Everyday Folks: The Stories of Ordinary Lives

The street was noisy today, as it always is in spring when the townsfolk finally feel the warm sunshine after a long, dreary winter. The grey, stubborn snowbanks had been washed away by the watercarts that rolled down the main road, and now little streams raced down, glittering like silver threads toward the alley and then along Willow Lane to the little parish church. The churchyard was bustling, too. A group of ladies in soft pastel dresses and matching scarves stepped out of a minibus, their scarves tucked snugly against their faces. Men in crisp suits, ties, and polished brogues followed.

From a smaller car a woman stepped out, looking focused and careful.

Emma! Come on, Emma, dont go off on your own! her husband called, hurrying around the car.

Dont shout, love. Peters asleep. Please dont wake him, Emma whispered, clearly unsettled. She had never baptized a baby before; this was her first time as a mother, and she feared that little Peter might start crying as he had a week ago when they tried to bathe him. He had woken up screaming, and the family doctor, Dr. Margaret Hughes, a calm, almost stoic paediatrician, had been called in.

Lay him down, Dr. Hughes instructed.

What? I didnt hear you, Emma muttered, her head swivelling in a daze.

Put the child down, youre shaking him like a rattle! Youre going to scramble his little bones! Dr. Hughes snapped, her voice cutting straight into Emmas ear.

Good heavens! Emma lifted her eyebrows, eyes wide with terror, and stared at her husband.

He gave a halfsmile.

Emma, still a girl at heart, had already given birth to their first son, a little heir. Neither of them knew how to raise him properly.

Just put him down, love! Oh, what a sturdy little thing! Look at those tiny beads, the nurse cooed. He looks just like his father!

Peter puffed out his chest with pride. Their motherinlaw had started bragging, Emmas line, the Hartley line, pure as royalty!

Peter, too, noticed his own little nose. What a nose! he joked.

Little forehead, thats it. Hell have a mind full of ideas soon enough, Dr. Hughes said, glancing at the window. Father, could you shut that draft?

Peter hurried to close the window.

Doctor, whats wrong with him? Emma asked, voice trembling. Hes never been like this before.

What would a man need? Dr. Hughes replied, halflaughing. If youd had a girl, itd be different! But a boyespecially a little forehead onehas to be tough. Father, did you ever get a cold as a child? She teased, while gently turning Peter, stretching his cramped arms and legs.

Its colic, Dr. Hughes finally concluded. Ill write up a plan. Dont shake him, mum! Itll settle. Hes a strong lad, but you need to give him a pacifier.

Were absolutely against pacifiers! Peter protested, his cheeks flushing. Theyre useless.

Against?, the doctor asked, feigning indifference. Emma dear hand the baby to his father and head to the kitchen. Swaddle him properly, thatll be safer.

Emma shook her head, then, exhausted, handed Peter to Peter.

Fine then. Lets have a cup of tea, Dr. Hughes chuckled. Tea, tea! Its like dealing with children, I swear!

She took Emma by the elbow and led her away.

Peter, cradling his son, lingered by the window, trying to soothe the baby.

The kitchen was cool, dark, and smelled of coffee.

Right, we have a kettle, we have sugar, lets brew a pot, set the table, and maybe have something to bite on, Dr. Hughes said, scanning the room.

Emma set two cups on the table, unaware of how the junior nurses in the A&E usually behaved.

What usually? Dr. Hughes asked.

Emma shivered. She began to think aloud, the first signs of panic.

Its not that anyone cursed us, or taught us wrong, its just human, Emma shrugged. Being a child doctor must be niceyou can fix anything, youre not scared.

Dr. Hughes nodded. If youve read any books, youll know that most problems are the same. Youve got a clean thermometer, a spotless coat, a tidy baby. Have a cup of tea while theres still time. Drink up. She handed Emma a steaming mug.

Dont shout, Emma whispered, then burst into tears.

Whats wrong? Dr. Hughes asked, startled.

Im tired. I want to sleep. Peter eats a lot, hates a wet nappy, and I have no energy left, Emma sobbed, her lips trembling. Days, weeks, months, even my own name feel lost in a fog. I cant keep going. I have exams, three more to pass, and Im studying with Peter. I cant do it. I just dont want anything anymore.

Dr. Hughes sighed thoughtfully. Any help? Family?

