A Woman Wiped Her Hands and, Groaning from Back Pain, Went to Open the Door
Margaret wiped her damp hands on her apron and, wincing at the ache in her back, shuffled toward the door. The bell had chimed softly, yet this was the third ring. Shed been polishing the parlour window and hadnt reached the hallway straightaway. On the step stood a slender young woman, fair but wan, with shadows beneath her eyes.
Margaret, they told me you might have a room to let?
Good heavens, those gossiping neighbours! Ive never let rooms, not in all my years.
But I heard youve three bedrooms.
And what of it? Must I share them simply because theyre there? Ive grown accustomed to my own company.
Oh Im sorry. They said you were kind. I thought
The girlher eyes glisteningturned to leave, shoulders quivering as she descended the steps.
Come back, dear! Ive not refused you yet! Young ones these days, so quick to despair. Come in, lets talk. Whats your name? Shall we be familiar?
Lillian.
Lillian, eh? Id wager your father was a schoolmaster, am I right?
Ive no father. I was raised in a home. No mother either. Kind souls found me on a church step and took me to the constabulary. I wasnt a month old.
There now, no tears. Well have tea and a proper chat. Are you hungry?
No, Ive had a bun.
A bun, she says! Youth todayskipping meals, then complaining of ailments by thirty. Sit down. Theres pea soup warming, and Ill brew fresh tea. Jam aplenty, too. My Henrys been gone five years, but I still stock as if he were here. Eat first, then youll help me with the windows.
Margaret, might I do something else? I fear Id topple from the sillIm expecting.
Good gracious! Just what I needa mother-to-be. Ive my principles, mind. Did you land in this state alone?
Must you assume the worst? Im wed. Williams from the same home. Hes been called up, but he visited on leave. My landlady discovered my condition and turned me out at once. Ive a week to find lodgings. We lived just round the corner. But as you seecircumstances.
Aye circumstances. Well, whats to be done? Shall I shift my bed to the spare room? Very well, take mine. And dont speak of rentIll not hear of it, or Ill be cross. Fetch your things.
Theyre not far. All mine and Williams belongings are in a satchel by the gate. My weeks up, and Ive been wandering since dawn.
So they became two. Lillian studied dressmaking. Margaret, pensioned after a dreadful railway collision, passed her days knitting lace collars and baby bonnets to sell at the village fête. Her work, light as thistledown, fetched a fair price. They wanted for little, especially with the gardens yield. Saturdays were for tending plots; Sundays, Margaret attended chapel while Lillian stayed home, poring over Williams letters. The girl seldom joined herchapel was still unfamiliar. She often complained of dizziness and an aching back.
One Saturday, whilst potting seedlings, Lillian grew faint. Margaret sent her indoors to rest with the gramophone records theyd bought at a jumble sale. As Margaret burned garden refuse, watching flames lick the sky, a cry pierced the air: Mum! Mum, come quick! Forgetful of her creaking knees, Margaret sprinted inside. Lillian clutched her belly, weeping. With the neighbours aid, they rattled to hospital in a weathered Morris. Lillian sobbed, Mum, it burns! Its too soonIm not due till mid-July. Mum, pray for me, you know how! Margarets cheeks were wet as she whispered pleas to Saint Anne.
At the hospital, Lillian was whisked away whilst the neighbour drove Margaret home. She prayed through the night, begging the Virgins intercession. At dawn, she rang the hospital.
Your girls well. She wept for you and William, then slept. The doctor says the dangers passed, but shell stay a fortnight. Her bloods thin. See she eats proper when home.
Upon Lillians return, they talked till the small hours. Lillian spoke of William.
Hes not just any orphan. We grew up together, schoolmates first, then sweethearts. He cherishes me. Its more than love. See how often he writes? Would you like his photograph? Heresecond from the right, grinning.
Handsome Margaret lied. Her spectacles were long overdue for replacement, and the image was but a smudge of uniforms. Lillian, why did you call me mum in the garden?
Oh, fear took me. Its a habit from the home. Everyone was mum or dad there. Ive nearly outgrown itexcept when frightened. Forgive me.
I see Margaret sighed, oddly deflated.
Margaret, tell me of yourself. Why no pictures of Henry or children? Youve none, have you?
No living children. There was a boy, but he left us too soon. After my injury, there could be no more. Henry was my child in ways. I spoiled him rotten. He was my world, as William is yours. When I buried him, I boxed the photographs. Even knowing hes with the Lord, the sight brought storms of weeping. Better to stow them away. Now he needs prayers, not tears. But ask William for a clearer picturewell frame it. Ive spares somewhere.
On Christmas Eve, they decked the halls, speaking of the Christ child, watching for the first star. Lillian fidgeted, rubbing her spine.
Youre distracted, love. What ails you?
Margaret, ring for an ambulance. Its time.
But its a week early!
I mustve erred. Please hurryI cant bear it.
By midnight, Lillian bore a daughter. Come morning, Margaret sent a telegram to the proud father.
January was a whirlwind. The babe, named Margaret with Williams blessing, was a delight but demanding. Margaret found her aches eased by the joy.
One unseasonably mild day, Margaret returned from errands to find Lillian pushing the pram.
Well walk a while longer, yes?
Of course. Ill start supper.
Inside, Margaret spotted a framed photograph on the sideboard. She chuckled. Found them, did she? Chose Henrys youthyoung folks prefer vigour to age.
As soup simmered, Lillian returned. A neighbours boy carried the pram. They hushed about the sleeping infant, tiptoeing in.
Lillian, Margaret smiled, howd you uncover Henrys pictures?
I dont follow.
This, here. Margaret tapped the frame.
This? You asked for Williams photograph. He had it taken specially. I found the frame on the shelf.
Hands trembling, Margaret lifted it. The face was not Henrys. A young lance-corporal smirked up at her. She sank onto the settee, ghost-pale. Lillian, frantic, pressed salts to her nose.
Mum, look at me! Whats happened?
Lillianthe wardrobes top shelf. Bring the albums.
Lillian returned with stacks of memories. One portrait halted hera face identical to Williams.
Who? William? But this is ancient!
Thats Henry. Lillian, where was William born?
I dont know. He came to the home from Birmingham. After a train wreckthey said his parents perished.
Oh, merciful heaven! My boy, Jamesthey showed me a body in his shirt, but the face I couldnt James! Your wife and child are here, and I knew it not! Lillian, pass me the photo.
Bewildered, Lillian obeyed. Margaret kissed the glass, tears falling like rain. James, my darling boy!
William, Lillian whispered.
Call him what you will, but this is my son! Look at Henrys picturetheyre twins!
Still doubtful, Lillian hesitated.
Lilliana birthmark. Star-shaped, above the right elbow. After the crash, thats all I hadage, his shirt. His arm was mangled; I couldnt find it. Why so quiet? Is there a mark?
There is. A star. Oh mum there is.
They clung together, weeping, as baby Margarets cries floated from the nursery, unheard.
