Her hands still damp from washing, she winced at the ache in her back and went to open the door.
Eleanor rose from the sofa, stiff and weary, shuffling toward the hesitant third ring of the doorbell. Shed been polishing the windows and hadnt made it in time. On the other side stood a young woman, exhaustion in her eyes but a gentle smile on her lips.
Mrs. Eleanor? They told me you rent out rooms?
Oh, those neighboursalways sending strangers my way! But I dont let rooms, never have.
They said youve three bedrooms
So? Why should that mean I rent them? I like my peace.
Sorry. They mentioned you were religious, and I thought
The girl turned to leave, tears brimming.
Hold on, love! I didnt say go. Young ones todayso soft, weeping at a word. Come in, lets talk. Whats your name?
Poppy.
Pretty name Your father a sailor?
Ive no father. Grew up in a childrens home. No mother either. They found me on a doorstep, handed me to the police. Not even a month old.
Oh, duck, dont fret. Tea and a chat, eh? Fancy a bite?
No, I had a scone
A scone! No wonder young folk have indigestion by thirty. Sit, have proper soup. Then tea. Ive jars of jam from before my Albert passedfive years now. After, you can help me finish the windows.
Mrs. Eleanor, could I do something else? Im dizzydont want to fall. Im expecting.
Expecting?! Well, thats the limit! Married, are you?
Yes. To Oliverwe grew up together. Hes been called up. Landlady turned me out when she heard about the baby. Gave me a week. Had nowhere else to go.
Hard times What am I to do with you? Maybe the spare room. And dont mention rentIll not hear of it. Fetch your things.
Theyre close. Left them next door. Week ran out this morningbeen carrying bags, searching.
They lived together after. Poppy studied fashion design while Eleanor, retired since a rail accident, knitted lace to sell at market. Extra coin came from the garden, where they worked Saturdays. Sundays, Eleanor went to church; Poppy stayed home, reading, replying to Olivers letters, waiting.
One Saturday, clearing the garden for winter, Poppy rested inside. Eleanor burned dry branches when a cry came: Mum! Quick! Heart pounding, she ran, forgetting her stiff knees. Poppy clutched her belly in pain. A neighbour drove them in his rusty Rover. Poppy groaned, fearing it was too soon.
At hospital, they wheeled her away. Eleanor prayed all night. By morning, a call camePoppy and the baby were fine, but shed need weeks of bed rest.
While Poppy recovered, Eleanor learned of Oliver through long talks, moved by their love. Poppy showed a photo, proud. To Eleanors weak eyes, the lad looked handsome, though her spectacles were old.
On Christmas Eve, they prepared supper, speaking of the Christ child, watching for the first star. Poppy grew restless, then begged for an ambulancethe baby was coming.
On Twelfth Night, a girl was born, filling Eleanors heart. She wired Oliver the news. They named the baby Eleanor, and the new grandmother wept.
Weeks passed in a haze of nappies and lullabies. Exhaustion and joy tangled together. Eleanor found fresh vigour, tending house and granddaughter.
One mild winter day, Eleanor returned from shopping to find Poppy in the garden, pushing the pram. She left them, starting lunch. Entering the parlour, she spotted a framed photoher late Albert, smiling.
Poppy, howd you find this picture of my Albert?
I dont know what you mean, Mrs. Eleanor.
That one on the table
Oh, thats Oliver. Asked him for a proper photo next time.
Eleanor lifted the frame, truly seeing young Oliverher Alberts double. A thought struck: had fate called her own blood back to her unknowingly?
Poppy, show me the album she whispered.
Flipping through old pages, Poppy gaspedOliver and Albert, mirror images. Tears fell as they clung, bound by a hidden thread, certain nowfamily, strange and sudden, had found its way home.