Emma shook her phone. My inlaws live far away, cant come. My parents disapproved of us marrying, of Peter they liked the grandson but said it was too soon. Im to blame, I guess.

Emma took a sip of tea and closed her eyes.

Blame? You gave birth to a little boy, a gift from the heavens. Youve put on a few pounds, havent you? Dr. Hughes teased. He weighs four kilos, six hundred gramswhat a hefty lad.

The doctors right, love. You should eat. She lifted a finger. Your husbands being quiet now. Maybe no pacifier just feed and let him sleep. Hell be exhausted, and so will you. Ill leave you a notekeep an eye on him, give a massage, dont stress. Everything will settle, love.

She patted Emmas thin shoulder and left.

Emma wolfed down a mince pie, washed it down with a cup of applespiced teaPeters father had bought a proper homemade blendand collapsed onto the small sofa. She tried to pull a blanket over herself but couldnt lift it from under the cushions. She fell asleep that way.

It felt like yesterday.

Now Emma, in a creamcoloured dress and lowheeled shoes, stood at the doorway of the cottage next to the church, cradling Peter. Today he would be christened, and Emma was terrified.

Emma, its time! Hand him over, my sweet boy! Peter cooed, strolling confidently toward the guests.

Soon they would enter the cottage, the rite would take place, Peter would hiccup a few times, then open his blue eyes, stare at the painted saints on the ceiling, and marvel at the sight. The godmother, Emmas childhood friend, would nod approvingly.

Peters a sturdy little nut! she whispered to Emma. Well done, both of you.

Dr. Margaret Hughes entered the churchyard through the wroughtiron gates and crossed herself.

She, unlike the man nearby in a battered flat cap and hooded coat, firmly believed that sometimes only the Good Lordor whatever higher power you prefercould lend a hand.

Sir, could you remove your cap? This is a place of reverence, she suggested.

He grudgingly lifted the cap, revealing a bald scalp, and tried to smooth his thinning hair. She shook her head, noting the lack of tradition.

Thank you, sir, he muttered, joining Dr. Hughes in watching the couples infant be christened.

Theyve got a beautiful ceremony, a lovely couple, and a healthy baby! the nurse said, not approaching Emma directly.

The ceremonys just a ceremony. It only torments the child! the man retorted.

You dont understand, sir Dr. Hughes said softly.

Emma, we must baptise him. I feel it will set everything right, and Peter will thrive. You hear me? she shouted, exhausted and frightened.

Peters father, Michael Hartley, a paediatrician turned engineer, had a son named Sam, a source of pride. Young and strong, Michael was a devoted doctor, confident that everything would be straightforward.

Michael often boasted over pints with friends, dreaming of fishing trips, horse riding with Sam, chopping wood.

Then, during a lively gathering, a call came from the maternity ward.

Critical condition, the nurse warned. Low chances.

What? I didnt catch that, Michael stammered, looking at his laughing mates, then sat down on a stool.

He couldnt grasp how his own wife, a paediatrician, could have a newborn contract a severe infection, threatening the childs life before even a month old. It seemed unbearably unfair.

There were hospital rooms, needles in the newborns scalp, tears from Margaret, and Michaels stubborn anger at the staff. He argued with Igor Anderson, a close family friend.

Tell me the truth, Igor! Whos to blame? Michael thumped the desk, making the metal trays rattle.

Michael, it doesnt matter now. Theyll recover, well discharge Margaret and Sam, and you just need to feed them, give them milk, Igor said, checking his watch.

Youre never at work, Michael snapped. Youre always drinkinglike a pig! And my my He pointed toward the ward where Sam lay. If any hair falls, well

He stormed out, slamming the door so hard the panel cracked.

Since that day, Igor never visited again, they stopped meeting for holidays, stopped going to the local country park. The rift lasted a lifetime.

Margaret and Sam were discharged. Michael drove them home in a taxi, rushed them into their flat, where everything was sterile, as if for surgery.

Michael love I love you, I love Sam, Margaret sobbed, kissing him.

Sam began to cry, then was fed, bathed, rocked. It seemed the worst was over.

A week later Sam developed a rash and a fever.

Weak immune system. Should be admitted, the visiting doctor announced. Margaret, you know how things go here. Dont weep, love, weve handled worse.

Its just a little fever! Margaret retorted, feeling a sting at the comment rag. Her nerves frayed, her eyes swollen, she felt helpless, as if her mind were covered in dust.

