She wiped her wet hands, groaning in pain, and moved to open the door.

She wiped her damp hands, wincing in pain, and shuffled to answer the door. Margaret Whitcombe dried her wet fingers, groaned at the ache in her back, and made her way to the front hall. The knocking had been quiet but persistentthis was the third time. Shed been cleaning the windows and hadnt hurried to the entryway. On the doorstep stood a young woman, lovely but pale and weary.

“Mrs. Whitcombe, I heard you might have a room to let?”
“Oh, those neighboursalways sending strangers my way! I dont let rooms, never have.”
“They told me youve got three bedrooms.”
“So what if I have? Why should I let one? Im used to living alone.”
“Im sorry. They said you were a woman of faith, so I thought”

The girl, fighting back tears, turned and began slowly descending the steps. Her shoulders trembled.

“Come back, girl! I didnt turn you away! Goodness, young people these daysso sensitive, always near tears. Come inside, lets talk. Whats your name? Shall we drop the formalities?”
“Emily.”
“Emily of the sea, then? Father a sailor?”
“I never had a father. Im from a childrens home. Never had a mother, either. Good folk found me in a stairwell and took me to the police. I wasnt even a month old.”
“Dont fret. Come, well talk over tea. Are you hungry?”
“No, I bought myself a doughnut.”
“A doughnut! Oh, youthnever minding themselves, then ulcers by thirty. Sit down, Ive still got hot pea soup. And well warm the tea. Plenty of jam, too. My husband died five years back, and old habits die hardI still cook for two. Well eat, then youll help me finish the windows.”
“Mrs. Whitcombe, could I do something else? I get dizzyafraid Ill topple off the sill. Im expecting.”
“Even better! Just what I needed. Im a principled woman. Is the child illegitimate?”
“Why assume that? Im married. Tom, from the childrens home. Hes been called up. Came home on leave recently. When the landlady found out, she threw me out straightaway. Gave me a week to find somewhere. We lived close by. But you see how it is.”
“Well then What am I to do with you? Maybe shift my bed into Jacks old room. Fine, youll stay with me. I wont take a penny from you, dont even mention it. Fetch your things.”
“Its not far. All mine and Toms belongings are in a bag by the door. The weeks up, so Ive been knocking about with it.”

And so the two of them stayed Emily was finishing school to be a dress designer. Margaret Whitcombe had been on disability since a bad rail crash years ago, so she stayed home, knitting lace doilies, collars, baby booties, and sold them at the local market. Her wares were cleverdelicate as sea foam, they sold well. Money wasnt scarce. Some came from selling garden veg. Saturdays, she and Emily worked the plot. Sundays, Margaret went to church while Emily stayed home, reading letters from Tom and replying. She rarely attendedunused to it. She complained of back pain and dizzy spells.

One Saturday, they were tidying the garden for winter. Emily tired quickly, so Aunt Margie sent her inside to rest and listen to old records she and her husband had collected. That day, after raking, the expectant mother lay down. Margaret tossed dry branches into the fire, staring absently into the flames. Suddenly, Emilys scream pierced the air: “Mum! Mummy! Come quick!” Heart pounding, forgetting her aches, Margaret sprinted to the cottage. Emily clutched her belly, wailing. Soon, Margaret persuaded a neighbour, and they sped to hospital in his rattling old Austin. Emily moaned endlessly: “Mummy, it hurts! But its too earlyIm not due till mid-January! Mum, pray for me, you know how!” Margaret wept, whispering prayers through tears.

From A&E, Emily was wheeled away. The neighbour drove the sobbing woman home. All night, she prayed to the Virgin for the childs safety. By morning, she phoned the hospital.

“Your daughters fine. At first, she kept calling for you and Tom, crying, then she calmed and slept. The doctor says the risks passed, but shell need to stay a while. Her irons low. See she eats well and rests.”

When Emily was discharged, they talked late into the night. Emily spoke endlessly of Tom.

“Hes not flighty like me. An orphan. We grew up together. Became friends in school, then fell in love. He looks after me. Its more than love, somehow. See how often he writes? Want to see his photo? Heresecond from the right. Smiling”

“Handsome” Margaret didnt wish to offend. Shed needed new glasses for ages. The photo showed rows of squaddies, small and blurred. She couldnt make out second, third, or fifthjust shapes.

“Emily, why did you call me Mum in the garden that day?”

“It just slipped out. From fear. At the home, all grown-ups were Mum or Dadthe director, the plumber, everyone. I unlearned it. But when Im scared or upset, it comes back. Sorry.”

“I see” Margaret sighed, unmistakably disappointed.

“Aunt Margie, tell me about you. Why no photos of your husband or kids? Didnt you have any?”

“No. I had a son, but he died before he turned one. After the crash, I couldnt have more. My husband was like a child to meI spoiled him, adored him. He was my whole world, like Tom is to you. After the funeral, I put all the photos away. Im a believer, but losing him Id cry just looking. So I hid them to resist temptation. Now he needs my prayers, not tears. Emily, show me Toms photo again. Lets enlarge it, frame it. Ive got frames somewhere.”

At Christmas, Margaret and Emily decorated, spoke of the Christ Child, and waited for the first star. Emily fidgeted, rubbing her lower back.

“Youre restless, love. Not listening. Why fidget like a child?”

“Aunt Margie, call an ambulance. I think Im in labour.”

“Nonsense, dear. Youre not due till next week.”

“Mustve miscalculated. PleaseI cant bear it.”

Within half an hour, the ambulance had her at hospital. On the seventh of January, Christmas Day for their faith, Emily had a girl. That same day, Margaret sent the young father a telegram.

January was tense. The baby brought joy but kept them busy. Emily, with Toms blessing, named her Lily. Margaret wept at the choice. Little Lily was a handfulsleepless nights, thrush, fussing. But they were happy troubles. Margarets own aches eased.

One unseasonably warm day, Margaret went shopping. On her return, she met Emily with the pramthe young mother had ventured out.

“Well walk a bit longer, alright, Aunt Margie?”

“Walk with God. Ill start supper.”

Inside, Margaret glanced at the table and froze. There, framed, was a photo of her husband. She smiled. “She found them at last. But she chose one from his youth. Young folks dont care for old faces.”

The soup simmered when Emily brought Lily home. A neighbour carried the pram in. Both women unwrapped the baby gently. Her tiny nose twitched sweetly. They tiptoed out.

“Emily,” Margaret smiled, “howd you guess where Jacks photos were?”

“I dont follow.”

“Then whats this?” Margaret pointed.

“That? You asked for Toms photo enlarged. He went to a studio special. The frame was on the bookshelf.”

With shaking hands, Margaret lifted it. Only then did she seeit wasnt her husband. A young sergeant grinned at the camera. She sank onto the sofa, pale, gaze distant. When she turned, Emily was weeping, clutching an ammonia-soaked cloth.

“Mum, look at me! Look in my eyes! Mummy, whats wrong?”

“Emily, open the wardrobetop shelf, the photos. Bring them all.”

Emily returned with albums. Staring up at her Tom?!

“My God! Whos this? Is it Tom? No, its too old. Who is this, Mum?”

“My husband, Jack. Emily, sweetheart, where was Tom born?”

“I dont know. He was brought to our home from London after a train crash. They told him his parents died.”

“God, what a horrible mistake! Michael,