Margaret wiped her damp hands on her apron, wincing at the ache in her back, and shuffled to answer the door. The knocking had been quiet but persistentthree times now. Shed been washing the kitchen window and hadnt hurried. On the step stood a young woman, pretty but pale, with shadows under her eyes.
Mrs. Whitmore? I heard you might have a room to let?
Oh, those nosy neighbours! Always sending strays my way. I dont let rooms, never have.
They said youve got three bedrooms.
And what of it? Why should I share? I like my peace and quiet.
Im sorry. They told me you were well, a good Christian woman, so I thought
The girl bit her lip, turned away, and started down the steps, shoulders shaking.
Oh, come back! I didnt say no, did I? Goodness, you young oneswaterworks at the drop of a hat. Inside with you. Whats your name? Lets skip the formalities.
Emily.
Emily Bright, is it? Father a sailor?
I dont have a father. Or a mother. Grew up in care. They found me in a stairwell when I was a newborn.
Well, never mind that. Teas on, and theres soup if youre hungry.
Im alrighthad a doughnut earlier.
A doughnut! Thats your idea of lunch? No wonder youre as thin as a rake. Sit down. Pea soups still warm, and Ive got jam for toast. Made too much, as always. Husbands been gone five years, but old habits die hard. Eat up, then you can help me finish the windows.
Mrs. Whitmore, II cant. I get dizzy standing high. Im pregnant.
Oh, splendid. Just what I needed. You married, then?
Course I am! Charliefrom the childrens home. Hes in the army now. Came home on leave, and, well My landlady kicked me out when she found out. Gave me a week to scram. All mine and Charlies things are in this bag.
So they settled injust the two of them. Emily studied fashion design; Margaret, retired since a bad rail crash years ago, knitted lace doilies, baby booties, and collars to sell at the local market. Her work was delicate as sea foam and sold well. Saturdays were for the allotment, Sundays for church (though Emily rarely went, moaning about backaches and dizziness).
One Saturday, as they cleared the garden for winter, Emily tired quickly. Margaret sent her inside to rest with old vinyl records she and her late husband had collected. Later, by the bonfire, a scream cut the air: Mum! Mum, come quick! Margaret ran, forgetting her creaky knees. Emily clutched her belly, face twisted in pain. A neighbour sped them to hospital in his ancient Rover. Its too early! Emily sobbed. Pray for me, Mumyou know how! Margaret wept and prayed all night.
By morning, the news was good: no miscarriage, but Emily needed rest. Back home, they talked past midnightEmily chattering about Charlie. Hes not just my husband. We grew up together. Look, heres his photosecond from the right.
Handsome, Margaret lied. Her glasses were rubbish. The tiny photo showed blurry figures in uniform.
Whyd you call me Mum in the garden?
Habit, I spose. In care, all the grown-ups were Mum or Dad. Slipped out when I got scared.
Ah. Margaret sighed, oddly disappointed.
On Christmas Eve, as they trimmed the house, Emily fidgeted. Youre twitchy as a cat. Whats wrong?
Call an ambulance. The babys coming.
Dont be daftits a week early!
Tell that to the baby!
Little Rose arrived on Christmas Day. January was chaoscolic, night feeds, nappy disasters. But Margarets aches faded.
One afternoon, returning from shops, Margaret spotted Emily with the pram. Well walk a bit longer, Emily said.
At home, Margaret gasped. On the table was a framed photoher late husband, young and smiling. *She found it*, she thought, touched. *Picked his best one too.*
Then Emily came in. Whyd you move Charlies photo? I had it enlarged special!
Margarets hands shook. It *wasnt* her husband. A young sergeant grinned backCharlie.
Trembling, she pulled albums from the cupboard. The top photo made Emily gasp. Thats *Charlie*! Butits old. Who is that?
My husband, George. Emily where was Charlie born?
Dunno. He came to the home after a train crash in London. They said his parents died.
Margaret sobbed. They showed me a bodyhis age, his shirt. But the face Oh, my boy! My George Jr.!
Emily stared. Charlie has a birthmark. Like a star, above his right elbow.
*Exactly* where my sons was! Margaret clutched the photo. Emily, lovethats not just your husband. Thats *my son*.
They clung together, weeping, as baby Rose wailed next door.
