Elizabeth knew at once when she tugged the scrap of cloth jutting from the bush. The rag turned out to be an old, faded baby blanket, and she pulled harder. Then she frozethere, curled in the corner of the blanket, lay a tiny child.
At dawn, Elizabeth dreamed a strange dream: her son, Alfie, stood on the porch, knocking at the door. She startled awake, scrambled up, and raced barefoot to answer it.
Silence. No one. She’d had dreams like this beforealways deceiving heryet each time she flung the door open. She did so now, peering into the hollow dark.
The night wrapped around her, hushed and shadowed. Trying to steady her restless heart, she sank onto the porch step. Thenfrom nowherea faint noise. A rustle, perhaps a squeak.
«Blasted neighbors kitten tangled in the bushes again,» she muttered, trudging toward the gooseberry thicket as shed done a dozen times before.
But it wasnt a kitten. Elizabeth knew the moment she tugged that frayed edge poking from the leaves. The fabric was an old, patterned baby blanket. She yanked harderand went utterly still.
There, nestled in the fold, lay a newborn. Bare as a pebble, likely having kicked free of its wrappingsa little boy, still with his umbilical stump. Too weak even to cry, damp and shivering, half-starved. When she lifted him, he let out a feeble whimper.
Without thought, without breath, she clutched him to her chest and bolted indoors. She swaddled him in clean linen, tucked him under a woolen throw, and warmed milk in a pan. An old bottle and teat, saved from spring when shed nursed a lamb, did the trick. The boy gulped greedily, then drowsed off, warm and full.
Morning crept in, but Elizabeth barely noticed. She was forty-odd, already «Auntie» to the village youth. Her husband and son had been lost in the war, one year apart, leaving her alone in the world. The bitterness of it gnawed, but shed learned to rely only on herself.
Now, adrift, she stole a glance at the sleeping childsoft snores, tiny fiststhen decided to consult her neighbor, Margaret. Margarets life was smooth as cream: no husband, no children, no telegrams of loss. She lived as she pleased, men coming and going like passing trains.
Margaret stood on her porch now, draped in a shawl, basking in the sun. She listened, then shrugged. «What dyou want with that?» And turned inside. Through the lace curtain, Elizabeth caught a flickeranother overnight guest.
«What for?» she echoed softly.
Back home, she packed a basket, bundled the baby, and trudged to the roadside. A lorry pulled up within minutes.
«Off to hospital?» the driver asked, nodding at her bundle.
«To hospital,» she replied.
At the orphanage, signing papers, unease gnawed at her. Something wasnt right. The hollowness in her chestthe same as when shed buried her husband, then her son.
«Whats his name?» the matron asked.
«Name?» Elizabeth paused. «Alfie,» she said, surprising herself.
«Lovely name. Weve too many Johns and Janes here. Some orphaned by warothers just tossed aside. Ungrateful wretch of a mother!»
The words werent meant for her, yet they stung. Home by dusk, she lit the lampand spotted Alfies old blanket crumpled aside. She picked it up, sat on the bed, fingers tracing the fabricthen froze. Tucked in the corner was a knot.
Inside: a scrap of paper and a tin cross on a string. The note read:
«Kind woman, forgive me. Im lost. By tomorrow, Ill be gone. Keep my son. Give him what I cannotlove.»
A date followed. And thenElizabeth shattered. Sobs tore from her, grief like shed buried years ago. She remembered her wedding day, her husbands laugh. Alfies birthhow the village women envied her glow.
Then the war. August 42 took her husband. October took Alfie. Her light snuffed out.
Now, sleepless, she paced, listening to the night. By morning, she returned to the orphanage.
The matron wasnt surprised. «Take him,» she said. «Well sort the papers.»
Wrapped in a quilt, Alfie in her arms, Elizabeth stepped outsideher heart no longer hollow. Happiness, fierce and bright, had moved in.
Home again, she faced the photos on the wallher husband and son. Their faces seemed softer now, approving.
«Ill need your help,» she whispered.
Twenty years passed. Alfie grew tall, kind. Every girl fancied him, but he chose his sweetheartLucyand brought her home. Elizabeth knew then: her boy was a man. She blessed them.
They wed, built a home. Children camethe youngest named Alfie. Elizabeths house was full.
One night, stirred by noise, she opened the door. A storm brewed, lightning flickering.
«Thank you, son,» she whispered to the dark. «Now Ive three Alfies. And I love you all.»
The old oak by the porchplanted by her husband when Alfie was bornswayed. Lightning flashed, bright as a boys smile.
