April 12th
I was barely sixteen when my mother passed away. Seven years ago my father left for work in Leeds and never returned no word, no money. The whole village turned up for the funeral, each soul offering what they could. Aunt Maud, my godmother, kept dropping by, telling me what to do and how to get on. I scraped through school and was taken on at the post office in the next hamlet.
Imogen thats my name they say Im sturdy as an oak, blood and milk running through my veins. My face is round and flushed, a nose like a small potato, but my eyes are a bright, steelgrey. A thick, chestnut braid falls to my waist.
The most handsome lad in the village is Colin. He came back from the army two years ago and has had the attention of every girl, even the city girls who spend their summer here. He could be a driver, a film star, anything hes still wandering, not in a hurry to settle down.
One day Aunt Maud asked Colin to help repair the fence at my cottage. With no strong men around, life in the village is hard. I can manage the garden, but the house is another matter. He agreed without a word, arrived, surveyed, and started barking orders: Fetch this, bring that. I obeyed, cheeks flushing deeper, braid swinging behind me. When he grew tired, I fed him a hearty bowl of stew and a strong cup of tea, watching him bite black bread with his white, sturdy teeth.
He worked on the fence for three days. On the fourth, he turned up just to visit. I offered him dinner, and before long he spent the night on the sofa, then slipped out at dawn so no one would see. In this place nothing stays hidden.
Aunt Maud warned me, Girl, dont be so welcoming. He wont marry you, and if he does youll be left scrambling when the city girls arrive in summer. Youll burn with jealousy. You deserve a proper man. I thought Id never listen to the old womans wisdom.
Soon I felt strange a chill, nausea, then a sharp realization that I was carrying Colins child. At first I wanted to abort, scared of becoming a mother so early, but then thought perhaps it was better. I wouldnt have to be alone. My mother had raised me; I could manage. My father had been of little use, save for the occasional drink. People would gossip, but they would settle.
Spring came, I shed my coat and everyone in the village saw my swelling belly. What a scandal, they whispered, shaking their heads. Nicholas, the local handyman, dropped by to ask what I intended to do.
Give birth, of course, he said, patting the stove. Dont worry, Ill look after the child. Live as you have lived. His cheeks were flushed, eyes alight with the fires glow.
Colin admired me from afar but eventually left. Summer arrived and the pretty city girls flocked in, leaving Colin no time for Imogen. I kept at the garden, and Aunt Maud helped me weed, though bending with my belly was hard. I hauled halfabucket of water from the well; the other women joked Id become a village heroine.
One crisp September morning I woke with a sudden, stabbing pain in my abdomen, as if something were being cut in half. The pain faded, then returned. I ran to Aunt Maud; she read my terrified eyes and understood at once.
Sit down, Ill get help, she said, rushing out. I ran to Nicholas, whose truck sat by his house. The village folk had already driven away, and Nicholas, who had been drinking the night before, was still halfasleep. Aunt Maud berated him, but he finally managed to start the engine. The hospital is ten miles away, I heard him shout. Shell deliver before we get there!
We piled into the old truck, the road a broken mess of mud and ditches. Aunt Maud sat on a sack in the back, clutching me as the wheels splashed through puddles. I clenched my jaw to keep from screaming, pressed my hand to my belly. Nicholas, eyes glazed, drove as if his hands were made of steel.
We made it to the small cottage hospital just in time. The midwife handed me a clean blanket, and I cradled my newborn son, his tiny, redwrinkled face staring up at me. I didnt know how to bring him to my breast, but I tried, my heart pounding with fierce love.
The doctor, a stern older man, asked if anyone would take us back. I shrugged. Probably not, I muttered. The nurse wrapped the baby and told me a local driver, Frederick, would ferry us home. You wont be coming back on a bus with a newborn, she scolded.
I thanked her, my cheeks burning with embarrassment, and followed Fredericks old van. The rain had turned the roads into lakes. Two miles more lay ahead, and the van got stuck. Frederick, a gruff man in his fifties, told me Id have to walk the rest.
I carried my son, his weight a heavy comfort, and trudged along the edge of a vast puddle, each step a battle. My boots filled with mud; one slipped off, leaving me to limp in the other. By the time I reached my cottage, night was falling, my feet numb, my clothes drenched. I pushed open the door, breathless.
Inside, Nicholas lay asleep at the stove, a pot of boiled potatoes steaming beside a jug of milk. He woke with a start, saw me standing, soaked to the bone, my child in my arms. He rushed to the fire, fetched a kettle, and helped me strip off the wet clothing. Soon the kitchen was filled with the scent of potatoes, fresh bread, and warm milk.
My baby began to cry, and I lifted him to my breast without a hint of shame. What shall we call him? Nicholas asked hoarsely.
George, I whispered, my eyes meeting his, full of longing and love.
He smiled, a rare softness in his usually gruff face. Good name. Well register him tomorrow, get the paperwork sorted.
Two years later a daughter was born. We named her Imogen Hope, after me, to remind us both of the strength wed found.
Looking back, I realize that early mistakes are inevitable, but they can always be righted. Life will throw you into mudfilled roads and unexpected births, yet with perseverance, community, and a little love, you can walk through any storm.
