Oh, lass, youre wasting your kind words. He wont marry you.
Claire was only sixteen when she lost her mother. Her father had left for London seven years ago in search of work, but he vanished without a traceno letters, no money, nothing.
Nearly everyone in the village attended the funeral and pitched in however they could. Aunt Margaret, Claires godmother, often checked in on her, reminding her what needed doing. When Claire finished school, Margaret helped her get a job at the post office in a neighbouring village.
She was a hearty girl, the kind folk said was full of good English stock. Round, rosy face, a button nose, and bright grey eyes that sparkled. Her thick, ash-blonde braid hung down to her waist.
The handsomest lad in the village was William. Hed been out of the army for two years and had no shortage of admirers. Even city girls who visited each summer couldnt resist him.
He could have been acting in Londons West End, not just driving a lorry in the village. William wasnt in a hurry to settle down; he enjoyed his freedom and hadnt chosen a sweetheart yet.
One day, Aunt Margaret came to William, asking if hed help Claire mend the fence it was about to topple over. Its tough for a woman alone in the village; she kept the garden tidy, but the house was another matter.
Without fuss, William agreed. He showed up, had a look around, and immediately began directing: fetch this, bring that, pass me that tool. Claire did as asked, cheeks redder with each order, her long braid swaying side to side.
When William was tired, she would feed him hearty stew, offer strong tea. Shed watch him bite into crusty brown bread with his straight white teeth.
He worked on the fence for three days, and on the fourth, William popped by simply to visit. Claire fed him supper; word led to word, and he stayed the night. This became a regular thing, leaving at dawn so no one would see. But in a village, nothing stays hidden long.
Oh lass, dont get your hopes up, warned Aunt Margaret. He wont wed you. And if he does, youll suffer. When summer comes and the city beauties arrive, youll be mad with jealousy. You deserve better than him.
But what young heart in love ever heeds the wisdom of the old?
Later, Claire realised she was expecting. At first, she thought shed caught cold or eaten something badweakness, nausea. Suddenly, like a blow, the truth surfaced: she was carrying Williams child.
For a sinful moment, she considered ending itsurely she was too young for a baby. But then she thought it better to keep the child; at least she wouldnt be alone.
Her mother had raised her; she could manage. Her father did littlegood for her anyway, always in the pub. People would gossip, then forget.
When spring arrived and the coat came off, everyone in the village saw her growing belly. They shook their heads, muttering about bad luck and foolish girls. William, naturally, dropped by to ask what she intended to do.
What else? said Claire, busying herself at the stove. Ill have the baby. Dont you worry, Ill raise my child alone. You carry on living your life. Only the fires red glow gave away the turmoil in her cheeks and eyes.
William looked at her in new light, but he left. Shed settled things herself; like water off a ducks back. Summer arrived and the city beauties came. William had no time for Claire anymore.
She kept to her garden, while Aunt Margaret dropped in to help with the weeding. Hard, with a belly to bend overhauling water from the well just half a bucket at a time. Her bump was so large, village matrons predicted shed have a little champion.
Well see who God sends, Claire joked.
Midway through September, she woke to a sharp pain that felt like her stomach tearing. The pain faded, then returned. She dashed to Aunt Margaret, whose worried eyes knew at once.
Is it time? Sit tight, Ill be back! cried Margaret, and darted out.
She rushed to find William, whose lorry stood by his house. The holidaymakers had all left. Unfortunately, William had spent last night at the pub.
Aunt Margaret shook him awake; William was confused at first, not understanding where he needed to take them. When it dawned, he exclaimed, Ten miles to the hospital! By the time we fetch a doctor, shell have the child already. Ill just drive her straight there! Get her ready.
But in the lorry? Youll shake her to bits, the baby could come on the road! Margaret protested.
Then youre coming with us, just in case, he declared.
They drove the battered road slowly for two miles, dipping into every pothole. Aunt Margaret rode in the back on a sack. Once they reached proper tarmac, they sped up.
Claire grimaced in the passenger seat, biting her lip, clutching her belly. William sobered up instantly, glancing at her in panic; his jaw was set, knuckles white on the steering wheel, lost in deep thought.
They arrived just in time, left Claire at hospital, and drove back. Aunt Margaret scolded William the whole way: Youve ruined that girls life! Alone, no parents, still a child herself; now shes burdened with a baby. How can she manage?
