Emma was barely sixteen when her mother died. Her father had vanished seven years earlier, chasing work in London and never sending word or money back. The whole village turned out for the funeral, each person helping in whatever way they could. Aunt Maggie, Emmas godmother, visited often, offering advice about what to do next. Emma managed to finish school and got a job delivering post in the neighbouring hamlet of Bramley.
Emma was a sturdy girl, the sort of folk describe as strong as an ox. She had a round, rosy face, a nose that was a little too broad, but bright grey eyes that seemed to sparkle. A thick, chestnut braid fell to her waist.
The most handsome lad in the village was Jack. He had returned from the army two years before and was the centre of every girls attention, even the city girls who spent summer holidays in the countryside. He seemed destined for a Hollywood stunt career, not for a simple job as a farmhand, and he had no intention of settling down anytime soon.
One day Aunt Maggie asked Jack to help Emma repair the fence that had collapsed. Without a mans strength, life in the village was hard; Emma could manage the garden, but the house was another story. Jack agreed without hesitation. He arrived, surveyed the work, and began shouting orders: Bring that board, run over there, hand me the nails. Emma obeyed briskly, her cheeks flushing even brighter, her braid swaying with each movement. When Jack grew tired, she fed him a hearty bowl of stew and a strong cup of tea, while she herself chewed a slice of crusty black bread with a steady bite.
He spent three days fixing the fence, and on the fourth he simply turned up to visit. Emma served him a modest dinner, and he stayed the night, slipping away before dawn so no one would see him go. In a village, secrets rarely stay hidden.
Avoid getting too cosy with him, Aunt Maggie warned. He wont marry you, and if he does, youll be fighting for his attention when the city girls come back in summer. Youll be consumed by jealousy. You need a proper man.
Young love, however, rarely heeds the counsel of the elders.
Soon Emma began to feel ill. At first she thought shed simply caught a cold or a stomach bug, but the nausea persisted and a strange heaviness settled in her belly. Then, as if struck by a hammer, the realization hit her: she was carrying Jacks child. The thought of an outofwedlock pregnancy terrified her, yet she also felt a strange relief. She would not be alone; she would have someone to raise. Her mother had raised her alone, and she could manage again. Her father had contributed little besides a few drinks, and the village would whisper, but they would eventually settle down.
When spring arrived, Emmas coat no longer fit, and the villagers began to notice the swelling of her belly. They shook their heads, muttering about the troublesome girl. Jack dropped by to ask what she planned to do.
Give birth, of course, he said, gruff but caring. Dont worry, Ill look after the child. Live as you have lived. He shuffled back to the stove, the fires red glow dancing on his cheeks and eyes.
Jack left, and Emma made her own decisions. Summer came, and the village swarmed with pretty city girls. Jack was distracted, and Emma tended to her garden, while Aunt Maggie helped pull weeds. Carrying the heavy load made bending difficult; she fetched water from the well in a halfpint bucket, her swollen belly drawing jokes from the other women, who called her a giant among us.
One September morning, a sharp pain ripped through her abdomen, as if a knife had sliced it in two. The pain faded quickly, only to return moments later. She ran to Aunt Maggie, whose frightened eyes immediately understood. Sit tight, Ill be right back, Maggie said, rushing out of the cottage.
Emma staggered to Nicks house, where his old truck sat in the yard. The villages holidaymakers had already driven away, and the night before Nick had been drinking heavily. Aunt Maggie, fed up with the chaos, scolded Jack for what hed done to the girls life. Shes alone, without parents, now with a baby. How will she manage? she snapped.
Its only ten miles to the hospital, Jack shouted when he finally grasped the situation. Well get her there fast!
On that truck? Shell give birth on the road! a neighbour cried.
Then youll ride with us, just in case, Jack replied, taking charge.
They drove carefully along the broken lane, swerving around ditches. Aunt Maggie sat on a sack in the back, cradling her head. When they finally hit a stretch of tarmac, the truck lurched forward. Emma clenched her teeth, biting her lip to keep from screaming, clutching her belly. Nick, now sober, glanced at her with a mixture of worry and determination, his hands white on the steering wheel.
They arrived at the small village clinic just in time. Emma was placed in a cot, and the doctor, Dr. Howard, examined her quickly. Youve given birth to a healthy boy, he announced, handing the tiny, redcheeked infant to Emma. She stared at his trembling mouth, her own lips still pressed together, and felt an unexpected surge of joy.
Will anyone come for you? the doctor asked as he prepared the discharge papers.
Emma shrugged her shoulders and shook her head. Probably not. He sighed and left, while the nurse bundled the baby in a thin hospital blanket and instructed the driver, Frank, to take them home.
Frank will drive you back, not the bus, the nurse said firmly. You cant manage a baby on a crowded coach.
Emma thanked her, then walked down the corridor with her head bowed, cheeks flushed with embarrassment.
Later, as the ambulance pulled away, rain began to pour, turning the road into a series of deep puddles. Ill have to leave the truck and go on foot, Frank told her. Its too slick for the vehicle. He pointed to a massive waterlogged ditch that stretched for what seemed miles.
Emma, baby swaddled tightly, edged along the rim, her boots slipping into the mud. One shoe got stuck, and she had to hobble on the other, each step a struggle. By the time she reached the village, darkness was falling, her feet numb from the cold, her dress soaked through. She pushed open the cottage door and found Nick asleep at the stove, a pot of potatoes already simmering, a jug of milk nearby.
He awoke at the sound, his eyes widening at the sight of Emma, drenched, mud clinging to her calves, the baby cradled in her arms. He rushed over, took the infant, and placed him gently in the cot, then fetched a kettle to warm water for her feet. While Emma changed, the kettle whistled, and a fresh batch of boiled potatoes and buttered toast appeared on the table.
The baby began to wail. Emma lifted him, settled at the table, and, without hesitation, began nursing.
What shall we call him? Nick asked hoarsely.
Arthur, Emma replied, her eyes shining with a mix of sorrow and love.
A fine name, Nick said, his voice softening. Tomorrow well register him and sort everything out.
I dont think its necessary, Emma murmured, watching the little boy suckle.
My son needs a father, Nick declared firmly. Ive had my fun, but I wont abandon you or the boy.
Emma nodded, keeping her gaze on the child.
Two years later they welcomed a daughter, naming her Hope after Emmas own mother.
No matter the mistakes you make at the start of life, you can always choose to mend them and move forward with courage and love.
