The Foundling: A Tale of Unexpected Beginnings

In the early morning Margaret has a strange dream: she sees her son, Charlie, standing on the doorstep, tapping on the door. She wakes with a start, throws off her nightgown and rushes barefoot to the front door.

She leans against the frame, breathless, and listens. The night is quiet, the darkness presses in. She opens the door wide and peers into the night, the stillness wrapping around her. Trying to calm her racing heart, she sits on the step. Suddenly a faint rustle breaks the silence.

Probably the neighbours kitten again, she thinks, and heads for the bramble where the cat usually gets tangled. But when she pulls at a scrap of cloth hanging from the bush, it isnt a kitten at all. The rag turns out to be an old, coloured swaddle, and as she pulls harder she discovers a tiny, naked baby curled in the corner of the cloth. Its a boy, his skin pink and damp, his umbilical stump still attached.

The infant is barely able to cry; hes shivering, weak, and clearly hungry. Margaret lifts him gently, and he lets out a soft whimper. Without thinking, she presses him to her chest and darts back into the house. She finds a clean sheet, wraps the child, covers him with a warm blanket and begins to heat some milk. She washes a bottle, finds an old teat that she used years ago when she fed a goat kid, and fills it.

The baby sucks greedily, gagging a little at first, then, once warmed and fed, slips into a deep sleep. Dawn light starts to filter through the curtains, but Margaret hardly notices; her thoughts stay on the child she has just found. She is in her midforties, and the village youngsters already call her Auntie. She lost her husband and her own son in the war a decade ago and has lived alone ever since. The ache of that loneliness never quite leaves her, but now she feels a sudden, bewildering purpose.

She looks at the sleeping infant, his tiny chest rising and falling, and decides to ask her neighbour Helen for advice. Helen lives a carefree life in the same lane: never married, never lost anyone to war, men come and go without ever staying. At that moment Helen is standing on her own porch, a shawl draped over her shoulders, basking in the warm sunrise. She listens to Margarets frantic story, shrugs, and says, Well, what do you want to do with him? before heading back inside. As Helen disappears, Margaret catches a glimpse of a curtain fluttering in her window a latenight visitor, perhaps a suitor. Why am I even thinking about this? she whispers to herself.

She gathers the baby, bundles him in a dry coat, packs a few loaves and a tin of beans for the road, and heads for the bus stop to catch a ride to town. Within five minutes a lorry pulls up beside her. The driver, eyes on the bundle in her arms, asks, Hospital? Margaret nods, replying, Hospital, please.

At the local childrens home, officials start the paperwork for the found infant. Margaret cant shake the feeling that shes doing something wrong, that a hole in her heart wont let her rest. The matron asks, What shall we call the boy? Margaret hesitates, then, surprised at herself, answers, Charlie. The matron smiles, A good name. Weve got plenty of Charlies and Katies after the war. Its hard to know who drops a child now that there are hardly any fathers left. Youve taken him in, so you must love him like a mother.

Those words sting, and Margaret feels a lump form in her throat. She returns home at dusk, switches on the oil lamp, and spots the old swaddle she had set aside. She picks it up, sits on the edge of her bed, and runs her fingers over the damp fabric. In a corner of the cloth she feels a small knot. Inside is a folded piece of grey paper and a tiny tin cross on a string. Unfolding the note, she reads: Dear woman, Im sorry. I cant keep this child; my life is a mess, and I wont be here tomorrow. Please dont abandon my son. Do for him what I cannot. Below the message is the babys birth date.

Tears flood her face; she cries as if mourning a dead loved one. She remembers the wedding day, the happiness she shared with her husband, the birth of her own son Charlie, the way the whole village envied her joy. She thinks of the man who finished his drivers course before the war and promised to take her for a ride in a new tractor the collective would give him. Then the war came, took her husband in August 42 and her son in October the same year. After that, the bright world seemed to dim forever, and she joined the other village widows who run to their doors at night, flinging them open in hopes of hearing a familiar footstep. Only the wind and a neighbours pitiful kitten ever answer.

The next morning Margaret rides back to town. The matron recognises her immediately and, when Margaret says she wants to take the boy home because her deceased sons spirit tells her to, the matron replies, All right, well help with the paperwork. She wraps Charlie in a blanket and leaves the home with a lighter heart, the crushing emptiness replaced by a budding sense of hope and love. If destiny is meant to bring happiness, it will find a way, and it does for Margaret.

Back in her empty house, the walls are still adorned with photographs of her late husband and son. This time, however, their faces seem softer, as if they smile gently at her. Margaret cradles Charlie and feels a new strength; she whispers to the pictures, Will you help me?

Twenty years pass. Charlie grows into a handsome young man; many girls in the village fancy him, but he chooses Emily, a kind girl who quickly becomes his beloved after Margaret. One day Charlie brings Emily to meet Margaret, and Margaret realizes her son is truly a man now. She blesses the couple, and a lively wedding follows. They build a home of their own, have children, and name their youngest son Charlie after his grandfather. Margarets family tree swells, and she feels richly surrounded by kin.

One stormy night she awakens to a rattling sound at the window. She rushes to the door, flings it open, and steps into the courtyard as thunder rolls and lightning flashes nearby. Thank you, my boy, she murmurs into the darkness, Now I have three Charlies, and I love each of you. The old oak by the porch, planted by her husband when the first Charlie was born, sways in the wind, its leaves glittering like the flash of a smile.