A woman wiped her damp hands on her apron, wincing at the ache in her spine as she shuffled toward the door. The bell had chimed softlythree times nowwhile shed been scrubbing the kitchen window. Standing on the step was a girl, barely more than a child, her face pale as parchment, eyes shadowed with exhaustion.
«Margaret, they told me you might let a room?»
«Oh, those gossiping busybodies! Ive never let rooms, not once in my life.»
«But youve got three bedrooms.»
«And what of it? Must I fill them like a boarding house? I prefer my solitude.»
The girls chin trembled, tears welling. She turned, shoulders hunched, ready to retreat down the path.
«Come back, duck! I didnt say no. Young ones these days, so quick to despair. Inside with youwhats your name? Well talk proper.»
«Clarissa.»
«Clarissa? Bet your dads a scholar or some such, eh?»
«Ive no father. Grew up in a childrens home. No mother either. Found on a church step as a babe, wrapped in a shawl.»
«Right then, no tears. Tea first. Hungry?»
«I had a scone earlier.»
«A scone! Lord, youth nowadaysstarving themselves till theyre poorly. Sit. Theres pea soup warming. And jambuckets of it. My Albert passed six years back, but I still stock the pantry like hes here. Eat, then youll help me polish the windows.»
«Margaret, might I do something else? Im lightheadedscared Ill topple off the sill. Im expecting.»
«Good heavens! Just what I needa mother-to-be underfoot. Did you land in this mess alone?»
«Must you assume the worst? Im wed. Peters from the home too. Called up for service last autumn. Came home on leave, andwell. My landlady sussed it out and gave me the boot. A week to clear out. We were just round the corner, but now…»
«Circumstances, indeed. Whats to be done with you? Suppose I shift my bed to the spare room. Finetake mine. And not a penny in renthush now, or Ill box your ears. Fetch your things.»
«Wont take long. All mine and Peters bits are in a holdall by the gate. Been lugging it since dawn.»
So they became two. Clarissa studied dressmaking by post. Margaret, pensioned off after a rail crash years prior, whiled her days knitting christening gowns and booties, delicate as cobwebs, which sold briskly at the village fete. Money wasnt tightthe veg patch helped. Saturdays, they weeded; Sundays, Margaret church-hopped while Clarissa pored over Peters letters, penning replies. She seldom joinedunchurched, she claimed her head spun if she stood too long.
One mild Saturday, Clarissa wilted early among the cabbages. Margaret shooed her inside to rest with the wireless murmuring. Raking dead leaves into a bonfire, Margaret lost herself in the embers dancetill a shriek sliced the air: «Mum! Mum, quick!» Heart hammering, knees forgotten, she barrelled indoors. Clarissa crouched, clutching her middle, face twisted. A neighbours rattletrap Austin got them to hospital, Clarissa keening all the way, «Its too soon, MumJulys the month! Pray, you know how!» Margarets tears fell hot as her whispered pleas to the Virgin.
At dawn, a nurse rang: «Your girls stable. Asked for you and Peter, cried herself to sleep. Doc says babes safe, but shell stay a fortnight. Feed her up when shes home.»
Post-discharge, they talked till the lamps guttered. Clarissa spoke of Peter.
«Hes not just another orphan. We grew up side by side. Schoolmates, then sweethearts. His letterssee how thick they come? Heres his photosecond right, grinning.»
«Handsome.» Margaret squinted. Her spectacles were ancient, the print smudged. She couldnt pick him from the blur of uniforms. «Clarissawhyd you call me Mum in the garden?»
«Old habit. Everyone at the home was Mum or Dad. Fright shakes it loose. Sorry.»
«I see.» Margarets sigh held something unspent.
«Margaret, what of you? No photos of Albert or children?»
«Had a son. Lost him in infancy. After the crash, no more could come. Albert was my worldspoiled him rotten. When he went, I boxed the pictures away. Griefs a greedy guest. Best starve it. But ask Peter for a proper portraitIve frames gathering dust.»
On Christmas Eve, they decked the halls, awaiting the first star. Clarissa fidgeted, rubbing her spine.
«Youre miles away, love. Whats amiss?»
«Call an ambulance. Its time.»
«Two weeks early!»
«Counted wrong. HurryI cant bear it.»
By midnight, Clarissa held a squalling girl. Come morning, Margaret wired Peter: «Father to Annie. Both well.»
January blurred with nappies and night feeds. By unspoken pact, the babe was Annie. Margarets aches seemed lighter, her step quicker.
One unseasonably mild day, Margaret returned from the shops to find Clarissa wheeling Annie toward the park. «Well take the long way,» she called.
«Mind the drafts!» Margaret bustled inside. A glint on the sideboard stopped hera framed photo. She chuckled. «Found Alberts pictures, did she? Picked his youthtypical.»
Pea soup simmered when they returned, a neighbours boy wrestling the pram indoors. They hushed over sleeping Annie, tiptoeing past.
«Clarissa,» Margaret nodded at the frame, «howd you know where I kept Alberts photos?»
«What? You asked for Peters portrait. He had this taken special. I used that empty frame from the shelf.»
Margarets hands shook as she lifted it. Not Albert. A young corporal smirked up at herchin cocky, eyes alight. The room tilted. She sank onto the sofa, pulse roaring. Clarissa wavered into view, waving salts, weeping.
«Mum, look at me! Whats wrong?»
«Clarissathe wardrobe. Top shelf. Bring every photo.»
Albums spilled across the rug. One snapshot glared upPeter? No, the yellowed edges betrayed its age.
«Whos this?» Clarissa whispered.
«Albert. My husband. Clarissawhere was Peter born?»
«Dont know. He came to the home from Birmingham after a train wreck. They said his parents died.»
Margarets breath hitched. «They showed me a bodya little shirt like yours. But his face my Michael! Hes alive! Youve brought him back to me!»
Clarissa swayed. «Michael?»
«Peters birthmarka star above his right elbow. After the crash, his arm I couldnt find it. Tell me he has it!»
«He does. Like a star. Oh, Mumhe does!»
They clung, weeping, while Annies wails rose, insistent, from the nursery.
