A woman wiped her hands dry and, wincing from an ache in her back, shuffled to answer the door. The bell had chimed gently, but this was the third time. Shed been polishing the windows and hadnt made it to the hallway straight away. On the doorstep stood a young girl, sweet-faced but pale, with shadows under her eyes.
Margaret, they reckon youve got a room to let?
Good grief, these neighboursalways sending folk my way! I dont let rooms, never have.
But I heard youve got three bedrooms.
So what? Since when does having space mean I must rent it out? Im quite happy on my own, thank you.
Oh. Sorry. They said you were kind, and I just thought
The girl blinked hard, eyes welling up, then turned and trudged down the steps, shoulders quivering.
Hold on, duck! I never said no! Young people these daysso quick to waterworks. Come in, lets chat. Whats your name? Shall we skip the formalities?
Clara.
Clara, eh? Bet your dads a teacher or something bookish, am I right?
Dont have one. Grew up in care. No mum either. Kind souls found me on a doorstep and took me to the police. Wasnt even a month old.
Right, no need to fret. Lets have a cuppa. You hungry?
Im alright, had a pasty earlier.
A pasty! Oh, youthnever looking after yourselves, and by thirty, youll be on antacids. Sit down, theres fresh pea soup. Well brew some tea. Got enough jam to last an armyhabit from when my husband was alive. Eat first, then you can help me finish the windows.
Margaret, could I do something else? Feeling a bit faintworried Ill topple off the sill. Im expecting.
Perfect! Just what I neededa pregnant lass. Very proper of me, isnt it? Did you land yourself in a spot of bother?
Why assume the worst? Im married. James was in care with me. Hes been called upcame home on leave a while back. My landlady found out and gave me the boot. Need a place by weeks end. Lived nearby, but well, you see how it is.
Ah. How it is. Suppose I ought to shift my bed to the spare room? Fine, take mine. And dont you dare offer rentIll box your ears if you try. Go fetch your things.
Wont take long. All mine and Jamess bits are in a holdall by the bins. Deadlines up, been hauling it about since dawn.
So they became two. Clara trained as a seamstress. Margaret, on disability since a nasty rail crash years back, stayed home knitting lace doilies and baby bonnets to sell at the village market. Her work was delicate as sea spraysold like hotcakes. Money wasnt tight, thanks to the veg patch too. Saturdays, they gardened. Sundays, Margaret went to church while Clara stayed home, poring over Jamess letters. Clara rarely joinedwasnt her habit yet. She moaned about her back and dizzy spells.
One Saturday, Clara wilted fast over the spade, so Margaret sent her in to rest with their old vinyl records. Later, as Margaret burned garden rubbish, lost in the flames, Claras shriek cut through: Mum! Mum, quick! Heart hammering, knees forgotten, Margaret bolted inside. Clara clutched her belly, sobbing. A neighbours ancient Morris Minor got them to hospital, Clara wailing, Mum, its too soondue mid-July! Pray for me, you know how! Margarets tears blurred her prayers.
At dawn, the hospital rang: Your girls fine. Cried for you and James at first, then slept. Doctor says no more miscarriage risk, but shell stay a fortnight. Feed her up when shes home.
Post-discharge, they chatted past midnight. Clara gushed about James.
Hes not just any care-leaver. We grew up togetherschoolmates, then sweethearts. Writes every week. Want to see his photo? Here, second from right, grinning.
Dashing Margaret fibbed. Her specs were hopeless, and the snapshot was tinyjust blokes in uniform. Clara, whyd you call me mum earlier?
Oh, just panicked. Care home habiteveryone was mum or dad. Nearly kicked it mostly. Sorry.
I see. Margaret sighed.
Aunt Margaret, what about you? No photos of your husband or kids. You havent any, right?
Had a son. Lost him as a babe. After the crash, no more children. My husband was my world, like James is yours. When he passed, I boxed the photostoo painful. He needs prayers, not my weeping. But ask James for a proper photowell frame it.
Come Christmas Eve, they decked the halls, awaiting the first star. Clara fidgeted, rubbing her spine.
Youre miles away, pet. Whats up?
Call an ambulance. Its time.
But youre a week early!
Miscounted. HurryI cant bear it.
By Boxing Day, Clara had a daughter. Margaret wired James the news.
January was chaosbaby Annie was a delight but demanding. With Jamess blessing, Clara named her after Margaret, who wept. Sleepless nights followed, but Margarets aches seemed lighter.
One mild winter day, Margaret returned from errands to find Clara and the pram outside. Off for a longer stroll, Aunt Margaret?
Go on. Ill start lunch.
Inside, Margaret froze. On the table sat a framed photo of her husband. She chuckled. Found it, did she? Picked his youngest shotkids always do.
As soup simmered, Clara returned, the neighbours boy hauling the pram. They hushed about, unwrapping sleeping Annie.
Clara, Margaret smiled, howd you know where Edwards photos were?
What?
This. Margaret tapped the frame.
You asked James for a better picture. He got one taken. I found a frame on the shelf.
Hands shaking, Margaret lifted it. Not Edward. A young corporal smirked up at her. She went ghostly, staring into space as Clara wailed, waving smelling salts.
Mum, look at me! Whats wrong?
Clara, top of the wardrobebring all the photos.
Albums piled up. One held James?
Whos this? James? No, its old. Who is it, mum?
Edward, my husband. Clara, where was James born?
Dunno. Came to our home from Birmingham after a train crash. They said his parents died.
Oh, what a cock-up! My boy, Williamthey showed me Recognised his shirt, like yours. But his face William! Youre alive! Your wife and child are here, and I never knew. Clara, pass that photo.
Baffled, Clara handed it over. Margaret kissed it, tears splashing. William, my love!
James, Clara whispered.
Call him James, but this is my son! Look at his fathertheyre peas in a pod!
Clara hesitated. Margaret, any birthmarks? A star above the right elbow? Thats all I had after the crashage, shirt. His arm was hurt no star. Why so quiet? Is there one?
There is. Star-shaped. Oh mum, there is!
They clung, weeping, as baby Annies indignant squalls echoed from the nursery.
