A woman dries her hands on a tea towel and, wincing from the ache in her back, walks to answer the door. The chime had sounded gently, but this was the third ring. She had been polishing the windows and hadnt reached the hallway straight away. On the doorstep stands a young girl, delicate but pale, with weary eyes.
“Margaret, I heard you might have a room to let?”
“Oh, these neighboursalways sending people my way! I dont let rooms, never have.”
“But they said youve got three bedrooms.”
“So what? Why should I feel obliged to rent them out? Im used to my own company.”
“Right. Sorry. They said you were kind, and I just thought”
The girl blinks quickly, tears welling, then turns to leave, her shoulders shaking as she steps slowly down the path.
“Wait, love! I havent said no yet! Young ones these days, so quick to cry. Come inside, lets talk. Whats your name? First-name terms, shall we?”
“Charlotte.”
“Charlotte, eh? Ill bet your father was a teacher, wasnt he?”
“I never had a father. Grew up in a childrens home. No mother either. Kind souls found me in a stairwell and took me to the police. I wasnt even a month old.”
“Alright, dont get upset. Lets have a cuppa and chat. Hungry?”
“No, I bought myself a pasty earlier.”
“A pasty, she says! Young people never look after themselvesby thirty, youll have ulcers. Sit down, theres some hot pea soup. Ill put the kettle on. Plenty of jam, too. My husband passed five years back, but I still stock up for two out of habit. Well eat first, then you can help me finish the windows.”
“Margaret, could I do something else? Im feeling light-headedafraid I might topple off the sill. Im expecting.”
“Even better! Just what I neededa girl in the family way. Im very principled. Did you land yourself in trouble?”
“Why assume the worst? Im married. James was in the same home. He got called uparmy. Visited on leave recently. My landlady found out about the baby and gave me notice straight off. Ive got a week to find somewhere. We lived just round the corner. Butwell, you see how it is.”
“Aye I see how it is. So what am I to do with you? Move my bed to the spare room, I suppose. Fine, take my room. And I wont hear a word about rentdont even suggest it, or Ill be cross. Go fetch your things.”
“Wont take long. All mine and Jamess bits are packed in a holdall by the gate. The weeks up, and Ive been traipsing about since morning.”
So they become two. Charlotte studies dressmaking. Margaret has been on disability since a railway accident years ago, so she stays home, knitting lace doilies and baby booties to sell at the village market. Her handiwork is light as sea foamethereal, delicateand sells well. Money isnt tight. She also makes a bit from her vegetable patch. Saturdays, they work the garden together. Sundays, Margaret goes to church while Charlotte stays home, rereading Jamess letters and writing back. She rarely attendsstill not used to it. She complains of backaches and dizzy spells.
One Saturday, while tending the plot, Charlotte tires quickly, and Aunt Margaret sends her in to rest with old records theyd bought together. That afternoon, after raking, the expectant mother lies down. Margaret burns dry stalks in the garden, watching flames lick upward, when suddenly”Mum! Mum, come quick!” Heart pounding, forgetting her bad knees and back, Margaret rushes inside. Charlotte clutches her stomach, crying out. In a panic, Margaret flags down a neighbour, and they speed to hospital in an old Rover. Charlotte moans, “Mum, it hurts! Too soonIm due mid-July. Mum, please prayyou know how!” Tears streak Margarets cheeks as she prays hard through them.
At the hospital, Charlotte is wheeled away while the neighbour drives a weeping Margaret home. She prays all night, begging the Virgin Mary to spare the baby. By morning, she rings the ward.
“Your daughters alright. Cried for you and James at first, then settled and slept. Doctor says the dangers passed, but shell need two weeks bed rest. Haemoglobins low. Feed her well when shes home.”
When discharged, they talk past midnight. Charlotte speaks of James.
“He wasnt just another orphan. We grew up together, same home. Friends at school, then sweethearts. He looks after me. Its more than love. See how often he writes? Want to see his photo? Heresecond from right, grinning.”
“Handsome” Margaret doesnt want to upset her. Her glasses are long overdue for changing. The pictures tiny, just blurry shapes. She cant tell second from fifth. “Charlotte, whyd you call me mum back then?”
“Ohhabit from the home. Everyone was mum or dad there, from the matron to the caretaker. Ive mostly shaken it. But when Im scared or nervousout it slips. Sorry.”
“I see” Margaret sighs, faintly disappointed.
“Aunt Margaret, what about you? No photos of your husband or children. You didnt have any?”
“No. Had a son once. Passed as a babe. After my accident, no more children. My husband was like a child himselfI spoiled him rotten. He was my world, like James is yours. When I buried him, I put all the pictures away. Even though I know hes with God, it hurt too much. Just brought tears. So I hid themno use dwelling. Now, he needs prayers, not weeping. But ask James for a bigger photowell frame it. Ive got spares somewhere.”
On Christmas Eve, they decorate, speaking of the Christ child, watching for the first star. Charlotte fidgets, rubbing her back.
“Somethings wrong, love. Youre half-listening. What is it?”
“Aunt Margaret, call an ambulance. Its time.”
“What? A week early!”
“Mustve got the dates wrong. Please hurryI cant bear it.”
Within half an hour, they reach hospital. On Christmas Day, Charlotte delivers a beautiful girl. That same day, Margaret wires the happy news to James.
January is hectic. The baby brings joy but demands constant care. With Jamess blessing, Charlotte names her Margaret. The older woman weeps. Little Margaret means sleepless nights and fussy momentsbut happy troubles. Even Margarets aches seem lighter.
The day is unseasonably mild. Margaret nips out for errands. On her return, she spots Charlotte with the pramthe young mum fancied a walk.
“Well go a bit longer, alright?”
“Course, love. Ill start lunch.”
Inside, Margaret glances at the tableand freezes. A framed photo of her husband sits there. She chuckles. “Found it, did she? Picked his youngest pictureyoung folks never like the old ones.”
The soup simmers when Charlotte returns with the baby. A neighbours boy helps with the pram. They unwrap the sleeping infant, tiptoeing into the parlour.
“Charlotte,” Margaret smiles, “howd you know where to find Henrys pictures?”
“Im not sure what you mean.”
“This, here?” Margaret points.
“You asked James for a bigger photo. He went to a studio. I found a frame on the shelf.”
Hands trembling, Margaret lifts it. Only now does she seeits not Henry. A young sergeant grins cheekily. She sits, pale, staring into space. Charlotte sobs hysterically, clutching smelling salts.
“Mum, look at me! Whats wrong?”
“Charlotte, open the wardrobetop shelf. Bring all the photos.”
Albums and frames pile up. One shows James?!
“Good Lord! Whos this? James? Nothis is old. Who is it, mum?”
“Henry. My husband. Charlotte, where was James born?”
“Dont know. He came to our home from Manchester. Train crashthey told him his parents died.”
“Oh, what a dreadful mistake! My boy, Williamthey showed me Recognised his little shirt. But his faceI couldnt tell. My William! Youre alive! Your wife and child are here, and I never knew. Oh God, you brought Charlotte to me. Love, pass me that picture.”
Bewildered, Charlotte hands it over. Margaret kisses it, tears streaming. “William, my darling boy!”
“James,” Charlotte whispers.
“Call him James, but this is my son, Charlottemy boy! Look at his fathertheyre identical!”
Charlotte hesitates.
“What about a birthmark? Star-shaped, above the right elbow? Only clue I had after the crashage and shirt matched. His arm was hurtcouldnt find it. Why so quiet? Is there one?”
“There is. Like a star. Oh mum, there is!”
They cling to each other, weeping, unaware of little Margaret fussing next door, wanting her mother.
