Rosie had barely turned sixteen when her mother died. Her father, who had drifted off to London for work seven years earlier, never sent word or money back. The whole village turned out for the funeral, each neighbor offering what they could. Aunt Maureen, Rosie’s godmother, stopped by often, whispering advice and telling her how to manage. Rosie scraped through school and was given a postoffice job in the neighbouring hamlet.
Rosie was a sturdy girlpeople said she was blood and milk. Her face was round and flushed, her nose a little crooked, but her grey eyes shone like amber. A thick, honeyblond braid fell to her waist.
The villages most handsome lad was Charlie, fresh from two years in the army. No girl, not even the city belles who spent their summers up here, could ignore him. He seemed destined for a Hollywood stuntmans life, not a farmhands. He wasnt in any hurry to pick a bride.
One day Aunt Maureen asked him to help Rosie repair her sagging fence. A woman alone on a farm needed a strong pair of hands. Without a mans help life in the village was hard. Rosie could tend the garden, but the house was another story.
Charlie agreed without a word. He arrived, surveyed the wreckage, and barked orders: Bring that, fetch this, hand it over. Rosie obeyed, cheeks flushing even brighter, her braid whipping with every movement. When he grew tired, she fed him a hearty bowl of stew and a mug of strong tea, watching him bite into black crusty bread with white, sturdy teeth.
He spent three days fixing the fence; on the fourth he simply turned up for a visit. Rosie served him dinner, and word by word he lingered, eventually sleeping over. He began to linger each night, slipping away at dawn so nobody would see. In a village, secrets never stay hidden.
Girl, youre welcome him home for nothing, Aunt Maureen warned. He wont marry you, and if he does youll be left fighting for scraps. When summer brings the city girls, youll burn with jealousy. You need a proper lad, not a drifter.
Young love, however, pays no heed to the wisdom of age.
Soon Rosie felt a strange weakness, nausea, a sudden heaviness. At first she blamed a cold or a bad stew, but then the truth crashed down like a hammer: she was carrying Charlies child. Shed thought of ending the pregnancy, feeling it was too soon, but a quiet voice told her it might be a blessing. She wouldnt have to face it alone; shed been raised by a strong mother and could manage. Her father had contributed little, aside from a bottle of whisky, and the village would talk, then settle.
When spring arrived she shed her coat, and the whole village gasped at the swell in her belly. What a scandal, they muttered, shaking heads. Nick, the postoffice clerk, heard the news and dropped by to see what she planned.
Just give birth, he said, wiping his hands on his apron. Dont worry, Ill look after the baby. Keep living as you have, love. He gestured toward the hearth, the flames casting red flickers on his cheeks and eyes.
Charlie admired her from afar but never returned, leaving Rosie to decide for herself. As summer rolled in, the village swarmed with pretty city girls, and Charlies attention drifted elsewhere.
Rosie kept at her garden, and Aunt Maureen came to help weed. Bending with the baby was hard; she hauled halfabucket of well water each time, the growing belly drawing jokes from the other women, who called her a village heroine.
Whatever God sends, Rosie laughed off their comments.
MidSeptember, a sudden, sharp pain snapped through her like a knife. The agony faded, then returned. She ran to Aunt Maureen, whose frightened eyes understood instantly.
Not yet, Maureen whispered, hurrying out of the cottage. She raced to Nicks house, where a lorry sat outside. The country folks cars had already thinned out, and Nick, still tipsy from the night before, was barely coherent. Aunt Maureen snapped him awake, and Charlie, bewildered, stared cluelessly at the chaos.
How far to the hospital? Nick barked, finally sobering. Ten miles! He flung the babys bundle onto the lorrys back. Well get her there in time, he shouted, and the women piled in, Aunt Maureen clutching the bundle.
The road was a patchwork of ruts and ditches. They dodged one ditch, only to plunge into another. Aunt Maureen rode in the cargo hold, cradling the belly. When they finally hit the tarmac, the lorry surged forward.
Rosie writhed on the seat beside her, biting her lip to muffle the sounds, clutching her womb. Nicks hands trembled on the wheel, his knuckles white, but he drove on, eyes flicking to the girl in the passenger seat.
They arrived at the small village infirmary just as Rosies labor peaked. She was taken inside, and the men rushed back to the cottage, their tongues sharp with reproach. Youve ruined her life, Aunt Maureen spat at Charlie, left a mother to fend for herself with a child she cant even hold!
By the time the ambulance reached the road, Rosie had already delivered a healthy, chubby boy. The next morning a nurse placed a small bottle of milk at her side, and Rosie stared at the tiny, reddened face, her mouth forming a thin line. She pressed the infant to her breast, her heart fluttering with a fierce, foolish joy.
Will anyone come for you? the stern doctor asked before signing her out.
Rosie shrugged, shaking her head. Probably not, she muttered. The doctor exhaled and left. The nurse wrapped the baby in a thin hospital blanket, reminding Rosie that the little one had to be taken home.
Floyd will drive you back, the matron snapped, you cant take a baby on a coach. Rosie thanked her, her cheeks burning as she shuffled down the ward corridor, head down, cheeks pink with embarrassment.
In the back of the truck, she pressed the bundle to her chest, anxiety gnawing at her thoughts of the future. The maternity grant was a pittancenothing more than a few pennies. She felt sorry for herself and for the innocent child shed never meant to have.
Halfway to the village, rain had turned the lanes into a swamp of endless puddles. Ill be stuck unless I find a lorry or a tractor, the driver, a gruff man named Fred, grumbled, Two miles leftcan you manage?
Rosie, cradling the sleeping infant, set off on foot. The mud rose to her calves, threatening to swallow her boots. One of her shoes sank deep; she paused, balancing the baby, then shuffled on the remaining boot, each step a battle.
By the time she reached the cottage, dusk was falling, her feet numb, her breath ragged. She pushed open the door, heart pounding. Inside, a tiny cot stood by the fire, a heap of newborn clothes waiting. Nick sat at the table, head in his hands, half asleep.
He looked up, eyes widening at the sight of Rosie, her dress drenched, her feet caked in mud, one shoe missing. He sprang up, taking the baby and laying him gently in the cot, then hurried to the stove, fetching a kettle of hot water. He helped her strip off the sodden layers, washed her feet, and set a pot of boiled potatoes, a mug of tea, and a slice of fresh bread on the table.
The baby wailed. Rosie lunged, lifted him, and settled at the table, cradling him to her breast without shame.
What shall we call him? Nick asked hoarsely.
Sam, she replied, her eyes bright with a mix of sorrow and love that tightened Nicks chest.
A fine name. Tomorrow well register him and sort out the paperwork.
Doesnt have to be that quick, Rosie murmured, watching the infant suckle.
My son needs a father, Nick said, his voice rough. Ive had my fun, but I wont abandon him.
Rosie nodded, not daring to lift her gaze.
Two years later a daughter was born. They named her Hope, after her mothers spirit.
It mattered not how many mistakes were made at the start of life; what mattered was that they could always be righted.