Before theyd even reached the village, Claire became mother to a healthy, sturdy little boy. The next morning, they brought her the baby to feed. She had no clue how to hold him or nurse him.
She stared anxiously at his red, wrinkled face. But, biting her lip once more, she did what was asked.
Her heart quivered with joy. She inspected his little forehead, gently blowing on the fine hairs, odd and happy.
Will anyone be picking you up? asked the stern, elderly doctor before discharge.
Claire just shrugged, shaking her head, Unlikely.
He sighed and walked away. The nurse wrapped the baby in a hospital blanket for the journey home, warning her to return it.
Fredll drive you in the hospital van back to the village. You cant take a newborn on the coach, she said, reproachful.
Claire thanked her, and, red-faced from embarrassment, walked out to the corridor.
On the ride home, Claire held her son close, worried about how they would manage now.
Her maternity pay was little more than pocket change. She pitied herself and her innocent child. But one look at his sleeping, wrinkled face filled her heart with tenderness and chased away the heavy thoughts.
Suddenly, the van stopped. Claire looked fearfully at Fred, a stout man of fifty.
Whats wrong?
Rains flooded the roads two days straight. Impossible to drive or go round. Well get stuck. Only a tractor or a lorry could manage it.
Sorry. Two miles left; can you make it? he asked, nodding at the long stretch where a puddle had become a small lake.
The baby slept in her arms. Even sitting, she was tired from holding him he was certainly a robust boy. But walking such a road?
Carefully, Claire climbed out, shifted the baby securely, and made for the edge of the puddle. Her shoes sank ankle-deep in mud. Any slip could send her down.
Her old shoes squelched; she wished shed come in wellies. One shoe got sucked into the mud. Claire hesitated, realised it wasn’t coming out with the baby in her arms, and limped onwards with just one shoe.
When she reached the village, dusk had fallen, her legs numb with cold, too tired even to wonder why the windows of her cottage were aglow.
She staggered up the dry front steps: feet freezing, forehead damp with hours effort. She opened the door and stopped short.
By the wall stood a crib, complete with pram and a neat stack of baby clothes. William was hunched over the table, sleeping with his head in his hands.
He must have felt her presence; he looked up. Claire, flushed, hair all tangled, stood in the doorway clutching her child, drenched skirt, legs and one foot caked in mud and only one shoe left.
When William saw her limping, missing a shoe, he rushed to take the baby and lay him in the cot, then hurried to the stove to fetch a pot of hot water.
He sat her down, helped her undress, washed her aching feet. While Claire changed behind the stove, he set out boiled potatoes and a jug of milk.
Then the baby started to cry. Claire hurried to him, took him in her arms, sat at the table, and fed him openly, without shame.
What have you named him? William asked, voice thick with emotion.
James. Do you mind? she looked up at him with her clear eyes.
There was so much longing and love in her gaze, it made Williams heart ache.
Good name. Tomorrow well go and register him, and well marry as well.
Thats not really necessary Claire started, watching the baby suck.
My son should have a father. Ive had my fun time I stood up and took responsibility. I dont know what kind of husband Ill be, but I wont abandon my son.
Claire nodded, eyes lowered.
Two years on, they had a daughter too, named Hope, after Claires mother.
It doesnt matter what mistakes you make at the start of life; what matters is you can always put things right
Thats the sort of story life brings. Tell me in the comments what you think? Leave a like if you enjoyed.As the years went on, Claires garden grew thick with blooms and laughter. Williams lorry still rattled down village lanes, but he was always home by twilight, swinging little James onto his shoulders or letting Hope sleep curled against his chest. The gossip faded; no one minded how things began. Somehow, the cottage felt warmerits windows alight long after supper, hearth burning, the walls echoing with stories.
On a Sunday, Claire sat beneath the apple tree, Hope clambering over her lap and James chasing butterflies. William worked nearby, whistling a tune Claires mother had loved. Sun spilled golden over them, and for the first time, Claire understood what her own mother must have felt watching each small miracle unfolda quiet contentment that needed no words.
Aunt Margaret, passing by with a basket of eggs, stopped to watch. She smiled, shaking her head at how stubborn hearts bend in the end, then winked at Claire.
It was never the city girls or the handsome smiles. It was the steady hands, the patience through storms, and the way a family grew from the smallest hope.
So this was happinessnot what the village whispered or folk predicted, but the promise Claire kept to herself, waiting for the right day.
And in that humble garden, with her children and William at her side, she knew shed found it.
