Emma was barely sixteen when her mother died. Her father had vanished about seven years earlier, chasing work in the city and never sending word or a penny back. Almost everyone in the little Yorkshire village turned up for the funeral, lending a hand where they could. Aunt Maggie, Emmas godmother, popped round often, offering unsolicited advice about what to do and how. By some miracle Emma scraped through school and landed a job at the post office in the next hamlet.
Emma was a sturdy sort of girl the sort folk say has blood and milk in her veins. Her face was round and rosy, her nose a bit like a small potato, but her eyes were a bright, steelgrey sparkle. A thick, chestnut braid fell down to her waist.
The villages most handsome lad was Charlie. Hed come back from the army two years ago and hadnt missed a single flirtation. Even the city girls who spent their summers up here seemed to have him in their sights. Hed be happier filming Hollywood action movies than driving a milkvan in a culdesac, but hed never been the type to settle down or pick a bride.
One afternoon Aunt Maggie knocked on Charlies door and asked him to help fix Emmas fence, which had collapsed under the weight of a stray goat. A mans strength was hard to come by in a place where the garden was manageable but the house could be a nightmare.
Without much fuss Charlie agreed. He arrived, surveyed the mess and began barking orders: Bring that, fetch this, hand me the. Emma dutifully obeyed, cheeks reddening even more, her braid swinging like a flag in the wind. When Charlie grew tired, she fed him a hearty bowl of beef stew and a strong mug of tea. She watched him bite into a thick slice of rye loaf with teeth as white as snow.
He spent three days hammering the fence. On the fourth, he turned up at Emmas cottage just to say hello. She fed him dinner, word by word, and he stayed the night, then kept slipping back out before sunrise so no one would catch them. In a village you cant hide much, after all.
Aye, love, dont get your hopes up. He wont marry you, and if he does, youll be left scrubbing the floors while hes off chasing city belles in the summer, Aunt Maggie warned, wagging a finger. Youll burn with jealousy. You need a proper lad, not a wandering heart.
Did young love ever listen to a seasoned aunt? Not really.
Soon Emma felt a strange queasiness, first blaming a cold or a bad bite. Weakness and nausea hit her hard, then, like a sledgehammer, the realisation struck: she was carrying Charlies child. She thought of aborting, feeling it was too early to be a mother. Then she mused that perhaps it was a blessing she wouldnt have to raise the baby alone. Her own mother had done it, and her father had been more of a drinker than a provider. People will gossip, but theyll settle down, she told herself.
Spring arrived and she shed her heavy woolly coat, only to have the whole village stare at the growing belly. Oh dear, what a scandal, they whispered, shaking their heads. Nicholas, the local handyman, stopped by to ask what she was up to.
Just getting ready to give birth, she replied, flicking a stray lock of hair away from the stoves fire. Red sparks danced in her cheeks and eyes.
Charlie admired from afar but didnt stick around. Emma decided to handle it herself as if water would simply roll off a goose. Summer rolled in and a parade of pretty city girls descended on the village, making Charlie too busy to notice Emma.
Emma kept tending her garden while Aunt Maggie helped pull weeds. Bending with a big belly was a chore; she lugged half a bucket of well water from the well with one hand, while the other villagers joked shed grow into a giant. Whatever God sends, well make do, Emma laughed.
MidSeptember, a sharp pain ripped through her abdomen, as if a knife had sliced her in half. The pain faded, then returned. She bolted to Aunt Maggie, who understood the terror in her eyes at a glance.
Dont panic, Ill be right there, Maggie shouted, hurrying out of the cottage.
Emma raced to Nicholas, whose old pickup sat by the road, the summers holidaymakers already off with their cars. Nicholas, however, had been out drinking the night before and was still feeling the effects. Maggie scolded him, but Charlie, bewildered, could only stare.
Its ten miles to the hospital! Weve got to get her there now! Nicholas shouted, slamming the trucks door.
On a pickup? Shell go into labour on the road! a neighbour protested.
Then youll ride with us, just in case, Nicholas retorted, snapping his seatbelt.
They careened two miles down a rutted lane, dodging ditches, the truck bouncing like a sack of potatoes. Aunt Maggie perched on a sack in the back, clutching the steering wheel. When they finally hit the tarmac, the engine sputtered to life.
Emma writhed on the passenger seat, biting her lip to keep from screaming, clutching her belly. Nicholas, now sobered, glanced at her through bleary eyes, his fingers white on the steering wheel.
They made it. Emma was dropped off at the small village hospital and the truck sped back. Aunt Maggie berated Charlie the whole way, What have you done to this girls life? Shes lost her parents and now youve handed her a baby on top of that!
The truck hadnt even reached the village before Emma gave birth to a healthy, chubby boy. The next morning a nurse brought a tiny bottle of formula. Emma stared at the little, wrinkled face, her mouth pressed together as she tried to remember how to hold a newborn. Her heart fluttered with an unexpected joy as she brushed stray hairs from his forehead.
Will anyone come for you? the stern, elderly doctor asked as he prepared her discharge papers.
Emma shrugged her shoulders, shaking her head. Probably not, she muttered. The doctor sighed and left. A nurse wrapped the baby in a hospital blanket, telling her to take him home.
Mr. Fred will drive you back to the village. You cant be taking a regular bus with a newborn, the nurse snapped.
Emma thanked her, walked down the corridor with her head bowed, cheeks burning with embarrassment.
In the pickup, Fred, a gruff man in his fifties, drove them home. The rain had turned the roads into a swamp of endless puddles. Ill get you the last two miles on foot if I have to, he grumbled, pointing at a massive lake of water blocking the lane.
Emma cradled her son, exhausted, feeling as though shed just wrestled a bear. She stepped out onto the slick ground, one boot stuck in the mud, the other dangling. She shuffled forward, each step a battle against the sucking earth, until she finally reached the village as night fell, her feet numb from cold and grime.
She knocked on the cottage door, where Nicholas sat with his head in his hands, halfasleep. The fire crackled, casting red glints on his cheeks and eyes. The babys cot was already set up with a mound of tiny clothes. Nicholas, hearing her breath, lifted his head.
Emma, cheeks flushed, hair in disarray, stood in the doorway, her dress soaked, boots halfmuddy. Nicholas sprang up, scooped the baby into the crib, fetched a kettle of hot water, and helped her strip off the mudsoaked garments. By the stove, a pot of boiled potatoes and a jug of fresh milk waited.
The infant wailed. Emma rushed to him, settled him on her lap, and, without a hint of shame, began nursing.
What shall we call him? Nicholas asked hoarsely.
Sergey, if thats alright with you, Emma replied, her eyes bright with a mix of longing and love that made Nicholass own heart tighten.
A fine name. Well register him tomorrow, he said.
I dont really need to Emma began, watching the baby suckle.
My son needs a father, thats all, Nicholas snapped. Ive had my run. I dont know what kind of husband Ill be, but I wont abandon my boy.
Emma nodded, not looking up.
Two years later a little girl was born, named Hope after her mothers own yearning for a better future.
It doesnt matter how many blunders you make at the start of life; the important thing is that you can always set them right.
