Oi, have you seen the old lady in our ward, ladies? She looks like shes seen a few more Christmases than us, one nurse whispered.
Indeed, shes practically silverhaired now. She must have grandkids somewhere, but all she wants is a bottle, even at her age, another chimed.
Honestly, my mum looks younger than she does, mused Emily, a junior midwife. I wonder how old her husband is?
Shes a quiet, sullen sort, keeps to herself, replied Lucy, glancing at the bedridden figure. We all try to be her daughters, but Im at a loss for a proper name. I think they call her Margaret, or something like that.
Probably better to stick with her first and last names, suggested Clara, as the murmuring in the maternity ward swelled when a soontobe mum stepped out for a moment.
Margarets life had been a right mess. When little Jack was four, typhoid hit the whole family. Mother, father, a toddler brother and a frail grandfather all succumbed. From then on, Jack was raised by his stern, ironfisted grandmother Eleanor, a woman who never knew a hug.
Fast forward to 1941: Jack and Emily were both thirteen. They lived in neighbouring villages in Yorkshire and had moved to the steel town of Sheffield for work at the factory there was a shortage of hands, after all. They lived in the same rows of terraced houses as the factory, and thats where they met. From those youthful days they toiled side by side with the grownups.
At fifteen, Jack tried to enlist for the front. Emily, a fieryhaired gal with a sparkle in her eye, was keen to go with him, but the recruiters turned them down. We need you on the home front, lads, they said. Your skills are more useful here.
At eighteen they tied the knot, though there was no grand wedding the postwar years were too bleak for fanfare. Emily, much to her grandmothers chagrin, moved in with Jack. Their villages were a tidy thirty miles apart.
A year later a son arrived, christened William. The young couple were over the moon; life felt like a pastoral postcard. Theyd endured enough hardship to earn a slice of happiness, even if it was a fleeting one.
Six years on, little Will turned six. Emily and Jack still lived handinhand, the envy of the whole village. Jack worked as a stovefitter; his fireplaces were the talk of the county. One chilly January, he was sent to install a stove in the neighbouring hamlet across the river. He took Will with him because Emily was at the factory. The wind howled, the river was halffrozen, and Jack lugged a hefty toolbox he never trusted anyone elses tools.
Will romped about, barely listening as his dad urged him to stay close. When they were only twenty metres from the bank, the boy slipped into a snowcapped patch of ice. Jack lunged to save him, but
Margaret had gone grey at twentyfive, the year she lost both her husband and son. The house full of memories became too much for Emily, so she fled back to her hometown and stayed with Eleanor.
Emily shut herself away, life losing its colour. The thought of a new family never crossed her mind.
Now Margaret, at fortythree, was looking after a teenage Emily whod recently decided to try again, despite the odds. She knew the hurdles ahead, but the prospect of being alone terrified her more than any future trouble.
Emilys village was remote, reaching it wasnt a walk in the park. The weather was bitter, and fearing the ambulance might be delayed, she arrived at the hospital early, fretting over her babys health after all, age does matter.
From the moment she stepped into the ward, a shadow seemed to follow her; eighteen years ago shed lost both husband and son. Time hadnt dulled the ache.
At last Emily gave birth to a healthy boy, naming him Harry. She never forgot how Will used to dream of a brother.
Buy me a little brother, hed pleaded. Dads made me so many toys! Ill play with my brother.
What will you call him? asked Jack.
Harry!
Well then, hell be Harry! Jack beamed, exchanging a grin with Emily.
At that point hope flickered back in Emilys heart. Jack, of course, knew the plan. They agreed to keep it under wraps for a while. When her husband and son died, Emilys grief had swallowed the very thought of children. Now Harry arrived, just as Will had imagined.
Grandma Eleanor greeted Emily at the hospital doorway, cradling the newborn.
Well, whats this then, youre crying again, my dear? Emily cooed, soothing her son.
Bloody hell this is embarrassing, Eleanor muttered, her voice like a rusty hinge. The whole village will have a field day over your scandal.
I havent shown my face outside for a week. The gossip will start straight away. What am I supposed to tell them? That my oldaged granddaughter has gone off her rocker?
In a village that loved its gossip, nothing stirred the pot more than a thirtythreeyearold spinster with a brandnew baby. Eleanor tore at Emily relentlessly, but within a year the spry old lady, surprisingly vigorous for her age, passed away quite suddenly.
Emily mourned, though she could never deny that Eleanor had raised her.
Harry grew into a handsome lad tall, darkhaired, blueeyed barely resembling his mother, who adored him dearly.
When Emily reached seventy, she became a grandmother. Harry, upon learning his sister had arrived, rushed to the hospital with his wife, Susan, who was on the ground floor.
Susan! Susan! Come on, show us our little daughter! he shouted, delighted.
Susan walked to the window, cradling the infant. Emily smiled through tears.
Look, Mum, shes a redhead! She looks just like you! Harry exclaimed. It warmed Margarets heart to see her grandson so happy. After all, if hed grown up, there was nothing left to fear in this world.
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