Oh dear, youre worrying too much, love. Shes a premature little thing but sturdy as a post. Dont fret; everything will turn out finefor your daughter and for your granddaughter.
May God help us, the woman muttered as the doctor hurried away, then, once the door closed, she added in a hushed tone, here we go again.
The trouble first knocked on Barbaras doorstep six months ago when a nosy neighbour, Mrs. Haversham, dropped by for tea and apple jam. Between sips she blurted,
When are you expecting a bump? Are you already stocking up on nappies?
What bump? Barbara snapped, bewildered.
What? Mrs. Haversham continued, waving a finger. I saw your farmhand, Clive, washing the lamb pens twice last week. She was bolting out of the barn with a napkin over her mouth!
Maybe she ate something odd, Barbara tried to sound reasonable.
Oh, youve never been in a bind yourself, so you dont know a thing. Im not a midwife, you know.
That evening Aunt Barbara grilled Clara, then broke down sobbing, cursing the world for a wayward daughter, a unborn baby, and a sunbaked rogue whod already vanished from the village, taking the mens guild with him.
The arrival of tiny, hoarsevoiced Lucy brought no joy, only chores, resentment and a burning shame. Clara showed no affection for the infantshed lift her for a feed or a cuddle, but that was the limit. Aunt Barbara glanced at her granddaughter with the same indifferent stare she reserved for the family dog. And this was already the fourth granddaughterwhats there to celebrate? Her own daughters childbirth had been a disaster, too. So Lucy entered the world unloved, wobbling on unsteady legs through a life of neglect.
A year later Clara moved to the industrial town of Sheffield, hunting for a modest workingclass happiness. Lucy stayed with Aunt Barbara, who, for all her faults, was still family. The girl required no special care, ate what was put before her, fell asleep on schedule and never fell ill. The doctor confirmed: Lucy was a hardy little thing, albeit still unloved.
Lucy lived with Aunt Barbara until she was seven. In that time Clara learned to be a painter, got married, and had a son named Colin. Then, one day, Clara remembered Lucynow a teenager who could help around the house. She travelled back to the village, but Lucy, whod only seen her mother twice a year, greeted her with none of the expected enthusiasm. Clara scolded the girl,
Oh, Lucy, youre as cold as a stone. Someone else would have thrown her arms around you, but you just stand there like a stranger
Seeing Lucy off, Aunt Barbara shed a few tears, missed her for a couple of days, but the following Saturday two more granddaughters arrivedLily and Sophie, the beloved children of her eldest son. The bustle of three grandchildren quickly pushed Lucy out of the picture. Aunt Barbara, though never fond of Lucy, did weep when the newly hatched spring chickens escaped.
Lucy didnt love life in Sheffield, but she had no choice. She made friends, started school, did her homework, ran errands for bread and milk, and peeled potatoes before her mother got home. When she grew older she escorted Colin to nursery, and, mimicking her mother, would warn a lanky boy,
Watch your step, youre on my watch. Im running on fumes here, and youre giving me no help!
Colin never heard any words of love from his sister, and Lucy, accustomed to being unloved, never expected any either. She barely suffered; she simply didnt know any other way to be.
At home, Lucy wasnt pampered, but she wasnt starved either. She got a slice of bread, not a fancy dessert, and never had to endure empty cupboards. She was just unloved.
At fifteen she walked out of the cold, unwelcoming house that had not felt like home for eight years. She enrolled in a city college to become a pastry chef, dreaming of devouring tarts till she burst. In the dorm she shared a room with three other girls, who soon became her makeshift family.
Then she met Vernon. Despite a bleak November, the sun seemed to shine just for her. The other girls would pop out for a quick TV break, and Vernon, unafraid, whispered flowery words that made Lucys head spin.
Youre my favourite,
he cooed, and Lucy, whod spent her whole life waiting for affection, melted.
Soon morning nausea set in. She should have rushed to a doctor, but she missed the appointment. By eighteen she had to gather medical certificates and, with a reluctantly eager Vernon, marched into the registry office.
