I remember it as if it were a tale told over a fire in the old cottage at Littleford, the tiny hamlet tucked between rolling hills and the River Avon. Violet Bennett was barely sixteen when her mother passed away, the quiet house suddenly echoing with loss. Her father had drifted off to London about seven years earlier, chasing work that never returned; no letters, no money, just an empty doorway where his boots used to be. The whole village turned up for the funeral, each person lending what they couldMrs. Hawthorne brought a loaf of fresh bread, Tom the blacksmith offered a sturdy shroud, and old Aunt Martha, Violets godmother, kept stopping by, whispering advice and gentle chidings.
School had barely been finished when Violet was set to work at the post office in the neighbouring hamlet of Brookfield. She was a sturdy girl, the sort of folk would say strong as oxen and sweet as cream. Her face was round and rosier than a summer apple, a nose a little broad, eyes a bright, steelgrey that seemed to catch the light. A thick chestnut braid fell down to her waist.
The most handsome lad in Littleford was Colin Hart. Hed returned from his stint in the army two years earlier, and the village girls even the city girls who spent their summer holidays here could not take their eyes off him. He was more suited to starring in Hollywood adventures than driving a tractor in the fields, and though he roamed the lanes with a wink, he showed no hurry to settle down.
One afternoon Aunt Martha came to Colin, pleading for help to mend the fence that had collapsed on Violets garden. A woman cant tend the garden without a fence, she said, and without a mans strength its a hard life for a girl alone. Without much discussion, Colin agreed. He arrived, surveyed the broken rails, and began barking orders: Fetch this, carry that, hand me the hammer. Violet obeyed, cheeks flushing deeper, her braid swinging like a banner. When he grew weary, she fed him a hearty bowl of stew and a strong cup of tea, watching him sink his teeth into a crusty slice of black bread with a grin that showed bright, white teeth.
For three days Colin hammered the fence back into shape. On the fourth day he turned up simply to visit. Violet offered him supper, and word by word he lingered until night fell, then slipped away before dawn so no one would see him leaving. In a village where everyone watches each other’s steps, that was a daring thing.
Girl, Aunt Martha warned, dont welcome him so warmly. Hes not looking to marry, and if he does, youll only be a burden. When the city belles come back for summer, what will you do? Youll burn with jealousy. Yet youthful love rarely heeds the counsel of age.
Months later, a strange weakness settled over Violet. She thought perhaps she had caught a cold or eaten something bad. Nausea rose and fell like tide. Then, as if struck by a hammer, the realization hit: she was carrying a child, a child of Colin Hart. She feared the scandal, the whispers, the notion of having a baby out of wedlock so young. Yet a part of her thought, perhaps it was better this way; she would not be alone. Her mother had raised her, and she could manage; her father had given nothing but a bottle of cheap gin. The villagers would talk, but they would eventually settle.
In spring, as she shed her woollen coat, the swelling belly could no longer be hidden. The women of Littleford gathered, shaking their heads, muttering What a mischief has befallen this lass. Nicholas Clarke, the local handyman, stopped by to ask what she intended to do.
Give birth, of course, he said, offering a steady hand. Dont worry, Ill look after the child. Live as you have lived. He turned his back to the fire, the orange glow lighting his weatherworn face.
Colin admired her from afar but soon drifted away. Summer arrived, and the village swelled with pretty city girls seeking a country fling. Colin found himself with no time for Violet.
Violet kept at her garden, and Aunt Martha came to help pull weeds. Bending with the belly was hard; she hauled water from the well in halfbucket loads, while the other women joked that she was becoming a local legend, as tough as a goose. Violet would laugh, What God will give, He will keep.
MidSeptember, a sharp pain tore through her as if a knife had sliced her abdomen. The pain faded, then returned. She ran to Aunt Martha, whose eyes widened with recognition.
Already? Martha said, hurrying out of the cottage. Come, well fetch Nicholas.
Nicholas owned a modest lorry parked behind his house. The villagers cars had already trundled away for the day, and Nicholas, having indulged in a strong nightcap the previous evening, was sluggish. Martha scolded him, but he finally agreed, Well get her to the infirmary, even if its a rough ride. He told Aunt Martha to hop aboard the lorry with the baby bundle.
The road was a potholestrewn ribbon. They swerved through ditches, the lorry groaning over each ditch. Aunt Martha clutched the sack, her knuckles white, while Violet winced, biting her lip to stifle a cry, cradling her womb. Nicholas, now sober, kept an eye on the road, his hands trembling on the wheel.
They made it. Violet was laid on a cot in the county hospital and the lorry sped back to Littleford. On the way, Aunt Martha berated Colin, Youve ruined a girls life! She lost her parents, now you add a child to the mix. How will she manage alone? The lorry hadnt yet reached the village when Violet delivered a healthy, robust boy.
The next morning a nurse placed the newborn in Violets arms. She stared at his tiny, reddened face, her own cheeks burning. She clamped her lips again, doing what she was told, her heart fluttering with a fierce, foolish joy. The doctor, a stern older man, asked if anyone would take her back home. She shrugged, Probably not. The nurse wrapped the infant in a hospital blanket, telling her, The ambulance will take you back to Littleford. You cant travel by bus with a newborn. She thanked the nurse, her head bowed, cheeks flushed with embarrassment.
The ride home was on a rough country truck driven by Frederick, a stout man in his fifties. Two days of rain have left a mess of puddles, he grumbled. Well have to trek the last mile on foot. The baby slept in Violets arms, his tiny breath steady. She whispered, Little hero, as she trudged through the mud, one boot stuck, the other slipping in the mire. She thought, if only she had proper boots one foot was lost to the sludge, and she shuffled onward, the mud reaching her calves.
When she finally reached the cottage, darkness was falling, the hearths fire crackling. She stepped onto the dry boards, numb feet, breath visible in the cold. The door opened, and inside, a babys crib stood beside a wooden pram piled with fresh clothes. Nicholas, exhausted, rested his head on his hands, sleeping at the table.
He looked up, eyes meeting Violets flushed, disheveled face. What shall we call him? he asked hoarsely.
Serge, she replied, her clear eyes shining with a mixture of grief and love that tightened his own chest. Is that alright?
A fine name. Tomorrow well register him and sort everything. He tried to smile, but his voice cracked. My son needs a father. I may have wandered, but I wont abandon my boy.
Violet nodded, unable to meet his gaze.
Two years later a little girl was born, named Hope in honour of Violets mother. The village whispered that mistakes made early in life could be mended, and that love, stubborn as the English weather, could endure any storm.
