Molly was barely sixteen when her mother slipped away. About seven years earlier her father had gone off to Leeds seeking work and never returned no word, no coin. The whole hamlet turned out for the funeral, each soul pitching in what they could. Aunt Maud, Mollys godmother, was a constant presence, offering advice and a listening ear. With a great effort Molly finished school and took a post at the village post office in the neighbouring parish.
Molly was a sturdy girl, the sort of folk described as blood and milk round, rosy cheeks, a nose as blunt as a potato, but eyes a bright, steelgrey, always sparkling. A thick, chestnut braid fell to her waist.
The most handsome lad in the village was Tom. Fresh from the army for two years, he had never been without a crowd of girls. Even the city girls who spent the summer down the lane lingered on his every move. He seemed destined for the silver screen, not for driving a tractor in the fields. He wandered, never hurrying to choose a bride.
Then Aunt Maud asked Tom to mend Mollys fence, which had collapsed. A woman alone could not shoulder the heavy work of the farm. Molly could tend the garden, but the house itself was beyond her.
Without much fuss Tom agreed. He arrived, surveyed the ruin and began directing: Fetch this, haul that, hand me the tool. Molly obeyed, cheeks reddening even further, her braid swinging with each step. When Tom grew weary, she fed him a hearty bowl of stew and a strong cup of tea. She watched him bite a slice of dark bread with white, sturdy teeth.
For three days Tom repaired the fence; on the fourth he simply knocked on her door, looking for company. Molly fed him supper, and word by word he stayed the night, then the next, slipping away at dawn so no one might see. In a village, secrets do not stay hidden.
Away with it, girl, Aunt Maud warned, he will not settle down. Even if he does, youll be left fighting the summer arrivals the city beauties that will drive you mad with jealousy. You need a proper fellow.
Young love, however, pays no heed to elder counsel.
Soon after, Molly felt a strange weakness and nausea. At first she thought a chill or a poison, then, like a hammer strike, the realization struck: the child she carried was Toms. She feared the scandal, thinking she was too young to bear a child. Yet a part of her thought it might be a blessing she would not be alone. Her mother had raised her, and she could manage; her father had contributed little beyond a few drinks. The village would talk, then settle.
When spring thawed, she shed her coat and the whole village noticed the swell of her belly. whispers spread: What a misfortune for that girl! Tom, of course, came to ask what she intended to do.
Nothing but give birth, she said, wiping the soot from her cheek, the firelight dancing in her eyes.
Tom lingered a moment, then left. Molly decided she would face it alone, as unshaken as a goosefeather in a storm. Summer arrived with a parade of city beauties; Tom had no time for Molly any longer.
She kept at her garden, while Aunt Maud helped weed, though bending with a heavy belly was hard. She hauled water from the well in a halfpint bucket, her stomach swelling so that the village women joked she was a true heroine of the fields.
Whatever God gives, Molly laughed.
In midSeptember the pain tore through her belly as if a knife had split it. It eased, then returned, and she fled to Aunt Maud, whose frightened eyes understood at once.
Sit tight, Im coming, Maud shouted, hurrying out of the cottage.
Molly ran to Ned, whose old truck sat by the road. The holidaymakers had already driven off, and Ned, having drunk heavily the night before, was barely coherent. Maud rebuked him, while Tom stared bewildered, not grasping the urgency. When Ned finally shouted, Its ten miles to the infirmary! If we wait for a doctor shell deliver on the road!
Itll be a nightmare on the lorry, a woman protested.
Then you ride with us, just in case, Ned said curtly.
They limped two miles down a rutted lane, dodging ditches, while Maud perched on a sack in the back. When they finally hit the paved road, the truck surged forward. Molly clutched the seat beside her, biting her lip to stifle cries, pressing her belly. Ned, now sober, glanced at her through shaking hands, his knuckles white on the wheel.
They made it. Molly was left in the infirmary and the truck rolled back. Maud swore at Tom for ruining the girls life, leaving her motherless and now with a child.
That night Molly delivered a healthy, robust boy. At dawn a nurse brought a bottle, and Molly, trembling, stared at his tiny, red, wrinkled face, biting her lip again before she began to breastfeed. Her heart fluttered with a fierce joy as she brushed soft hairs from his forehead.
The doctor will ask if youre coming back, a stern senior physician said before discharge.
Molly shrugged her shoulders, shook her head. Probably not. The doctor sighed and left. The nurse wrapped the child in a hospital blanket, urging her to take him home.
Fred will drive you back in the ambulance, not the coach, the matron scolded.
Molly thanked her, her cheeks pink with embarrassment, and trudged down the ward corridor, head bowed.
In the rickety village car she pressed the swaddled bundle to her chest, worrying about the tiny pension shed now survive on. The babys soft whimper pulled at her heart, washing away every heavy thought.
The truck sputtered to a halt. A squat man, about fifty, named Fred, looked at her.
Whats the matter?
The rains have turned the lanes into lakes. I cant get through unless Im on a tractor or a lorry. Its two miles more can you manage?
He nodded toward a massive puddle stretching like a lake.
The infant slept in her arms, his weight a constant reminder of the ordeal. She stepped carefully along the edge of the mire, one boot sinking in the mud up to her ankle. The other boot clanged on the soggy ground. She paused, wondering how to lift the child without slipping, then pressed on, one shoe stuck, the other dragging.
When she finally reached the cottage, dusk was falling, her feet numb from the cold. She slipped inside, the glow of the hearth welcoming her. A babys cradle stood by the fire, a heap of blankets piled inside. Ned, halfasleep at the table, lifted his head and saw her staggering in, his coat soaked, his boots halfmuddy. He rushed to her, cradling the boy, fetching a kettle of hot water and a piece of fresh bread, while Molly fumbled with her dress.
The infant began to wail, and Molly, without a moments shame, lifted him to her breast and began to feed.
What shall we call him? Ned asked hoarsely.
Sheriff, she whispered, her bright eyes meeting his.
The name struck a chord in Neds chest.
A fine name. Tomorrow well register him and sort everything out.
Is it necessary? Molly murmured, watching her son suckle.
My son needs a father. Ive had my fun, but I wont abandon my boy.
Molly nodded, not meeting his gaze.
Two years later a daughter arrived. They named her Hope, after Mollys own mother, whose memory had guided her through the darkest days.
It mattered not what mistakes were made at the very start of life; what mattered was that they could always be set right.
