“Oh, have you seen the woman in our ward, girls? She’s quite elderly… – Yes, completely grey. She must have grandchildren, yet here she is – demanding a baby at her age…”

Have you noticed her, ladies, the woman in our ward? Shes already aged
Yes, her hair is completely silver. She must have grandchildren somewhere, but she drifts off to the cornerher little boys cries still echo at her age

My mother looks younger than she does. I wonder, how old is her husband?
Shes quiet, sullen, keeps to herself.
No wonder she doesnt talk. We all try to be friendly, yet I cant even recall how to address her. They say her name is Ethel
Maybe its better to call her by her full name

In the maternity ward a heated discussion erupted as one of the expectant mothers stepped out for a moment.

Ethels fate had been hard. When Emily was four, typhoid swept through her family. Her mother, father, infant brother and ailing grandfather all perished. From then on, Emily was raised by her grandmother Martha, a stern, domineering woman who knew no tenderness.

In the year 1941, Emily and Victor each turned thirteen. They lived in separate hamlets but moved to the market town of Ashford to work at the steelworks, a place short of hands. They lodged in the workers hostel beside the plant, and it was there they met. From those early years they laboured side by side with the seasoned men.

At fifteen Victor was conscripted to the front. Emily, a sprightly girl with fiery red hair, was ready to join him, but they turned her away. We need you here, the sergeant said, your strength on the home front is far more valuable; well find other lads for the trenches.

When they were eighteen, Emily and Victor married in a modest ceremonyno fanfare, only the bleakness of the postwar years allowed such a union.

Against Marthas fierce disapproval, Emily moved in with Victor. Their farms lay thirty miles apart, a distance they bridged each week. A year later a son was born, named William. The young couple basked in bliss; their home was a haven after so many hardships.

But the happiness was fleeting.

When William turned six, Emily and Victor still lived as one, the envy of their neighbours. Victor worked as a kilnman; his ovens were famed throughout the county. He was summoned to install a furnace in the village of Brookfield, perched across the river. Victor took William with him because Emily was at work. A bitter wind howled, the river froze, and they trudged across the icy water.

Victor hoisted a heavy toolboxthe only tools he ever trusted, refusing ever to borrow anothers. William ran about, paying little heed to his fathers warnings. With barely twenty metres to shore, the boy slipped onto a hidden snowpacked ledge. Victor lunged to pull him up, but

Ethels own grief had begun years earlier, at twentyfive, when she lost her husband and son. The house still reeked of their memory, and Emily, unable to bear it, fled back to her native village to Marthas care.

Emily shut herself off; life lost its colour. The thought of forming a new family never crossed her mind.

Ethel, now fortythree, learned of Emilys solitary pregnancy. The prospect of a child at this stage, without a husband, terrified her, yet the yearning for a heir outweighed the fear.

The village where Emily lived was remote, the journey arduous. A fierce storm threatened to delay any help, so Emily arrived at the hospital early, trembling with worry for her unborn childs health.

From the moment she stepped into the cold corridors, the memory of losing her husband and son eighteen years before haunted hertime had not softened the ache.

Emily gave birth to a healthy boy, naming him David. She never forgot Williams dream of a brother.

Buy me a little brother, he had pleaded. Dad made so many toys! Ill play with my brother.
What will you call him? his father asked.
David!
So hell be David then! Victor beamed, exchanging a glance with Emily.

At that moment hope flickered in Emilys heart; Victor sensed it, too. They kept Williams name a secret for a while, fearing the grief would crush them anew. When tragedy had taken both husband and son, Emily had lost the child shed once carried.

Now David arrived, just as William had imagined.

Martha met Emily at the hospital, infant in arms, with a scowl.
Why are you crying again, my dear? Emily cooed, soothing her son.
Youre a disgrace, Martha muttered, voice cracked. The whole village must be gossiping about your shame.
I havent shown my face on the street for a week, Emily whispered. Soon the questions will start. What will I tell them? That my old granddaughter has gone mad?

The village chatter grew relentless. An unmarried woman at thirtythree, now cradling a newborn, was scandal enough. Marthas tongue lashed at Emily without mercy. Yet within a year, the indomitable Martha, spry for her age, fell ill and passed away.

Emily mourned, even as she recognised that it was Martha who had forged her.

David grew into a striking young mantall, darkeyed, and handsome, bearing little resemblance to his mother, who adored him. By his seventieth birthday, Emily had become a grandmother. Upon hearing of his daughters birth, David and his wife, Sylvia, rushed to the hospital where Sylvia lay on the first floor.

Sylvia! Sylvia! shouted the overjoyed father. Show us the baby!
Sylvia approached the window, cradling the infant. Emily smiled through tears, wiping them away.

What a sight! Mother, shes a little redhead! Look, she looks just like you! David beamed. For Ethel, watching her beloved grandson smile filled her with a quiet joylife, after all, went on.