A Gift From Above…
Dawn crept in beneath a blanket of heavy grey clouds, the sky sagging with their weight. Far off, muted rumbles rolled and somersaulted over the rooftopsthe first thunderstorm of spring, or so the dream insisted. Winter had gone, but spring seemed hesitant, lingering just out of reach, the air sharp with cold, gusts tearing up musty leaves and whisking them along the cobblestones of some endless English street.
Grass, green as hope itself, poked tentatively through the cracked earth. Buds on the oaks and ashes were tight-fisted, refusing to reveal their treasures. The ground languished, desperate for rain after a winter almost devoid of snowa season of whip-thin winds and chill that left the soil unrested, withered, unbearably thirsty. All around, it felt as though even the birds and foxes were waiting for a downpour to break the heavy spell.
Rain would revive, washing and baptising with wild abandon, blessing the gardens and the hedgerows with a generous, life-giving draught. Only then, as the thunderstorm passed and the air turned softer, would true spring comeriotous and generous and blooming, like a queen crowned with bluebells and daffodils.
And then, life would recommence; the daisy-speckled lawns, the blush of cherry trees, the unwavering joy of blackbirds building their nests among the apple blossoms. The worlds pulse, slow and heavy, would quicken once again.
Harry, breakfast! Lucys call floated through the air, edged with the aroma of eggs frying and strong coffee. If you dont hurry, your coffee will go cold.
Harry lay still beneath the crumpled duvet, a reluctance anchoring him to the bed after last nights wracking conversationLucys sobbing, the gnawing worry that slept between them. But in dreams or in waking, life meanders forward.
Lucy looked worn, her eyes rimmed in angry red, bruised moons beneath them. She pecked him on the cheekher smile an echo of itself.
Morning, love… Looks like were in for a storm. Oh, how I long for the rain! For real spring. Listen, something popped into my mindsome lines I wrote:
I wait for spring, my benediction,
An end to frost and grey affliction.
I crave the light that might untwist
The knots in which my worries sit.
I trust that when the green returns,
The world will right itself and turn,
With gentle, honest,
Simple, true,
A hope that dawns as mornings do.
Where are you, spring? Im waiting for you!
Harry wrapped his arms around her, pressing his lips to her pale gold hair. She smelled of wildflowers and far-off meadows. His heart twisted with sorrowmy poor beloved, why are we set such trials? The slender thread of hope had held them through many years; only yesterday, in a dimly lit surgery, their hope had been snipped away.
Im terribly sorry, but, Lucy, there is no chance of children, Im afraid. Your time at those factories up north cost you dearly. Theres nothing we can do. If I could offer help, I would.
Lucy dabbed her eyes, her resolve flickering back.
Harry, Ive thought long and hard. We should adopt. So many children wait in orphanageslets give one a home. A little boy, perhaps? After so many years waiting. Please… the word broke into tears. Harry held her, both unable to keep from crying.
Of course, my dearest. Dont cry. Please dont cry.
Just then, a peal of thunder crashed so fiercely it seemed to shake the very walls; then the heavens tipped, spilling forth a torrent. Rain battered the windows, daylight vanishing under the black curtain. Lightning flashed like some wild orchestra. Harry and Lucy, arms entwined, watched fat, cold drops spatter through the open sash, breathing in the metallic tang of rain on stone.
Slowly, the blackness pressed against their hearts loosened, washed away by the long-awaited spring rainthe rain that meant life would begin again, quickening and blossoming. May the rain last, thought Harry, let it be an omen.
Days later, they stood on the threshold of the orphanage, palms damp, hearts in their throats. Here, at last, they might find the child theyd so longed foryet unseen, already cherished with a love hoarded through years of waiting, a love ready to burst forth.
The meeting with the matron had happened earlier. Now, a nurse led them through neat, shining corridors, each step bringing them closer to that strange market where children are shown to strangersat once hopeful and heart-rending. Harry couldn’t help think: We’re like shoppers at a market, shown the warespick a child, any child, as if you might ask the price per stone.
The first room they entered, Lucy nudged Harrysee that little girl there? Sitting in damp nappies on a plastic sheet, her clothes unkempt, face streaked and runny-nosed, but her enormous blue eyes sadder than the sea. She seemed to radiate abandonmentthe very image of the word unwanted. Harrys heart wrenched. So this was a childrens home in England: a net for those whom the world had let slip.
