The ache in her back didnt stop her as she moved to open the door.
Margaret wiped her damp hands and groaned, wincing at the sharp pain shooting through her spine. The knock had been hesitant, but this was the third time. Shed been busy scrubbing the kitchen window and hadnt hurried to the entryway. When she finally opened the door, there stood a girlsweet-faced but pale, with weary eyes.
*”Margaret, they say you might rent a room?”*
*”Oh, for heaven’s sakethose neighbors! Always sending someone my way! I dont rent rooms. Never have.”*
*”But I heard youve got three bedrooms.”*
*”So? Must I lease them out? Ive lived alone for years.”*
*”Im sorry. I was told you were… a woman of faith. I thought”*
The girls voice cracked. Tears welled, and she turned, shoulders trembling as she shuffled down the steps.
*”Lovewait! I havent said no yet!”* Margaret sighed. *”Young ones these days, so quick to despair. Come inside. Lets talk. Whats your name? Do you mind if we speak plainly?”*
*”Lillian.”*
*”Lillian? Like the flower?”*
*”I dont know. Ive no father. No mother, either. They found me in a stairwell when I was just weeks old. Kind strangers took me to the police.”*
*”Goodness, dont take offense. Come, have tea with me. Are you hungry?”*
*”No, I bought a bun earlier.”*
*”A bun!”* Margaret scoffed. *”Youthyou lot starve yourselves, then wonder why your stomachs rebel by thirty. Sit. Theres pea soup still warm. Well heat the kettle, too. Ive jars of jamhabit from when my Harold was alive. Five years gone, and I still cook for two. Eat first, then youll help me finish the window.”*
*”Margaret, could I do something else? I get dizzy standing high. IIm expecting.”*
*”Bloody hell!”* Margaret clapped a hand to her chest. *”Youve gone and got yourself in trouble?”*
*”Must you assume the worst? Im married! Thomasfrom the same childrens home. He was called up, came back on leave. When my landlady found out, she gave me a week to leave. We lived close by, but… well, you see how it is.”*
*”How it is…* Margaret rubbed her temples. *”Right. Well shift my bed into Pauls old room. You take mine. And dont you dare offer rentI wont hear of it. Go fetch your things.”*
*”Theyre just downstairs. A single bag. My weeks up. Ive been carrying it all morning, knocking on doors.”*
And so, they became two.
Lillian studied dressmaking. Margaret, disabled years ago after a rail crash, stayed home knitting lace doilies, collars, and baby bootiesselling them at the market. Her work was light as sea foam, delicate, sought after. Between that and the gardens yield, they lacked nothing. Saturdays, they dug soil side by side. Sundays, Margaret went to church while Lillian pored over Thomass letters. She rarely joined, blaming headaches and the ache in her back.
One autumn Saturday, the harvest done, they prepared the earth for winter. Lillian tired quickly. Margaret sent her inside to rest, to listen to the old vinyls she and Harold had collected. But then
*”Mum! Mum, come quick!”*
Margarets pulse spiked. Forgetting her bad legs, she ran. Lillian clutched her belly, face twisted in pain. A neighbor helped bundle them into his battered Morris, speeding toward hospital.
*”Mum, its too soon! Im not due till January! Pray for meyou know how!”*
Margaret wept, whispering prayers all night.
At dawn, the hospital rang.
*”Your daughters fine. Cried for you and Thomas, then slept. Doctor says the risks passed, but shell stay a few weeks. Her irons lowsee she eats properly.”*
When Lillian returned, they talked past midnight.
*”Thomas wasnt abandoned like me. Hes an orphan. We grew up together. Been sweethearts since school. Hes… gentle. Its more than love. Here”* She pulled a photo from her pocket. *”Thats him, second from the right. Smiling…*
*”Handsome lad.”* Margaret squinted. Her glasses were old, the print small. She saw only blurred shapes. *”Lillian… why did you call me Mum in the garden?”*
*”Oh! Force of habit. At the home, every adult was Mum or Dadthe warden, the plumber… Id nearly stopped, but when Im frightened…*
*”I see.”* Margaret sighed.
*”Aunt Margo, tell me about you. Why no photos of Harold? Or children?”*
*”Had a son. Died before his first birthday. After the crash, I couldnt… Harold was my child, in a way. I cherished him. When he died, I put the pictures away. Knowing hes with God doesnt stop the ache. I pray for him. Tears dont help. Ask Thomas for a bigger photo. Ive frames somewhere.”*
Come Christmas Eve, they decked the halls, spoke of the Christ child, waited for the first star. Lillian fidgeted, rubbing her hips.
*”Youre not well, pet. Why so restless?”*
*”Aunt Margo, call an ambulance. The babys coming.”*
*”But its weeks early!”*
*”I miscalculated. Pleasehurry!”*
By midnight, Lillian held a daughterlittle Margaret, born Christmas Day. A telegram flew to Thomas.
January brimmed with joy and sleepless nights, nappy rash, colic. Happy troubles. Margarets own pains lessened.
Then, one mild winter day, Margaret returned from shopping to find Lillian by the pram.
*”Enjoy your walk, Aunt Margo!”*
*”Aye, take your time. Ill start lunch.”*
Inside, Margaret froze. On the table sat Harolds photographframed at last. She smiled. *”You found it. Chose his younger days. Youth hates age.”*
The soup simmered when Lillian returned, a neighbor helping with the pram. They settled the sleeping baby, then crept out.
*”Lillian,”* Margaret beamed, *”whered you find Harolds picture?”*
*”What? You asked for a larger one of Thomas. He went to a studio. The frame was on the bookshelf.”*
Margarets hands shook as she lifted it. Not Harold. A young sergeant grinned cheekily at the camera. She sank onto the sofa, pale.
Lillian wept silently, clutching a camphor compress. *”Mumlook at me! Whats wrong?”*
*”Bring the albums. Top shelf.”*
Lillian returned with stacks. A man smiled from the topThomas?
*”God above! Whos this? Is it Thomas? Noits old. Who is he?”*
*”My husband, Arthur. Lillianwhere was Thomas born?”*
*”I dont know. He came to our home in London after a train crash. They said his parents died.”*
*”Dear Lord.”* Margaret trembled. *”They showed me a bodyidentified it by the shirt. The face… unrecognizable. My boymy Michael! Alive! Your husband is my son. And I didnt know!”*
Lillian stood stunned.
*”The birthmark,* Margaret insisted. *”A star above his right elbow? When I identified him, his arm was crushedI couldnt see. Tell meis it there?”*
*”It is.”* Lillian whispered. *”Mum… darling Mum, its there.”*
They clung to each other, weeping, as baby Margarets hungry cry echoed from the nursery.
