**Diary Entry – A Visit to the Past**
The taxi tyres whispered against the wet pavement, slick from an autumn drizzle. The elderly driver steered through familiar streets, stealing glances in the rearview mirror at his passengers.
A young woman cradled an infant in her arms—no older than six months. The address she’d given unsettled him: a children’s home.
The couple seemed happy—him, a tall, well-built RAF lieutenant, and her, a striking woman with cornflower-blue eyes and golden waves tumbling over her shoulders.
“James, the flowers!” she reminded him.
“I remember, Lottie,” he murmured, then leaned forward. “Driver, stop at the florist, please.”
The officer stepped out, unbowed by the wind, and disappeared inside. The cabbie watched him go before asking, “Your husband?”
“Yes,” she smiled, adjusting the baby’s knitted cap.
“Lovely little one, you seem well. Why the children’s home, then?” His tone carried quiet judgment.
For a moment, she didn’t grasp his meaning—then her eyes widened in horror. “Good Lord! You can’t possibly think—”
“Just wondering. These days, you hear all sorts.” He softened. “So why go there?”
“I grew up there. Seven years, then I was adopted. My husband—James—spent four years in the same place.”
“With Margaret Hargreaves?” The driver broke into a grin. “Well, I’ll be! Straight from the train, then? Good on you.”
“You know her?”
“Who doesn’t?”
He might’ve launched into a tale, but the officer returned, bearing an extravagant bouquet of roses.
“Lottie, look what they had!” he beamed.
“James! You’ve never bought me roses like these!”
“Don’t be cross,” he chuckled. “Told you—only place in London with blooms like these. When were we last here together?”
“Eleven years ago…”
—
Margaret Hargreaves sat in her office, wrapped in a woolen shawl. The building was warm, but the shawl was comfort itself—familiar as an old friend.
A rare quiet moment: the older children at school, the little ones napping. Only the clatter of dishes from the kitchen broke the silence.
She flipped through a photo album—faces of children, young men and women, each name etched in her memory. She still called them by their childhood nicknames: Tommy, Ellie, Ben…
Here was Lottie Fairchild—no, now Lottie Whittaker. Good man, Edward Whittaker, adopted her fifteen years back.
And here—James. Where had he gone? Finished Sandhurst, joined the RAF. A photo of him in uniform—once a boy who dreamed of being a vet, like Dr. Harris.
Soft footsteps in the hall. A knock.
“Come in.”
A towering bouquet of roses—and behind them—
“James! My dear boy!” The flowers tumbled to the floor. “Where’ve you been?”
“Sorry, Margaret. Couldn’t always write. I’m not alone—my wife, and our daughter, Maggie.”
“Lottie? Is it really you? Pass me the baby, James—let me hold her.”
Once the tears and laughter settled, coats were shed, the baby laid on the sofa.
“How did you two keep your bond all these years?” Margaret asked. “Edward spoke so fondly of you, James.”
“I gave Lottie my word, Margaret. And I keep my promises.”
“I’ve heard that before,” she chuckled. “Lottie, how’ve you been?”
“Happy! Studied medicine with my brothers, William and Henry.” She grinned. “They’d throttle anyone who crossed me. Now I’m a pediatrician, like Dad. And James—we were never truly apart, even when apart. And this is Maggie—no debate about the name.”
Margaret bent over the sleeping child. “Hello, sweet Maggie. God bless you. Has Edward met his granddaughter?”
“Not yet. We came straight here.”
“Ring him from me,” she chided gently. “Don’t give the poor man a heart attack.” Then, with a wink: “Say hello to Mum. She’s been waiting.”
James turned.
On the floor, a calico cat stared at him, unblinking. His chest tightened—just like that day in the derelict house where he’d first found her.
Slowly, she blinked, then leapt onto his lap, paws resting on his lieutenant’s epaulettes, nuzzling his face with a purr.
“Mum,” he whispered, burying his face in her fur. “I never forgot you.”
“She’s mothered half these children,” Margaret said. “When she fell ill last year, the whole home stood vigil outside the vet clinic. Dr. Harris pulled her through.”
On the sofa, little Maggie stirred. The cat chirped an apology, curled beside her, and the baby stilled.
“We’ll retire soon,” Margaret sighed. “Edward’s old dog, Max, is already spoilt rotten by the radiator. Time for Mum and me to rest.”
“Max,” Lottie smiled. “How I’ve missed him.”
They stayed till evening, shared supper with the children. The boys clamoured for tales of jets and missions—all sworn to join the RAF.
“It’s hard work,” James told them. “But if you commit, see it through. And you needn’t fly—just be people Margaret can be proud of.”
The cat watched him, green eyes crinkled, purring approval.
They left at dusk, promising to visit again.
“I give you my word,” James said.
Margaret and Lottie laughed. And Mum the cat watched him go, as she’d watched so many children—soothing night fears, drying tears.
**A man’s word is his bond. And kindness, once given, never truly leaves.**
