Dont worry, love. Shes a premature little thing, but shes sturdy. Everything will be all rightfor your daughter and for your granddaughter.
God willing,she whispered, watching the doctor slip away down the corridor. When the door closed she muttered,This is the sorrow I feared.
The tragedy had struck the Hughes family six months earlier. One afternoon a nosy neighbour, Mrs. Finch, popped in for a cuppa and a spoonful of homemade jam. She sipped her tea and, without thinking, blurted out,Are you expecting? Have you started stocking up on nappies yet?
What are you on about? Claudia Parker snapped, her voice sharp with surprise.
The baby, my dearthe little one youve been washing twice a week at the farm. I saw you pull a cloth over your mouth and dash out of the cowshed.
Maybe shes just had a bad bite, Claudia tried to deflect, but youve never been through a labour yourself, so you have no idea.
Im no midwife, love, and I know nothing of these things.
That evening Aunt Margaret sat down with Claudia, pressed her for answers, and then wept, cursing the world for the way it had handed her a daughter who never was, a suntanned drifter who had already faded from memory, and the whole line of men shed once counted on.
The arrival of little Milly did not bring joy, only a fresh load of chores, bruised pride and a searing sense of shame. Claudia held the child when she fed her or when she sobbed, but kept a careful distance. Aunt Margaret watched her granddaughter with a detached stare, offering no affection either. It was the fourth granddaughter theyd ever hadhardly a cause for celebration. Even the daughter who had given birth to Milly had brought little good into the house.
Thus Milly entered the world unloved, wobbling on weak legs through a life that seemed determined to push her down.
A year later Claudia left for the new workers settlement in the pittown of Ashby, searching for a sliver of happiness. Milly stayed with Aunt Margaret, a woman who, despite all, was still family. The girl required no special care: she ate what was put before her, fell asleep at the proper hour, and never fell ill. The doctors report was clearMilly was robust, but still unloved.
Milly lived with Margaret until she was seven. In those years Claudia had learned the trade of a housepainter, married a carpenter named Tom, and had a son, Charlie. When the memory of Milly resurfaced, Claudia thought, Shell be grown now, a proper help around the house. She drove back to the village, but Milly, who saw her mother only twice a year, offered no warm welcome.
Claudia glared at the child, Milly, youre as cold as stone. Another girl would have run to me, clung on, but you just stand there like a stranger.
Seeing Milly off, Aunt Margaret shed a few tears, missed her for a couple of days, but the following Saturday two more grandchildren arrivedthe beloved Emma and Olivia, children of her eldest son. The bustle of caring for them quickly erased Milly from Margarets thoughts. Milly felt little pity for her aunt; she missed the attention the other girls received, but the real ache came from the loss of newly hatched, goldencapped chicks that had been a brief source of delight.
In Ashby the settlement, Milly didnt love the place at first, but she had no choice. Over time she made friends, went to school, did her lessons, ran errands for bread and milk, and peeled potatoes for her mothers return. As she grew older she fetched Charlie from the nursery, and, copying her mothers tone, told a lanky boy, Watch your step, youre on my turf. I dont have the strength to pull you up, and you give me nothing in return!
The love Charlies mother never heard from his sister was unsurprising; Milly never heard any words of affection either. She didnt expect themshed always been the unloved one. Yet she did hear other girls mothers call them sweetheart and dear, and she heard her own mother call Charlie sunshine or little cat.
Milly, once called Millicent, believed she would never be anyones sunshine. She was an adult, unlike Charlie. At home she wasnt coddled, but she wasnt starved either. She wasnt dressed up or lavished with treats, yet she wasnt a beggarshe simply existed as the one nobody loved.
At fifteen Milly left the cold, alien house she had known for eight years. She won a place at the city college in Manchester, enrolling in a confectionery course, dreaming of devouring enough pastries to burst. The dormitory housed three other girls; after lessons she was her own master.
Then she met Victor, a lanky lad with a mop of dark hair. The grey November sun seemed to shine just for her. The other girls would pop out for a halfhour to watch the redcorner television. Victor spoke in smooth, breathstealing sentences, Youre my darling, he whispered, and Milly, accustomed to perpetual neglect, melted in that moment.
Soon morning nausea gnawed at her. She should have rushed to the doctor, but she missed the appointment. At eighteen, with no medical certificate, she was forced to take a leave from the college and, hand in hand with a suddenly affectionate Victor, marched to the registry office.
Thus Millys married life began, and her brief, bright romance faded. The young couple moved into Victors modest house. Victors mother and his aunt showed little love toward Milly, but they gave her a room of her own. She wasnt the first, nor would she be the last, to make do with a cramped corner. Perhaps it was for the best; a baby was on the way, and Victor seemed to settle down.
