the side of the door where she had put down the bag when she first entered the room. Lifting it, she carried it to the hearth and placed it down on the brightly coloured peg rug. ‘There,’ she said triumphantly. ‘Now tell me I imagined it.’
Bessie grinned at her sheepishly. ‘Sorry, duck, but come on then – open it. It might give us some idea as to who she was.’
Molly bent and after fumbling with the catch, she opened the bag. As she peered inside, the colour suddenly drained from her face.
‘What is it, love?’ Bessie’s voice was concerned.
Without answering, Molly reached into the bag and lifted out what appeared at first sight to be a bundle of clothes. Carefully she laid it on the hearth and as she did so, Bessie’s face paled too.
‘Why, God in heaven … It’s a baby.’ Bessie could hardly believe her eyes.
Solemn-faced, Molly nodded. ‘So, the poor love weren’t delirious after all.’ Looking at Bessie with fear shining in her eyes, she whispered, ‘But why is it so quiet?’
Dropping to her knees beside her, Bessie began to unwind the clothes that the baby was wrapped in. The outer layer consisted of a black skirt, worn but neatly wrapped around a tiny pair of bloodstained scissors darned and obviously of a fine quality. Next was a white blouse, with tiny mother-of-pearl button slightly frayed at the cuffs, and lastly a shawl of pure blue silk, the like of which neither woman had ever seen. However, it wasn’t the shawl that held their attention but the tiny child wrapped inside it. It was a little girl and she was beautiful. A mop of tiny auburn curls framed a perfect heart-shaped face with long dark eyelashes that curled on to pale dimpled cheeks. But she was so still and silent that Molly gazed at Bessie in terror.
‘Is … is she dead?’
Pulling herself together with a great effort, Bessie took control of the situation. ‘Right – get me some warm water,’ she ordered briskly, and without a murmur Molly scuttled away to do as she was bid. She felt sick inside, for the sight of that little innocent had reawakened memories that she had thought were long gone.
In her mind’s eyes she saw again three tiny graves all lying side by side in the churchyard – the graves of her own three stillborn babies – and the heartbreak of losing them one after the other all those years ago swept through her afresh. She and Wilf had lived in Atherstone, a neighbouring town, back then. Molly had not met and wed him until she was in her thirties, and they had dreamed of having a large family. But each pregnancy had resulted in a stillbirth, and even now never a day went by when she did not mourn her lost girls. Still, her consolation had been her beloved husband. It was he who had found the cottage she was living in now shortly after the birth of their third daughter, and they had moved here and lived happily ever since until his premature death.
‘Please, God, don’t let this little one go the same way as my babies,’ Molly prayed silently as she stared down at the tiny form, and she went on praying as Bessie began to rub and coax life into the tiny infant. Once the water was ready, Bessie washed the little body inch by inch, forever rubbing and moving the little limbs to bring her back to life. But her efforts appeared to be all in vain, for the child remained motionless.
Molly’s heart ached as she looked on helplessly. ‘It’s no good, Bessie.’ Her voice was loaded with sadness as she reached out to still her neighbour’s arm. Slowly, Bessie sat back on her heels to wipe the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand.
They gazed on the infant in silence for some moments, each lost in their own thoughts, until Bessie suddenly gasped and reached out to clutch Molly’s arm.
‘I’m sure I saw her fingers move just then … Yes, yes, I did. Look, she’s alive!’
Without waiting for encouragement, Bessie immediately renewed her efforts, rubbing and moving the little limbs methodically. Suddenly the baby’s eyes flew open and a thin wail pierced the air. Both women whooped with delight and by the time Molly had bent to lift the child into her arms, her lusty cries were echoing from the rafters.
‘By God, Bessie, it’s a miracle. Nothin’ short of a miracle.’