Drying her hands with a tea towel and wincing at the ache in her back, Margaret Whitmore shuffled to answer the door. The knocking had been faint but persistentthird times the charm, she supposed. Shed been elbow-deep in window cleaning and hadnt hurried. On the doorstep stood a young woman, pretty but pale as a sheet, 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.”
“But they said youve got three bedrooms.”
“And what of it? Why would I share? Im set in my ways.”
“Sorry. They said you were well, churchgoing. I thought maybe”
The girl blinked hard, turning away before tears could spill. Her shoulders trembled as she started down the steps.
“Wait! I didnt say sling your hook, did I? Goodness, you lot cry at the drop of a hat. Come in, lets talk. Whats your name? And lets skip the Mrs. Whitmorecall me Margaret.”
“Emily.”
“Emily Seaborn, is it? Father a sailor?”
“Never knew him. Grew up in care. No mum eitherjust a stairwell and a kind soul who called social services. I wasnt even a month old.”
“Well, no use fretting. Teas on. Hungry?”
“No, I had a doughnut.”
“A doughnut! Lord help your digestion. Sit. Theres lentil soup still warm, and Ill put the kettle on. Jams in the cupboardgot enough to sink a ship. Widowed five years, but old habits die hard. Eat first, then you can help me finish those windows.”
“Margaret, dyou mind if I? I get dizzy standing high up. Im expecting.”
“Christ alive. Just what I need. Straight shooter, meis it you know, legitimate?”
“Legitimate? Were married! Tomfrom the care home same as me. Army took him, but he came home on leave. Landlady booted me out soon as she found out. Gave me a week. We lived just round the corner. You see how it is.”
“Right. Well, I cant have you sleeping rough. Might as well shift the spare bed into Stephens old room. No, hang onyoull bunk with me. And dont even think about rent. Fetch your things.”
“Dont need to. Everything Tom and I owns in a bag by your gate. Weeks upbeen dragging it door to door.”
And so they settled in. Emily was studying fashion design. Margaret, retired since a nasty rail crash years back, kept busy crocheting lace doilies, collars, and baby booties to sell at the local market. Her work was exquisitelight as sea foam, the ladies said. Between that and the veg patch out back, money wasnt tight. Saturdays, they weeded and pruned. Sundays, Margaret went to church while Emily stayed home, poring over Toms letters. Church wasnt her habit, she said. Besides, her back ached and her head spun something awful.
One crisp Saturday, they were prepping the garden for winter. Emily tired quickly, so Margaret sent her indoors to rest with the old vinyl records she and Stephen had collected. That evening, as Margaret tossed branches onto the bonfire, Emilys shriek cut through the air: “Mum! Mum, hurry!” Heart in her throat, Margaret sprintedaches forgottento find Emily clutching her belly. A neighbours ancient Vauxhall got them to hospital in record time. Emily sobbed, “Its too early! Januarys weeks off! Mum, pray for meyou know how!” Margaret wept too, whispering Hail Marys through her tears.
After admissions whisked Emily away, the neighbour drove Margaret home. She prayed all night. By morning, the hospital rang: “Your daughters fine. Cried for you and Tom at first, then slept. No miscarriage risk, but shell stay a few days. Anemicmind she eats proper.”
When Emily came home, they talked past midnight. “Toms not like me,” Emily said. “Orphaned. We grew up togetherfriends first, then more. He looks after me. Its bigger than love. See how he writes?” She held out a photo. “Thats him, second from right. Smiling.”
“Handsome,” Margaret lied. Her glasses were old; the photo just blurry lads in uniform.
“Margaret,” Emily hesitated, “whyd you call me Mum in the garden?”
“Habit. In care, every adult was Mum or Dad. Thought Id kicked it. But when Im scared sorry.”
“Ah.” Margarets sigh held a tinge of disappointment.
“Margaret, why no photos of Stephen? Or kids? Couldnt you?”
“Had a son. Gone before his first birthday. After the crash, no more babies. Stephen was my world. Spoilt him rotten. When he died, I boxed the photos. Crying over snaps wont bring him back. But show me Toms picture again. Might have a frame for it.”
Come Christmas Eve, they decked the halls, humming carols as Emily wriggled, rubbing her back.
“Youre twitchy as a cat. Whats wrong?”
“Margaret, call an ambulance. I think its time.”
“Dont be daft! Youre due next week!”
“Dates lie. PleaseI cant bear it.”
By Boxing Day, baby Rosie was born. Tom got the telegram that same afternoon.
January was chaossleepless nights, colic, nappy disasters. But joyful chaos. Margarets aches eased.
One unseasonably warm afternoon, Margaret returned from shopping to find Emily pushing the pram. “Well walk a bit longer,” Emily said.
“Mind the icy patches. Ill start supper.”
Inside, Margaret spotted a framed photo on the table. She smiled. “Found Stephens pictures, did you? Picked his youthful one, of course.”
The soup was simmering when Emily returned. A neighbour carried the pram in. As they unwrapped Rosieher tiny nose whistling softlyMargaret asked, “Howd you find Stephens photos?”
“What?”
“That one.” Margaret pointed.
“Thats Toms picture! You asked me to enlarge it. The frame was on the bookshelf.”
Margarets hands shook as she lifted it. Not Stephen. A grinning young sergeant. She sank onto the sofa, pale. Emily grabbed smelling salts, crying, “Mum, look at me! Whats wrong?”
“Open the wardrobe. Top shelfbring all the photos.”
Emily returned with albums. Staring up from the top was Tom?
“Whos this? Its notthe photos ancient!”
“My Stephen. Emily, love, where was Tom born?”
“Dunno. Transferred to our care home from London after a train crash. They told him his parents died.”
Margaret trembled. “Oh God. They showed me a bodyhis shirt was Toms. But the face unrecognisable. No birthmark. Stephen, my boyyoure alive! Your wife and child are here, and I didnt know!” She clutched the photo. “Tom? NoStephen, my sunshine!”
Emily, baffled, whispered, “Tom has a birthmark. Star-shaped, above his right elbow.”
Margaret sobbed. “I checked the bodys armscrushed. Never saw it. Youre sure?”
“Positive.”
They clung to each other, weeping, as baby Rosies cries floated from the next room.
