Evelyn was barely sixteen when her mother slipped away like a thin mist. Seven years earlier her father had chased work to the big city of Leeds and vanished, leaving no word and no coin. The whole hamlet turned out for the funeral, each soul offering what little they could. Aunt Maude, Evelyns godmother, kept popping into the cottage, whispering how to mend a life that seemed forever broken. By some stubborn will Evelyn scraped through school and was set to deliver letters for the post office in the neighbouring village.
Evelyn was a sturdy lass, the sort of folk called blood and milk. Her face was round and rosy, her nose a blunt button, but her eyes were a bright, steelgrey that seemed to hold a flicker of fire. A thick chestnut braid fell to her waist.
The most handsome bloke in the hamlet was Tom, fresh from the army for two years and the object of every girls gaze. Even the city girls who drifted in for the summer could not ignore him. He ought to be riding a fancy motorbike in a Hollywood chase scene, not mending fences in a field of thyme. He had not yet settled down, and his heart was still roaming.
One dusk Aunt Maude knocked on Toms door, pleading for help to straighten Evelyns sagging fence. A village without men is a garden without rain, she said. Evelyn could manage the garden, but the house itself was a stubborn beast.
Without a word Tom agreed. He arrived, surveyed, and began barking orders: Fetch this, run there, hand it over. Evelyn obeyed every command, her cheeks flushing brighter, her braid whipping like a flag in a storm. When the boy grew weary, she ladled hearty pea soup into his bowl and offered a strong cup of tea, while she chewed a slice of black bread with teeth as white as winter snow.
For three days Tom hammered the fence, and on the fourth he simply wandered in, as if for a visit. Evelyn fed him a supper that lingered in the air, word for word, and he lingered the night, slipping away before dawn so no one would see. In a village, secrets have thin walls.
Ay, love, youre welcoming him in for nothing. He wont marry you, and if he does, youll only be left to keep the fire burning while the summer belles roll in. Youll burn with jealousy, Aunt Maude chided, her words as sharp as a thorn.
Young hearts rarely heed the old womans counsel.
Soon Evelyn felt a strange heaviness. At first she blamed a chill or a stray bite. Nausea rose like a tide, then, with the weight of a hammer striking her skull, the truth crashed in: a child grew inside her, the son of Tom, the villages wandering rogue. She feared scandal, thought it too early to bear a babe. Then a thought slipped through the fog: perhaps it was better this way. She wouldnt be alone; a mother had raised her, and she could manage. Her father had brought home little more than a bottle, and gossip would soon calm.
When spring thawed the winter coat, the villagers stared at her swelling belly, shaking their heads. What a mischief has befallen the girl, they muttered. Tom, of course, dropped by to ask what she was planning.
Give birth, of course, he said, a grin flickering like firelight. Dont worry, Ill raise the child. Live as you have lived, he added, pulling a greasy hand from the stove, his cheeks alight with emberred.
Tom lingered a moment, then drifted away. Evelyn made her own decisions, as water slides off a gooses back. Summer arrived, and the country lanes filled with pretty city girls. Toms thoughts turned elsewhere, and Evelyn tended her garden, while Aunt Maude came to weed. Bending with a heavy belly was a new ache; she hauled halfabucket of well water from the well, the village women prophesying she was a future heroine.
Whatever the Good Lord sends, Evelyn joked, wiping the sweat from her brow.
MidSeptember, a sharp pain sliced her abdomen as if a knife had split it in two. The ache faded, then returned, fierce enough to send her racing to Aunt Maude. The old woman read the terror in her eyes instantly.
Hold on, Im coming, Maude called, darting out of the cottage.
They hurried to Nicks yard, where a battered truck rumbled. The holidaymakers had already fled, and Nick, the night before, had downed a strong pint. Aunt Maudes fists shook him awake. Tom stared, bewildered, until the urgency snapped him into action.
Ten miles to the hospital! he shouted. Shell deliver before we get back. Lets go!
On a truck? Shell be tossed about, a woman wailed.
Then you come with us, just in case, Tom snapped.
The truck lurched over a cracked lane, dodging ditches like a wounded beast. Aunt Maude perched on a sack in the back, clutching the wheel as the road finally turned to rough asphalt.
Evelyn curled on the seat beside her, biting her lip to muffle a moan, clutching her belly. Nick, eyes glazed, steered with trembling hands, his knuckles white.
They made it. Evelyn was dropped at the hospital, and the truck rolled back. Aunt Maude hurled accusations at Tom as they drove away: Youve ruined a girls life! Shes alone, a child and a mother, and you add more woes! The truck sputtered before the village, and Evelyn had already birthed a healthy, robust boy.
The next morning a nurse placed a tiny, crinkled face in her hands. Evelyn stared, trembling, at the red, puckered visage of her son, pinching her lip again, doing as she was told. Her heart fluttered like a trapped bird. She brushed a soft strand of hair from his forehead, marveling at his fragile miracle.
Will someone come for you? the stern doctor asked before discharge.
Evelyn shrugged, shaking her head. Probably not. The doctor sighed, leaving. A nurse wrapped the infant in a thin hospital blanket, handing it to her.
Fergus will take you back to the hamlet in the ambulance. You cant take a newborn on a coach, she scolded, eyes sharp.
Evelyn thanked her, trudging down the corridor, cheeks flushed with embarrassment.
In the car, she pressed the bundle to her breast, anxiety knotting her thoughts about the future. The babys tiny breaths soothed her, a whisper of hope crushing the weight of doubt.
The vehicle sputtered to a halt. Evelyn glanced at Fergus, a squat man in his fifties.
Its been raining for two days. The lanes are puddles, impossible to cross. Only a lorry or a tractor could push through. Sorry, still two miles to go. Can you make it on foot? he asked, pointing at a vast, mirrorlike puddle spreading across the road.
She cradled the sleeping infant, feeling the weight of a tiny warrior, and stepped onto the edge of the slick. Mud clung to her boots, sucking at her ankles. One shoe sank deep; she paused, unsure, then shuffled onward on a single boot, each step a battle against the sucking mire.
As the village lights flickered on, darkness crept in, and her feet grew numb. She staggered onto the dry, creaking floorboards of her cottage, breathless. The door swung open to a modest bedroom: a babys cot, a pram piled with tiny clothes. Nick lay slumped at the kitchen table, halfasleep, his head cradled in his hands.
Evelyn, cheeks flushed, hair wild, entered the doorway, the hem of her dress soaked, her feet kneedeep in mud. Nick sprang up, scooped the child, and placed him gently in the cot, then shuffled to the stove for a kettle of hot water. He helped her strip off the mud, wash her feet, and set a pot of boiled potatoes on the table with a splash of milk.
The baby wailed. Evelyn rushed, lifted him, and settled at the table, pressing him to her breast without a hint of shame.
What shall we call him? Nick asked hoarsely.
Samuel, she whispered, eyes bright with love and lingering sorrow.
Thats a fine name. Well register him tomorrow, get the paperwork sorted.
Do we have to? she murmured, watching the infant suckle.
My son needs a father. Ive had my fill of wandering. I wont abandon this boy.
Evelyn nodded, silent.
Two years later a little girl was born. They named her Hope, after Evelyns own steadfast spirit.
No matter the mistakes made at the very start of life, there is always a chance to mend them.
