The taxi hissed along the rain-slicked roads of an autumnal afternoon. The elderly driver guided the car with practiced ease through the familiar streets, occasionally stealing glances in the rearview mirror at his passengers.
A young woman cradled an infant, no more than six months old, in her arms. The address she’d given—a children’s home—had unsettled him.
The child’s parents seemed a happy young couple: a tall, proud air force lieutenant in uniform, and beside him, a strikingly beautiful woman with pale golden hair spilling over her shoulders and eyes as blue as a summer sky.
“James, the flowers!” she reminded softly.
“I remember, Emmeline, I remember,” he replied before leaning forward. “Could you pull over by the florist, mate?”
The officer stepped out into the brisk wind without hesitation. The driver watched him go, then turned to the woman.
“That your husband?”
She nodded, adjusting the infant’s bonnet with a tender smile.
“Lovely child. You both seem right as rain—why’re you off to the home, then?” His voice held quiet judgment.
At first, she didn’t understand. When realisation dawned, her eyes widened in shock.
“Oh, good heavens! You didn’t think—?”
“Just asking. These days, you never know.” His tone softened. “So, why the visit?”
“I grew up there. Seven years, before I was adopted. And James—well, he spent four years there too.”
“With Mrs. Eleanor?” The driver’s face lit up. “Ah, that explains it! Straight from the train to see her, eh? Good on you.”
“You know her?” she asked, curious.
“Who doesn’t?”
He might have said more, but the taxi door swung open, and a sumptuous bouquet of roses filled the space, held aloft by the beaming officer.
“Emmy, look what I found in town!” he announced proudly.
“James!” She laughed. “You’ve never given me roses like these!”
“Don’t fret, love,” he grinned. “These only grow here. When were we last in town together?”
“Together? Eleven years ago…”
…Mrs. Eleanor sat at her desk, wrapped in a lambswool shawl. The building was warm, but the shawl, so soft and comforting, was like an old friend she couldn’t bear to part with.
A rare quiet moment had settled: the older children were at school, the little ones napping. Only the faint clatter of dishes from the kitchen broke the silence as lunch was prepared.
She turned the pages of a photo album. Faces—boys and girls, now men and women—smiled back. She remembered every name, still calling them by their childhood endearments: Jimmy, sweet Annie, little Tommy…
There was Emmeline—not Foundling anymore, but Harrow now. Kind-hearted Alfred Harrow had adopted her—fifteen years ago, if memory served.
And there—James. Where had he gone? Finished Sandhurst, trained as a pilot. Here he was in his cadet uniform. Once, he’d dreamed of being a vet like old Dr. Bennett. “A heart-stealer, that one,” she murmured.
Footsteps padded softly down the hall. A knock.
“Come in!” Then—oh! A glorious bouquet of roses, and behind them—
“James! My dear boy!” The flowers tumbled. “Where have you been all this time?”
“Sorry, Mrs. Eleanor. Couldn’t always write. But I’m not alone—this is my wife. And our daughter… Eleanor.”
“Emmeline? Is it really you? James, hold the baby—let me hug her!”
Once the tears and laughter settled, coats were shed, and little Nell was tucked onto the sofa. The trio gathered around the table.
“How did you two keep your bond alive, so long apart? Alfred spoke fondly of you, James.”
“I gave Emmy my word, Mrs. Eleanor. And I keep my promises.”
“I’ve heard that before,” she chuckled. “Emmeline, how’ve you been?”
“Happy, truly.” Her smile was earnest. “Studied medicine—like Father. Even my brothers, Edward and Albert, wouldn’t let anyone cross me. Now I’m a paediatrician. And James… we were never truly parted. And this—” she nodded to the sleeping child, “—we never debated her name.”
“Hello, little Nell,” Mrs. Eleanor whispered. “May you have all the joy in the world. Has Alfred met his granddaughter?”
“Not yet. We came straight here,” Emmeline admitted sheepishly.
“Ring him from here. Warn him—else he and Martha might faint from delight.” She turned to James with a knowing smile.
“Now, say hello to Mummy. She’s been waiting.”
James turned—and froze. On the floor, a tortoiseshell cat stared at him intently. His chest ached, just as it had years ago in that abandoned house where he’d first found her.
Slowly, the cat blinked, then padded over, leaped onto his lap, and stretched up to press her paws against his epaulettes, nuzzling his face with a purr.
“Mummy, dearest Mummy.” He buried his face in her fur. “I never forgot you,” he murmured. “If not for you—”
“She’s mothered half the children here,” Mrs. Eleanor said. “When she fell ill last year, the whole home stood vigil outside Dr. Bennett’s clinic. Thank heavens she pulled through.”
Little Nell stirred. The cat gave an apologetic chirrup, hopped down, and curled beside the child, her purrs lulling her back to sleep.
“Soon, Mummy and I will retire,” Mrs. Eleanor sighed. “Alfred’s old Tom’s already dozing by the radiator. Our time’s come too.”
“Tom,” Emmeline smiled. “How I’ve missed him.”
They stayed till evening, sharing supper with the children. The boys clustered around James, begging tales of flying. Most vowed to be pilots someday.
“It’s not easy, lads,” he warned. “But hold fast to your dreams. And even if not pilots—be men Mrs. Eleanor can be proud of.”
Mummy the cat watched James, eyes half-lidded, purring as if in agreement.
They left at dusk, promising to return before their train. And to visit whenever they were in town.
“My word on it,” James said.
Mrs. Eleanor and Emmeline laughed. And Mummy gazed after him—just as she had for so many children, soothing night-time fears, ensuring no young tears fell alone.
