn, Elizabeth had a strange dream: her son, Alfie, stood on the porch, knocking at the door. She jolted awake, scrambled up, and dashed barefoot to the entrance.
Silence. No one. She often had such dreams, always deceiving her, yet each time she rushed to the door and flung it wide open. This time was no different. She peered into the empty night.
The quiet and the dim moonlight enveloped her. Trying to steady her restless heart, she sat on the porch step. Then, in the stillness, a faint sounda whimper, perhaps, or a rustle.
“Another stray kitten tangled in the bushes,” Elizabeth thought, stepping forward to free the little creature, as she had done before.
But it wasnt a kitten. She knew the moment she tugged at the fabric. The scrap was an old, patterned baby blanket, and she pulled harder.
And then she froze. In the corner of the blanket lay a small, naked childa boy, judging by the still-attached umbilical cord, barely days old.
Too weak even to cry, the baby was damp, exhausted, and clearly starving. When Elizabeth lifted him, he let out a feeble whimper.
Without thinking, she clutched him to her chest and bolted inside. She wrapped him in a clean bedsheet, tucked him under a warm quilt, and heated milk. She scrubbed an old bottle, found a teat left from spring when shed nursed an orphaned lamb. The boy gulped greedily, then, warm and full, fell asleep.
Morning came, but Elizabeth barely noticed, lost in thought about her discovery. She was past forty now, and the village youngsters already called her “Auntie.”
She had lost her husband and son in the war, years apart, and had been alone ever since. The bitter truth gnawed at her, but shed learned to rely only on herself.
Now, she was adrift. She glanced at the childsleeping softly, like all babies do.
Then it struck her: shed ask her neighbour for advice. She gave the boy one last look and headed to Margarets. Margarets life was smooth and untroubledno husband, no children, no wartime losses, no telegrams of death. She lived for pleasure.
Her men came and went, none ever kept or cherished if they displeased her. Now, Margaret stood on her porch, wrapped in a shawl, stretching under the morning sun. She listened to Elizabeths tale, then shrugged.
“Why would you even want that?” she said, turning inside. Through the corner of her eye, Elizabeth saw the curtain twitchanother overnight guest.
“Why? Why indeed?” Elizabeth whispered.
She returned home, gathered suppliesfed the baby, wrapped him snugly, packed foodthen waited at the roadside for a lift into town. A lorry stopped within minutes.
“To the hospital?” the driver asked, nodding at the bundle in her arms.
“To the hospital,” Elizabeth replied quietly.
At the orphanage, as they processed the paperwork, unease gnawed at her. This felt wrongagainst her conscience.
And the emptiness in her heart! The same hollowness shed felt when news came of her husbands death, then her sons.
“Whats the boys name?” the matron asked.
“Name?” Elizabeth paused, then surprised herself. “His name is Alfie.”
“Lovely name,” the matron said. “Weve plenty of Williams and Emilys here. Those with fallen kin. But this onewho knows who left him? Men are scarce these days, yet some still abandon their own! A cuckoo, not a mother!”
The words werent aimed at her, but they struck deep. Returning home at dusk, she lit the lamp in her empty house.
Then she saw itAlfies old blanket, still damp, set aside but not discarded. She picked it up and sat on the bed.
Absently running her fingers over the fabric, she sat motionless, thoughts adrift. Then her fingers brushed a knot in the corner.
Inside was a small grey note and a simple tin cross on a string. She unfolded the paper and read:
“Kind woman, forgive me. I dont want this child. My life is tangled, and tomorrow Ill be gone. Dont abandon my son. Give him what I cantlove, care, and shelter.”
A birthdate followed. Then Elizabeth shatteredweeping, wailing, as if mourning the dead. Tears she thought long dried poured anew.
Memories flooded backher wedding day, the happiness with her husband. Then Alfie came, and joy returned. The village women envied her radiance.
Why wouldnt she shine? A beloved husband, a beloved son. And they adored her too. Before the war, Alfie had finished driving courses, promised to take her out in the new tractor the farm would give him.
Then disaster. In August 42, the telegram came for her husband. By October, another for her son. Her happiness ended forever, the light snuffed out.
She became like the otherslike nearly every second woman in the village. Waking at night, running to the door, staring into the dark.
That night, sleep eluded her. She paced outside, listening, waiting. By morning, she returned to town.
The matron recognised her at once and wasnt surprised when Elizabeth declared shed take Alfie backher sons wish, she said.
“Very well,” the matron replied. “Take him. Well sort the papers.”
Wrapped in a quilt, Alfie left with herand her heart was different now. The heavy grief and emptiness of years alone were gone.
New feelings took roothappiness, love. If fate decrees joy, it comes. So it was for Elizabeth.
Her empty house greeted her with only the photos of her husband and son on the wall.
But this time, their faces seemed changednot solemn or sorrowful, but gentle, approving, encouraging.
Elizabeth held little Alfie close and felt stronghed need her help and protection for years.
“Youll guide me,” she told the photos.
Twenty years passed. Alfie grew into a fine young man. Every girl dreamed of him, but he chose the one his heart settled onLucy, his dearest after his mum, of course.
One day, he brought Lucy home to meet her. Then Elizabeth knewher son was a man now. She blessed them.
They married, built their nest. Children followed, the youngest named Alfie, and Elizabeths family grew.
One night, a noise outside woke her. Out of habit, she went to the door and stepped into the yard. A storm brewed, lightning flickering.
“Thank you, son,” she whispered into the dark. “Now I have three Alfies, and I love you all.”
The old oak by the porchplanted by her husband when Alfie was bornrustled. Ahead, lightning flashed, bright as Alfies smile.
