Have you seen her, ladies? The old woman in our ward? Shes already Yes, completely silverhaired. She must have grandchildren, yet everyone keeps asking why shes still begging for a baby at her age
My mother looks younger than she does. I wonder, how old is her husband? Shes quiet and gloomy, keeps to herself. She never talks to anyone. No wonder shes a recluse. We all address her as Auntie Eleanor, but I havent the heart to ask her name. I think they call her Eleanor Whitaker.
Maybe we should use her full name, first and last The maternity wing erupted in hushed chatter as one of the expectant mothers stepped out for a moment.
Eleanors life had been hard. When Poppy Clarke was four, typhoid swept through her family. Mother, father, a oneyearold brother and a frail grandfather all fell ill and died. From that day on, Poppy was raised by her stern, ironfisted grandmother, Margaret Hargreaves, a woman who knew nothing of tenderness.
It was 1941. Poppy, then thirteen, and Victor Hughes, also thirteen, lived in neighboring hamlets in Yorkshire. They both travelled to Sheffield to work at the steelworks, where labour was scarce and the city swelled with hopeful migrants.
They lived in the same workers block, and thats where they met. From those early years they toiled side by side, matching the older lads in strength and resolve.
At fifteen Victor was called up to the front. Poppy, fieryhaired and spirited, begged to go with him, but the army turned her away. We need you here, girl, they said, your hands are more useful on the factory floor.
When they were eighteen, Poppy and Victor married in a modest ceremonyno fanfare, because the war had left the country bruised and the future uncertain.
Against Margarets stern wishes, Poppy moved in with Victor. Their farms lay thirty miles apart, but love bridged the distance. A year later their son WilliamBilly to everyonewas born. For a brief spell the family tasted happiness, a fragile bubble amid the postwar hardships.
Billy turned six. Poppy and Victor still lived handinhand, the envy of their neighbours. Victor worked as a kilnmaster; his ovens were famed across the valley.
When the council asked Victor to install a furnace in the neighboring village of Harrowby, across the river, he took Billy with him, for Poppy was on shift. A bitter frost gripped the landscape, and they trudged across a frozen river.
Victor shouldered a heavy toolboxhe never trusted anyone elses tools. Billy, full of mischief, ignored his fathers pleas to stay close. With only twenty metres to the bank, the boy slipped into a snowfilled hollow. Victor lunged, but the ice gave way
Eleanors own grief had begun early. At twentyfive she lost both husband and son. The walls of the house echoed with their absence, and Poppy, unable to bear those ghosts, fled back to her childhood village to live with Margaret.
Poppy shut herself away, the light gone from her eyes. She could not even contemplate a new family.
Now Eleanor, at fortythree, faced the same bleakness. A single mother in her thirties, Poppy knew the obstacles ahead, yet the terror of solitude gnawed louder than any future hardship.
The village where Poppy lived was remote, the road winding through moorland. A fierce storm threatened to delay any help, so she arrived at the Leeds General Hospital early, clutching the thin blanket around her newborn. Her heart hammered with fear for the childs fragile health.
From the moment she crossed the wards cold corridors, Poppy felt a phantom of the pasteighteen years ago she had lost her husband and son. Time had not softened the ache; it throbbed still.
She named the baby Daniel, remembering Billys wish for a brother.
Buy me a little brother, he had once begged. Dad made so many toys! Ill play with my brother.
What will you call him? his father asked.
Dani he stammered.
Then hell be Daniel! Victor laughed, eyes meeting Poppys.
At that moment hope flickered in Poppys chest. Victor, of course, sensed it too. They kept the news of Daniels birth from Billys memory for a while, fearing the fresh grief would crush her again.
Now Daniel was in her arms, just as Billy had imagined.
Margaret scoffed when Poppy entered with the infant.
Why are you crying again, my dear? Poppy cooed, soothing the baby.
Ah, you lotalways a bother, Margaret muttered, her voice creaking. The whole village will chatter about your shame.
I havent shown my face in a week. They’ll start asking questions. What will I say? That my old mothers mind has slipped?
The gossip spread like wildfire. Nothing rattled a Yorkshire village more than a thirtythreeyearold spinster and her newborn.
Margarets tongue sliced Poppy mercilessly. Yet within a year, the sharptongued matriarch, surprisingly spry for her age, fell ill and passed away.
Grief clung to Poppy, but she could not deny that Margaret had raised her.
Daniel grew into a striking young mantall, darkhaired, with keen blue eyes, nothing like his mother, whom he adored.
At seventy, Poppy became a grandmother. When Daniel learned his sister had been born, he and his wife, Susan, rushed to the hospital. Susan lay on the first floor, cradling the newborn.
Susan! Susan! Daniel shouted, his voice trembling with joy. Show us the baby!
She lifted the child to the window, the tiny face peeking out.
Look, Mum, shes a redhead! Just like you! Daniel beamed. Eleanors heart swelled at the sight of her grandchilds smile, knowing that even after all the storms, life still found a way.
