**Diary Entry**
The ache in my back didnt stop me as I moved to open the door. Margaret wiped her damp hands and, wincing at the stiffness in her spine, shuffled toward the entrance. The knocking had been timid, but persistentthis was the third time. Id been busy scrubbing the kitchen window and hadnt rushed to answer. Standing on the doorstep was a young woman, pretty but pale, with tired eyes.
*”Margaret, they said you might have a room to let?”*
*”Oh, those neighbours! Always sending someone my way! I dont rent roomsnever have.”*
*”But I heard youve got three bedrooms.”*
*”So what? Must I let them out? Im used to living alone.”*
The girl bit her lip, fighting back tears as she turned to leave. Her shoulders trembled.
*”Wait, love! I havent refused you yet! Young people these daysso sensitive, crying over nothing. Come inside and lets talk. Whats your name? May I call you dear?”*
*”Emily.”*
*”Emily? Pretty name. Did you grow up by the sea?”*
*”I never knew my father. Or my mother. I was found in a stairwell as a babybarely a month old.”*
Margaret softened. *”Dont fret. Come, have tea with me. Are you hungry?”*
*”No, Ive had a roll.”*
*”A roll!”* Margaret clucked. *”Youth! No thought for yourselves, and by thirty, youll have ulcers. Sit downtheres pea soup still warm. And tea. Ive jars of jam galore. My husbands been gone five years, but I still cook for two out of habit. Eat, then help me finish the window.”*
*”Margaret, might I do something else? I feel faintIm afraid Id fall. Im expecting.”*
*”Good heavens! Youve let yourself go, then?”*
*”Must you assume the worst? Im married. To Thomas. We grew up in the same childrens home. Hes been called upcame home on leave recently. When my landlady found out about the baby, she gave me a week to leave. We lived just round the corner, but… well, you see how it is.”*
Margaret sighed. *”How it is… What am I to do with you? Finewell move my bed into Pauls old room. You take mine. And dont you dare offer rentI wont hear of it. Fetch your things.”*
*”Theyre just downstairs in a bag. The weeks upIve been knocking doors all morning with them.”*
And so, they became two. Emily studied dressmaking while Margaret, disabled years ago after a rail accident, knitted lace doilies, baby booties, and collars to sell at the market. Her pieces, airy as seafoam, sold well. Money wasnt tightthe gardens produce helped. Saturdays, they worked the soil together; Sundays, Margaret went to church while Emily reread letters from Thomas. She rarely joined, blaming headaches and back pain.
One Saturday, after harvesting, they readied the soil for winter. Emily tired quickly, so Margaret sent her to rest in the shed, where an old gramophone played records from her youth. Raking leaves, Margaret burned dry branches, lost in thoughtuntil Emilys cry cut through: *”Mum! Mum, come quick!”*
Heart pounding, Margaret ran, forgetting her aches. Emily clutched her belly, gasping. *”Its too soonIm not due till mid-January! Mum, pray for me!”*
Margaret wept, praying as their neighbour sped them to hospital in his old Rover. Emily was whisked away on a stretcher while Margaret, left at home, pleaded with the Virgin all night. By morning, the hospital rang: *”Your daughters fine. She kept calling for you and Thomas. The dangers passed, but shell stay a few weeks. Her irons lowsee she eats well.”*
When Emily returned, they talked late. She spoke endlessly of Thomas.
*”Hes not a foundling like mehis parents died in a train crash. We grew up together. Been sweethearts since school. Hes kindmore than love, really. Here, see his photo? Second from the right, smiling…”*
Margaret squinted. Her glasses were old; the lads in the photo blurred. *”Handsome… Emily, why did you call me Mum in the garden?”*
*”Oh! Fear, I suppose. Old habitin the home, we called all the grown-ups Mum or Dad. Forgot myself. Sorry.”*
*”I see,”* Margaret murmured, disappointed.
*”Auntie Margaret, tell me about you. Why no photos of your husband or children?”*
*”I had a son. He died before his first birthday. After the crash, I couldnt have more. My husband was my childI cherished him. When I buried him, I put the pictures away. Griefs easier without them staring back. Though Im faithfulknow hes with Godit still hurts. Ask Thomas for a proper photo. Theres a frame somewhere.”*
On Christmas Eve, they decked the halls, talking of the Christ child as Emily shifted restlessly.
*”Youre unwell. Why fidget so?”*
*”Auntie, call an ambulance. The babys coming.”*
By midnight, Emily held a girllittle Margaret, born Christmas Day. A telegram brought Thomas the news.
January flew by in a haze of joy and sleepless nights. With Thomass blessing, Emily named the baby after Margaret, who wept. The child brought lightand nappy rash, colic, and croup. But they were happy troubles. Margarets own pains faded.
On a mild winter day, Margaret returned from shopping to find Emily by the pram. *”Enjoy your walk,”* she said, then spotted a framed photo on the table. *”You found it! His younger days. Youth prefers youth, eh?”*
As soup simmered, Emily returned, the neighbour helping with the pram. The baby slept soundly.
*”Emily,”* Margaret smiled, *”whered you find Alexs photo?”*
*”What do you mean?”*
*”This.”* Margaret pointed.
*”That? You asked for a larger photo of Thomas. He had it taken at a studio. The frame was on the bookshelf.”*
Margarets hands shook as she lifted it. Only then did she seeit wasnt Alex. The grinning sergeant was a stranger.
Emily pressed a camphor compress to her brow. *”Mum, look at me! Whats wrong?”*
*”Fetch the albumstop shelf.”*
Photos spilled out. One showed a man who couldve been Thomas… or Alex.
*”God above! Where was Thomas born?”*
*”I dont know. He was brought to the London home after a train crash. They said his parents died.”*
Margaret trembled. *”They showed me a bodymy Michaels shirt, but… the face… Oh, my boy! Hes alive! His wife and child are here, and I never knew!”*
Emily swayed. *”Thomas…”*
*”Call him what you willhes my son! Look at this photospitting image! The birthmark! Is there a star above his right elbow?”*
*”…Yes.”*
*”They told me his arm was crushedI never checked! Oh, my Michael!”*
They clung to each other, weeping, as baby Margarets cries floated from the nursery.