The next room was tidier, cots crisp and clean, children polished like apples. The nurse named ages, recited birthplacessome from Norwich, some from Manchester. There was a clinical efficiency in the way she scooped them up, turned them this way and that, a living catalogue.
Lets go back to the blue-eyed girlLucy whispered. Harry nodded, squeezing her hand.
Nurse, could we see that girl again, from the first roomthe one with the blue eyes?
But you wanted a boy, didn’t you? Shes not prepared for adoption.
Please, lets see herjust one more time.
The nurse hesitated, words caught in her throat, but acquiesced. As they returned, she summoned the matronMrs. Thompson, who arrived with a worried frown.
Shes not suitable, the matron said, shell be difficult.
Why not? She reminds me of Lucysee for yourself, like peas in a pod!Harry strode into the room, heart thumping.
Theyd washed the girl, swapped her into fresh things, wiped her nose. She brightened, dimpled cheeks showing as she smiled, stretching tiny hands to them, teetering to stand. But Lucy stifled a gaspthe little girls feet twisted backward, her limbs refusing the normal order.
Without thinking, Harry scooped her up. The girl pressed against his face with chilly, damp skin, a little mouse of a childso vulnerable, so brave. Tears blurred Harrys sight; Lucy turned away to cry. Even Mrs. Thompson dabbed at her eyes with a lace hankie.
Please, lets talk in my office. Nurse, bring Lily, would you? she said, her voice thick.
They sat, the tale spilling out: Lily was born to elderly, harried parents in the far north, the sort who’d had more children than they could count, living in a stone cottage battered by the wind. Unwanted, with twisted legs needing costly operations, Lily had been left at the orphanage. Her father said hed no money nor wish to raise a cripplehe had a dozen to feed already.
Its not a simple choice, Mrs. Thompson explained, her mouth a thin, anxious line. She might one day walk like other children, but it will take surgeries, time, love, and more patience than you can imagine. Theres a professor in London who can advise. Ill give you his number. Take a month. Think carefully. After thatno more visits. The children grow attached.
A month drifted by, half-waking, half-dream. From the day they left, the answer was clearLily would be theirs. The London doctor was optimisticmultiple surgeries, but in the end, Lily would walk, even run, as other girls do. Harry did his sums. Theyd have to sell the new Japanese car, postpone the dream home and squeeze into their old one-bedroom London flat. Let the rest sort itself outthey just wanted Lily healthy.
When the month ended, they walked through the orphanage doors again, bearing flowers, gifts, hope flickering. The matrons lips trembled with joy.
They went to the nursery. Lily had blossomedher hair curled, cheeks pink, a sprinkling of new teeth. She babbled, smile as bright as a spring morning. Harry gathered her up and she clung to his neck, nestled against his chest, everything at peace.
Paperwork lay ahead. Through the maze of forms and court and signatures, they becameat lasther legal parents. Lucy left her job, pouring herself into Lilys care. Soon, preparations for the first surgery in London began.
A month in hospitalon the day Lily fed herself porridge and giggled at the family cat, Harrys spirits soared. Though her legs were still swaddled in plasters and never shown in public, Lily was a lively, ahead-of-her-years child, talking, making friends with nurses and patients alike.
She adored Harrynow Daddy, in both word and heart. Lucy, too, called him Daddy now. With a daughter as the centre of their world, Harry basked in her light.
A year on, more operations followed, treks across England, sleepless nights for Lucy at Lilys bedside. At lasta triumph. Lilys legs were straight, strong, able to dance and leap. At five, she started nursery; her flair for drawing caught everyones eye.
At six, Lily entered art school. Her paintingsjoyous English landscapes, laughing children, rain-bright parksastonished visitors. By seven, in the primary school classroom, Lily was a star: clever, lively, everyones friend. Drawings filled the local gallery, laughter followed her everywhere.
None of the parents knew Lilys journey. To them, she was a miracle, but only Harry and Lucy understood the price and the grace. Through their devotion, a lost child became the apple of their eyea daughter in every sense but by blood.
God, or some dreaming guardian, smiled on them. With Lily, fortune followed. Harrys struggling business grew; soon, they moved to London, found a bright, busy home, enrolled Lily in the best school. Now in sixth formbeautiful, blue-eyed Lily, golden braid down her backis a favourite with all. Gentle, cheerful, beloved.
A gift from abovethats what they called her.