Give us ten minutes and well be ready, the doctor said calmly. Michael, help me with Sam.

She asked for help because she couldnt manage alone. She was a doctor, yet her own son was illshe felt useless.

From the dim hallway emerged Vera, a hospital cleaner. The redbrick building felt gloomy, its large windows letting in little light. Vera, who had grown up in a village and cared for many siblings, radiated a quiet confidence.

Look at him, hes a proper little singer! Vera chirped, waving a mop. He sounds like a tiny Pavarotti!

Veras chatter initially irritated Margaret, but soon she realised the cleaner offered what the doctor could not: calm, steady presence without empty reassurances.

Vera explained shed spent her youth looking after her own brothers, believing that love and responsibility would see them through. She had watched a baby almost suffocate in his sleep, had chased a stray dog through winter fields, and had seen many hardships.

The weathers lovely today, the ducks are back. Sam will love it! she laughed.

She then said something that struck Margaret to the core.

I think hell grow up a football fan. Imagine the roar of the crowd! Vera declared, and Margaret imagined her son cheering in a stadium.

Margaret, for the first time in months, felt a warm glow. She told Michael, Maybe its not the baptism that matters, but the love around us.

Michael, a man of science, usually dismissed such mysticism, but he began to see a faint light.

Later, standing in the churchyard, Margaret watched Emma and Peter being led to the baptismal font. She whispered, All will be well for them.

She adjusted her scarf, walked up the street, the sunlight catching the rivers reflections, everything clean and ready for the spring rite.

The man who had reluctantly removed his cap also walked up the street toward the register office, where couples queued to tie the knot. Both stopped, watching newlyweds and their friends gather at the historic building with modern windows and plastered columns.

Ill probably never see my own wedding, Margaret sighed.

Whats that supposed to mean? the man grumbled.

My son is a good lad, works hard, but he has no desire to settle down. Its dreadful to be alone, she explained.

The youngsters today think only of careers first, the man snorted. Marriage can wait. Theyre all childish, you know.

Building homes, not families, Margaret retorted, smiling at a blushing bride with freckles.

The love we have is enough, the man replied, his bald head shining. I met my own wife, a real firefly, and weve managed.

The younger generation seems to have forgotten how to love, Margaret mused. What if they never learn?

Dont be ridiculous, the man said. Theyll figure it out. You mothers just pry too much.

He grabbed Margarets shoulders, gave her a playful shake, then kissed her cheek.

Enough! she shouted, Call the police if you must!

Call them all! he yelled. Everyone! Weve been together for decades, and youre still fussing about the register office!

Young people turned to stare; Margarets cheeks flushed.

Come on, love! The ceremonys starting! shouted Sam, holding the wedding rings. Dont be such a bore, old chap.

Sam! Margaret gasped. How could this happen?

My mum, everythings possible! My parents are remarrying. I organized all this. Good grief! Sam laughed, shaking his head.

They moved to a small banquet hall where an ordinary couple would be celebrateda couple that raised a decent son, lived a simple life, never thought of splitting up. Margaret worked as a paediatrician, Michael as a designer, now growing microgreens for her and the boy, though he pretended to understand vitamins.

Sam, a carefree lad, worked, lived his own way, promised to marry somedaylater, as they say.

Now, at seven years old, Sam was walking home from school with a sandwich when a large black shape blocked his path.

It was a stray dog, gaunt and angry from being chased by market men. The dog growled, baring teeth, and moved forward.

Sams heart raced; he dropped his sandwich, ready to run.

Then a warm, firm hand rested on his shoulder.

Stay calm. Shell understand and walk away, a male voice told him.

The dog, seeing the kind eyes, turned and trotted off, taking the sandwich with it.

Later, Sam told his parents the story, and Margaret whispered, That was an angel, Sam. Your guardian angel.

Michael merely nodded, his skepticism softened. As he grew older, he began to believe a bit more in the unseen help that rescued his son.

Back in the churchyard, Margaret watched Emma and Peter being carried to the font. Everything will be alright for them, she thought, smoothing her scarf, looking up at the bright sun sparkling on the river, the world washed clean for the rite of spring.

The man with the cap, now bald, walked toward the register office, joining the crowd of couples heading to tie the knot. Both paused, watching the hopeful faces of newlyweds, knowing that love, however tangled, always finds its way.