The Unexpected Foundling

In the early hours of a cold spring morning Margaret Whitfield awoke with a strange dream: she saw her little boy, Thomas, standing on the porch, rapping at the front door. The vision snapped her upright; she tossed off the covers, the cold floor biting her bare feet, and bolted for the doorway.

She paused, breathless, pressed her back against the jamb and listened. The night was stillno footsteps, no rustle. Dreams of this sort had plagued her many years, each one a cruel trick that sent her racing to the door, flinging it wide open only to stare into the black. Tonight she did the same, peering into the inky darkness that wrapped the garden. The hush was broken at last by a faint, uncertain sounda rustle, perhaps a squeak.

Probably the neighbours kitten got tangled again, she thought, recalling how often shed rescued the little cat from the gooseberry bushes. She moved toward the shrubbery, but what she pulled out was not a kittens tail. A tattered, pastel blanket emerged, its edge catching on a knot. With a quick tug she uncovered a tiny, shivering infant curled upon the cloth. He was naked, his skin glistening with dew, his belly swollen with the fresh scent of milk.

The umbilical scar was still pink; the child could not have been more than a few weeks old. He could not cry; his voice was barely a sigh, his body limp from hunger and cold. Margaret gathered him, and as his weak whimper faded into a soft gurgle she cradled him against her chest and darted inside. She fouled a clean sheet, swaddled the babe, covered him with a warm woollen blanket, and set about preparing a bottle. She found a clean nippleone she had once used to nurse a goat kid in the spring of her youth.

The infant drank greedily, choking at times as his tiny lungs fought the hunger. Once sated and warmed, he drifted into a deep, peaceful sleep. Dawn was just breaking, but Margarets thoughts lingered on the child she now held. At over forty, she was already known in the hamlet of Bramley as Aunt Maggie. She had lost her husband and her own son Thomas in the war of 42, left to fend for herself in a world that seemed to have forgotten her. She had learned, bitterly, to rely only on herself. Yet here was another soul thrust into her arms, and she felt as lost as ever.

She glanced at the sleeping child, his chest rising and falling with quiet sighs, and thought of seeking counsel from her neighbour, Eleanor Hart. Eleanors life, compared to Margarets, had been smooth: she had never known a husband, never lost a child to battle, and lived by her own means, her lovers coming and going like summer clouds. On this particular morning Eleanor stood on her own porch, a knitted shawl draped over her shoulders, soaking up the first golden rays. After hearing Margarets frantic tale, Eleanor shrugged and said, Whats it to you? before retreating into her house. As she left, Margaret caught, out of the corner of her eye, a curtain flutter in Eleanors windowanother suitor, perhaps, seeking shelter for the night. Why indeed? Margaret whispered to herself.

She fetched a modest parcel of provisions, wrapped the baby in dry cloth, and set off toward the road that led to the larger town of Leeds. It did not take longfive minutesbefore a lorry bound for the city slowed beside her.

Off to the hospital? the driver asked, nodding toward the bundle in her arms.

Indeed, Margaret replied, her voice steady.

At the Home for Foundlings, while the clerk filled out the paperwork for the abandoned child, a gnawing feeling settled in Margarets chest: a whisper that she was somehow doing something wrong, that a tiny piece of her conscience would not settle. The emptiness inside her echoed the hollow she felt when news of Thomass death arrived, and later when the war claimed her husband. What shall we call the boy? the matron inquired.

Name? Margaret repeated, pausing a breath before answering, Charlie.

A fine name, the matron smiled. Weve taken in many Charlies and Marys since the war. Its clear when families are gone, but a child like yourswho leaves youmakes one wonder. No fathers now, so we must cherish the little ones. The world may have cast you aside, but youre not a cuckoo; youre a mother.

Those words, though not meant as an affront, lodged like a stone in Margarets heart. That evening, back in her empty cottage, she lit a single oil lamp. On the mantle lay the old pastel blanket she had set aside; she lifted it, feeling its damp fibers. As she ran her fingers over it, she discovered a small knot tucked in a corner. Inside lay a yellowed scrap of paper and a tiny tin cross on a thin cord. Unfolding the note, she read:

Dear kind soul, I am sorry. I cannot keep this child. My life is tangled, and tomorrow I will be gone. Please do not abandon my son; give him what I cannot. M. 12th September 1942

Tears surged, hot and unbidden, as she read the desperate plea. She wept as though mourning a lost loved one, the river of tears spilling over memories of her own wedding, of the bright days with Thomas, of the village gossip that had once called her the villages sunshine because she had loved so fully. Before the war, Thomas had trained as a driver, promising to take her for a ride in the new tractor the collective farm would soon provide. Then the war came, and in August 42 she received word of her husbands death, and in October the same year, of Thomass. Joy left her world like a candle snuffed out, and she became like the other widows who roamed the night, flinging doors open, listening for phantom footsteps, only to hear the wind and the occasional mew of a neighbours forlorn cat.

The next morning she returned to Leeds, where the matron recognized her at once and, unperturbed, said, Take him home; well sort the papers. Wrapping Charlie in a fresh blanket, Margaret left the home with a heart that no longer throbbed with the allconsuming void of years of solitude. New feelingshope, love, purposefilled the space where desolation once lived. If fate intended her to be happy, it had finally turned her tide.

Back in her cottage, the walls now bore photographs of her husband and son, but their faces seemed softened, bathed in a gentle light, as if forgiving and encouraging her. She held Charlie close, feeling a newfound strength; he would need her protection for many years to come.

Will you help me? she whispered to the pictures.

Twenty years slipped by. Charlie grew into a handsome young man, admired by many, yet his heart settled on a gentle woman named Lucy, as sweet as a summer rose. When Charlie introduced Lucy to Margaret, the old womans eyes shone with pride, realizing her son had become a true gentleman. She blessed their union, and soon a wedding was celebrated, a new nest built, and children arrived. The youngest son was named Charlie after his grandfather, and Margarets family tree blossomed.

One stormy night, a sudden crash against the window jolted her awake. She rose, as she always did, and flung open the front door to the yard. Thunder rolled, lightning cracked in the distance, and she called softly, Thank you, my boy. Now I have three Charlies, and I love you all.

Behind the porch stood the great oak that her husband had planted when the first Charlie was born; a flash of lightning illuminated it like the bright smile of her beloved son.