Thus began Lucys married life, and at the same time, the short romance with Vernon fizzled out. The newlyweds moved into Vernon’s parents cottage. His mother and aunt showed no particular warmth toward Lucy, but they let her stay on their plot. What can you do? she thought, Im not the first, I wont be the last. Well just get on as best we can. Maybe its for the bestperhaps a baby will calm Vernon down.
Lucys friend from the dorm, Ivy, teased,
Lucky you, city life awaits!
Lucy just smiled. She didnt need to brag that her city life was merely a label. The house was a modest suburban one, with villagestyle utilitieswater still came from the communal stand at the end of the lane. She never complained; she was used to it. She lugged buckets of water, felt the chill on her feet, and, as the chilly water splashed, she imagined herself washing away the remnants of a love that never was.
Vernons mother scolded her, but was it really Lucys fault? Vernon seemed to pity her at first, for a day or two, then vanished with his mates. His mother and aunt didnt chase Lucy out; they let her linger, hoping maybe something would sprout. It didnt. After a while Vernon introduced another woman, declared he never loved Lucy, never had.
Lucy poured her heart out to her dorm mates, shed a few tears, but quickly shrugged it off. Shed spent her whole life unloved, so this was just another chapter. She gathered her few belongings, obeyed her motherinlaws vague command to go wherever, and shut the door behind her.
She moved into a factory hostel, complete with a canteen, a neargate flat, and a workers club. Life isnt a holiday, but its not terrible either, she thought, joining her comrades for drinks, cinema, and the occasional dance. Visits home to her mother, stepfather and brother became rare; no one waited for her, and she didnt push herself into the doorway.
Aunt Barbara passed away when Lucy was twentyone. She attended the funeral, glanced at the empty rooms where laughter once lived, and felt a faint pang of regret.
Barbara had bequeathed her cottage to Lily and Sophie. Lucy bore no grudgeafter all, they were the cherished grandchildren, the berries of the grandmother. She was the discarded apple, the odd one out.
When it came to the inheritance, the cousins fought over the modest fivehundredpound stash, shouting at each other. The loudest was Clara, Lucys mother, wailing that the late grandmother hadnt left a bent spoon for her dear Colin. Isnt he a grandson too? she sobbed, ignoring that Lily and Sophie were just as much. She never mentioned her older daughter. In the end, Lucy got no silverware, no spoon, nothing.
Lucy tried a few times to find love, dated a couple of menone a drunk who brought home stray dogs, the other a brawler who liked his fists more than flowers. None stuck. The registry office never seemed eager to pair her up, so she stopped trying altogether. One visit was enough.
Eventually, a matchmaker named Aunt Agnes, who cleaned the factory floors, approached Lucy. A year ago my niece died in childbirth, leaving a baby and a widower. His name is Martin. Hes decent, works, drinks only on holidays, and is gentle. Hes not a poet, but hell look after you. Think about it, love.
Lucy moved in with Martin, brightened his tiny room with curtains in green and white flowers, stitched little dresses from yellow and blue fabric for his daughter, little Sunny, who soon started to babble and call Lucy Mum.
Martin was quiet, never raised his voice, paid his wages, and never uttered a romantic lineLucy didnt expect any. Shed already learned to live without them. After three years of marriage, Sunny burst into the hallway clutching a bunch of dandelions, plastered a kiss on Lucys cheek and whispered,
Mum, I love you more than anyonemore than Daddy, more than Aunt Agnes, more than my doll Yvonne.
Lucy laughed and sobbed at once, finally feeling the love shed been denied.
A year later she gave birth to a boy, Oliver. Martin fussed over him at night, changing nappies and hauling the pram up the stairs. The factory eventually granted them a spacious, bright flat. Live and be happy, they told her, and Lucy actually believed it.
Lucy and Martin raised their children, welcomed grandchildren, and spent lazy afternoons on the cottage garden making jam. Their greatgrandchildren would yell,
Grandma, I love you!
We love you too, replied their brother Dan.
I wuv you, babbled the tiniest, Molly.
We all love Grandma, smiling behind his silver beard, said Granddad Dan.
Lucy would wipe a stray tear from her cheek, amazed that a girl once labelled unloved could end up surrounded by so much affection.