A friend from the settlement, Jenny, envied her, Youre luckyyoull live in the city, become a city girl. Milly didnt argue. She didnt need to proclaim that city life was just a label. Her new home was a semidetached on the outskirts, utilities as scarce as in the village: a communal water tap at the end of the lane. She didnt complain; she adjusted, carrying bucket after bucket of water, feeling the chill soak her feet. The cold water splashed as she prepared for the birth of a child she had not yet felt.
Victors mother scolded her, but Milly wondered why she should. Victor seemed to care for a while, then one night disappeared with his mates, leaving Milly alone. Her motherinlaw didnt chase her out; she let Milly stay and help around the house, hoping something might work out. It didnt. After a few months Victor returned with another woman, declared he never loved Milly, never had.
Milly told her dorm mates her woes, shed a few tears, but she knew shed spent her whole life being unloved. She packed her few belongings, obeyed the stern command of the motherinlaw to go to the four corners, and shut the door behind her.
She moved into the factory dormitory, where the mess hall sat beside the gates and the workers club was just a short walk away. Live and be merry, they told each other. Milly found herself laughing, not cursing, not sighingshe was finally content. She walked to work with her fellow mates, shared evenings in the club, and went to the cinema together.
Visits home to her mother, stepfather, and brother became rare. They hardly missed her; she didnt push herself into their lives. Aunt Margaret died when Milly was twentyone. Milly attended the funeral, walked past the old garden she once knew. Margaret left her cottage to her beloved grandchildren, Emma and Olivia. Milly held no grudge; they were the cherished berries of their grandmother. She was the cutoff piece, the unloved grandchild.
If Milly had claimed any inheritance, the family would have torn itself apart over Margarets modest £500. The loudest cries came from her mother, Claudia, who wailed that the generous Aunt Margaret had left no silver spoon for her son Charlie. Isnt he a grandson too? she sobbed, Why is he lesser than Emma and Olivia? She never mentioned her eldest daughter, and Milly never received even a bent spoon.
Milly tried twice to build a life with menone a drunken brawler, the other a drunk who beat his partners. Both failed, and she never truly pursued the registry office. Shed been there once, enough for her.
Her personal life never took off for the same reasons. One man drank and ran with other women; the other drank and hit. Choose whats worse, she thought. She was glad she never tangled with the registry office again; otherwise, more trouble would have followed. She tucked her few possessions into an old suitcase and returned to the cheap bed she shared with her friends.
For over a decade she roamed from one dorm to another, growing weary of strangers bunks. At thirty, she longed for a place of her owna small kitchen, a pot on her own shelf. Single people hardly ever got flats first; families were favoured.
Sometimes shed pop into Aunt Ashas little flat at the factory, where Asha washed floors in the evenings. After a few months of chats, Asha, eyes soft, said, Milly, a year ago my niece died in childbirth, leaving a baby and a husband behind. Ive been watching you, youre capable and hardworking. My brother Matt, a decent man, could use someone like you. Hes gentle, only drinks on holidays, and though hes not a poet, he cares for his sisters child. Think about ityou could be a mother.
Milly gave it thought and moved in with Matt. She brightened his modest room for May Day, bought new curtains, sewed little dresses from green and blue cloth for his daughter, little Sonya, who soon began to babble and call Milly Mum.
Matt was a quiet husband, never harsh, gave his wages, never uttered sweet words, but Milly had never needed them. Shed resigned herself to a life without affection since birth.
Three years into the marriage, Sonya ran into the yard clutching dandelions, pressed them to Millys cheek, kissed her with candysweet lips and whispered, Mum, I love you. I love you more than Daddy, more than Aunt Asha, more than my doll Yvonne. Milly held her daughter, laughing and crying at once, finally feeling loved.
A year later she gave birth to a boy, Jamie. Matt tended to the infant at night, changing nappies, pulling the pram up the stairs. The factory eventually gave them a flata spacious, bright home. Milly rejoiced; there was finally something to be glad about.
They raised their children, waited for grandchildren. In their country cottage, greyhaired Milly boiled jam on a summer afternoon while the grandchildren buzzed around.
Grandma, I love you, shouted Olivia.
And I love you too, echoed Dennis.
I wuv you, babbled little Molly.
My dear grandma, we all love you, said Grandpa Matt, his voice shaking with a smile.
Milly wiped away a stray tear, amazed that the woman who had spent her whole life unloved now basked in a chorus of affection. The years had finally turned her sorrow into love.
