I wiped my damp hands, wincing at the ache in my back, and shuffled to answer the door. The knocking had been soft but persistentthis was the third time. Id been washing the window, so I hadnt hurried. On the doorstep stood a young girl, pretty but pale, exhaustion etched into her face.
“Mrs. Eleanor, I heard you might have a room to let?”
“Oh, those nosy neighbours! Always sending strangers my way. I dont let roomsnever have.”
“They said youve got three bedrooms.”
“And what of it? Why should I rent one out? Im used to my own company.”
“Im sorry. They told me you were a woman of faith, so I thought”
The girl bit her lip, tears welling, then turned to leave, her shoulders trembling as she descended the steps.
“Wait, child! I didnt say no! Goodness, young people these daysso quick to tears. Come inside, lets talk. Whats your name? Shall we drop the formalities?”
“Lillian.”
“Ah, ‘Lily,’ like the flower. Father a gardener, then?”
“I never knew him. I grew up in care. My mother left me on a staircase when I was just weeks old. A kind soul found me and called the police.”
“Dont fret. Come, well have tea. Are you hungry?”
“No, I bought a doughnut earlier.”
“A doughnut! Oh, youthno thought for proper meals, and by thirty youll have ulcers. Sit down, Ive got pea soup still warm. And well heat the tea. Plenty of jam, too. My husband passed five years ago, but old habits die hardI still cook for two. Eat first, then you can help me finish the windows.”
“Mrs. Eleanor, could I do something else? I get dizzyIm afraid Ill fall. Im expecting.”
“Good heavens! Just what I needed. Youre married, I hope?”
“Of course! My husband, Thomaswe grew up together in care. Hes been called up for service. Came home on leave, and thenwell, our landlady threw me out when she found out. Gave me a week to find somewhere. Ive been carrying our things in a bag since.”
And so we became two. Lillian was studying to be a dressmaker. Id been on disability since a train crash years ago, so I stayed home, knitting lace doilies, collars, and baby booties to sell at the market. My pieces were delicate as sea foam and sold well. We never lackedthe garden helped, too. Saturdays were for weeding and planting, Sundays for church. Lillian rarely joined me; she preferred writing letters to Thomas, complaining of backaches and dizzy spells.
One autumn Saturday, we were clearing the garden when Lillian grew tired. I sent her inside to rest with my old records. Later, as I burned dry branches, her scream shattered the quiet: “Mum! Mum, come quick!” My heart pounded as I ran, forgetting my own aches. She clutched her stomach, face twisted in pain. Our neighbour sped us to hospital in his rattling Austin. Lillian sobbed, “Its too early! The babys not due till January!” I prayed through tears the whole way.
At dawn, the hospital rang. “Your daughters fine. She called for you and Thomas all night, but shes resting now. The bleedings stopped, though her irons low. Shell need care.”
When Lillian came home, we talked past midnight. She spoke endlessly of Thomas. “Hes not just my husbandhes family. Weve been together since we were children. Look, heres his photosecond from the right.”
“Handsome,” I said, though my eyesight was poor. The image was blurry, just shapes in uniforms.
“Lillian, why did you call me ‘Mum’ in the garden?”
“Force of habit. In care, every adult was ‘Mum’ or ‘Dad.’ Ive tried to stop, but when Im scaredIm sorry.”
“I see.” The word hung heavy with disappointment.
“Aunt Eleanor, tell me about you. Why no photos of your husband? No children?”
“We had a son. He died before his first birthday. After the accident, I couldnt have more. My husband was my world. When he passed, I put all the pictures away. Griefs easier without reminders.”
By Christmas Eve, we were hanging decorations when Lillian grimaced, rubbing her back. “Youre restless as a child. Whats wrong?”
“Call an ambulance. The babys coming.”
“Nonsense! Youve another week.”
“I was wrong. Pleasenow!”
On January 7thOrthodox Christmaslittle Rose was born. I sent Thomas a telegram.
Winter was a blur of nappies and sleepless nights, but joyous. One mild afternoon, I returned from shopping to find Lillian pushing Roses pram. “Well walk a bit longer,” she said.
At home, I spotted a framed photo on the tablemy husband, young and smiling. “She found it,” I mused. “Picked his youth over age.”
While soup simmered, Lillian returned. Our neighbour carried the pram inside. As we unwrapped Rose, I asked, “Howd you find Simons photos?”
“What do you mean?”
“That.” I pointed.
“You asked for Thomass photo enlarged. I had it done. The frame was on the bookshelf.”
My hands shook as I lifted it. Not Simona grinning sergeant. I sat stunned, while Lillian wept, clutching smelling salts. “Mum, look at me! Whats wrong?”
“Open the wardrobe. Top shelf. Bring every photo.”
She returned with albums. Staring from the topThomas?
“Who is this? Its not Thomasthis photos old!”
“My husband, Simon. Lillian, where was Thomas born?”
“I dont know. He was brought to our home from London after a train crash. They told him his parents died.”
“Oh God, what a cruel mistake! My Michaelthey showed me a body, identified by his shirt. But his face… unrecognisable. Michael, youre alive! Your wife and child are here, and I didnt know!”
Lillian stood baffled as I kissed the photo. “Thomas,” she corrected weakly.
“Call him what you will, but hes my son. Lookhis fathers face is his mirror!”
She hesitated. “Lillian, does he have a birthmark? A star above his right elbow? I couldnt see it on the… the body.”
“Its there. Like a little star.”
We clung to each other, weeping, as Roses cries echoed from the nursery.
