17March1942
The night before I awoke to a peculiar dream: my son, Charlie, standing on the step, rapping at the door. I leapt out of bed, my feet bare on the cold floorboards, and rushed to the entrance.
Halfasleep I leaned against the jamb and paused, listening to the hush outside. No one was there. Such dreams had visited me often, always fooling me, yet each time I would fling the door open and stare into the darkness. Tonight I did the same, peering into the nights gloom. Silence and the faint orange glow of the streetlamps wrapped around me. I tried to calm my throbbing heart and sat on the step.
In that stillness a faint rustle reached my ears a soft squeak, perhaps. Another neighbours kitten got tangled again, I thought, and went to free the little creature from the blackberry brambles, as I had done many times. But when I yanked at the rag sticking out of the bush, I realized it was not a kittens tail but an old, faded baby blanket. With a stronger pull the cloth slipped free, and I stared, stunned: a tiny infant lay folded in the corner of the blanket. The child was completely naked, his diaper having slipped off while he lay there a little boy.
From the fresh umbilical stump I could tell he could not have been more than a few weeks old. He could not even wail; his skin was damp, his body limp and clearly starving. When I lifted him, he let out a feeble squeak. I, halfdazed, pressed him to my chest and bolted back into the cottage. I found a clean sheet, swaddled the baby, covered him with a warm quilt and set to heat some milk. I washed a bottle, remembered the nipple Id kept from the spring when I had weaned a kid goat.
The lad gulped greedily, choked a little, then, once warmed and fed, fell fast asleep. Dawn was breaking, but I could not think of anything else but the child in my arms. Im a man in my late forties, known around the village of Littleford as Uncle Tom. I lost my wife and my only son in the war last year and have lived alone ever since. The ache of solitude never truly left me, but I have learned to rely on my own two hands. Now, bewildered, I stared at the sleeping infant, his soft breaths like any other childs. I thought perhaps I should speak to my neighbour, Mary, for advice, and then set off to her front step.
Marys life, unlike anyone elses, has been smooth and carefree: she never married, never lost anyone to the war, and has no funerals to attend. She lives for herself. Her suitors come and go, and she never holds on. This morning she stood on her own doorstep, a light shawl draped over her shoulders, stretching in the warm glow of sunrise. She listened to my tale of the nights discovery, raised an eyebrow, and said briefly:
Then what do you want with it? and went back inside. As she turned, I caught a glimpse of her curtain moving another visitor must have been staying the night. Why? Really, why? I whispered to myself. I hurried home, fed the child, wrapped him in dry clothes, packed a few provisions and set off to catch a ride to the city. It didnt take long; five minutes later a lorry pulling into the village lane braked beside me.
Hospital? the driver asked, nodding toward the bundle in my arms.
To the hospital, I replied, keeping my voice steady.
At the childrens home, while the papers for the foundling were being processed, I couldnt shake the feeling that I was doing something wrong, that a knot of guilt lingered in my chest. The emptiness inside was as deep as the one I felt when I learned of my wifes death, then my sons. The matron asked:
What shall we call the boy? What name?
Name? I echoed, paused, then, surprised at myself, answered, Charlie.
A fine name, she said. We have many Charlies and many Elsies after the war. Its clear who lost relatives, but a child like yours who abandoned him? No fathers here now, so we must cherish the child, not blame the mother.
Her words, though not aimed at me, struck a chord. I returned home that evening, lit the oil lamp, and the old blanket that had held Charlie fell to the floor. I hadnt tossed it away; Id simply set it aside. I picked it up and sat on the bed, running my fingers over its damp fibers. In the corner of the blanket I felt a small knot. Inside was a grey scrap of paper and a tiny tin cross on a string. The note read:
Dear kind woman, forgive me. I cant keep this child; my life is tangled, and tomorrow Ill be gone. Please do not abandon my son; do for him what I cannot. Below the words was the babys birth date.
Tears burst from my eyes; I wept as though for a dead loved one. The river of tears flowed, and I thought I had long since exhausted my grief. Memories of my own wedding, the happiness with my wife, the birth of my son Charlie, and the joy that had once lit up the village came rushing back. Before the war my son had completed a driving course and promised to take me for a ride in a new tractor they were to allocate to our collective farm. Then the war came.
In August 42 they brought me the news of my husbands death, and in October the same year they delivered the loss of my son. All that happiness vanished, the light went out, and I became like almost every other widow in the village, running to the door each night, flinging it open, staring into the blackness only to find the wind and a poor stray kitten. That night I too could not sleep, wandering outside, listening to the night and waiting for something.
Come morning I went back to the city. The matron recognized me at once and didnt surprise me when I said I wanted to take the boy back, as my dead son would have wanted.
Very well, she said, well help with the paperwork.
Bundling Charlie in a blanket, I left the home with a lighter heart; the crushing emptiness that had lived with me for years was gone, replaced by a warmth of hope. If a person is meant to be happy, fate will find a way, and that is what happened to me. In my empty cottage, only photographs of my wife and son still hung on the wall.
But this time their faces seemed different softer, almost illuminated, approving, encouraging. I held little Charlie close and felt a strength I had not known in years he would need me for a long time.
Will you help me? I whispered to the pictures.
Twenty years have passed since. Charlie grew into a fine young man, the sort of lad every girl in the village dreamed of courting. He chose his own hearts partner, a gentle soul named Lucy, after I had lost my wife. When Charlie brought Lucy to meet me, I finally saw it: my son had become a true man. I blessed their union, the wedding rang out, and they began to build their own home. Soon children arrived, and the youngest was also named Charlie, filling our family tree with new branches.
One night I awoke to a clatter at the window and, as I always do, went to the door. I flung it open and stepped into the garden. A storm was gathering, lightning flashing in the distance.
Thank you, my boy, I said softly to the darkness, now I have three Charlies, and I love you all.
The old oak by the porch, planted by my husband when the first Charlie was born, rustled as the thunder rolled, and a bolt of lightning illuminated its leaves like the bright smile of my beloved son.
The night taught me that grief may linger, but the chance to love anew is ever present. I have learned that compassion, even for a strangers child, can fill the void left by loss and turn sorrow into purpose.
