I have often thought back to those days, when my heart was still a fledgling thing and the world seemed both endless and cruel in the same breath.
Peter Turner had loved Mabel Whitmore since their school days, and they had long whispered of a wedding that would one day bind them.
Peters mother, Margaret Turner, ran the maternity ward at St.Barnabas Hospital in Leeds. She never approved of her sons choice. For years she had favoured a young nurse called Christine Hart, a girl adored by the staff and the patients alike, the daughter of a respectable line of doctors. Margaret imagined Peter marrying Christine instead, believing it to be a match made in proper English fashion.
When the boys finished their Alevels, Peter went off to study medicine at Cambridge, while Mabel enrolled at the University of London to become a FrenchEnglish translator, following in the footsteps of her mother and grandmother. Their classmates, eager for a taste of the countryside, organised a weekend retreat at Peters familys old stone cottage in the Yorkshire Dales.
They lingered there for almost a month, reluctant to return to the rigours of lectures. Yet the new term loomed, and the inevitable preparations called them back.
One crisp autumn evening, Mabel sent Peter a message that still makes my stomach turn when I recall it:
Peter, Im with child. How will you take this?
Peter replied, halfjoking, What do you think? Ill carry you to the register office in my arms.
Mabel, ever practical, wrote, Im not light, and Im heavy with the babe.
Peter laughed, Scare a sportsman? I wrestled at school. Youre as light as a feather to me.
She pressed on, But what of our studies?
He answered, Youll need a years break after the birth, love.
Mabel, recalling how her own mother had given birth at nineteen and kept a job, said, Ill take distance learning, like Mother did. After we marry, youll move in with us, keeping a respectful distance from your mother. Ive long known shell never accept me; shes a formidable character.
Peter whispered, Only for your peace of mind, Mabel.
The two filed their marriage notice at the Leeds Register Office and then went their separate ways. Mabels flat in Hull was full of guests; a friend of her fathers, Mr. Albert Clarke, arrived with his wife and their sixteenyearold son Arthur, a lanky lad who looked older than his years.
At the Turner home, Peter announced the news to his parents and urged them to start thinking about the wedding arrangements.
Margaret, displeased, made her way that night to Mabels parents house with the intention of causing a scene. She knocked loudly, but no one answered. In the sitting room, a gramophone was playing a lively reel that drowned out the doorbells chime. Arthur, who had just stepped out of the shower, wrapped a towel round his waist and opened the door, bewildered by the lack of response.
Margaret, realizing she still carried her old Nokia, began recording the hallway, her camera catching Arthurs halfclothed figure.
Are you here to see Mrs. Clarke? Arthur asked, puzzling over the womans phone.
No longer, Margaret muttered, hurrying down the stairs.
Back at the Turner house, she showed Peter the video, pointing out that it had taken the young man an absurdly long time to answer the door.
Recognise that hallway? Still no idea who Mabels childs father is.
Peter sighed, I get it, Mum. Shes not the one for me.
He sent a furious text to Mabel, then switched his phone off. Mabel, unable to reach him, set off for his flat despite the late hour.
Margaret, expecting Mabel to arrive seeking an explanation, watched from the upstairs window. When she saw the girl, she rushed to the landing, flung open the door herself, and barred Mabel from entering, stepping onto the staircase.
What do you want with Peter? Hes asleep. And you, playing both sides? Keep courting other lads, you twofaced wretch, she snapped, then slammed the door behind her and retreated to her own flat.
Mabel, tears streaming, collapsed onto the step and sat there, bewildered. When she finally got home, her mother, Agnes Whitmore, was washing the dishes. Mabel threw herself into her mothers arms.
Mabel, love, the weddings nearshouldnt you be happy?
Mother, theres nothing left but the child Im carrying. Peters mother stirred up trouble after learning wed applied for marriage, she sobbed, showing her mother the angry message Peter had sent, accusing her of infidelity.
Agnes tried to comfort her, If Peter behaves like this, hell forever bow to his mother. God has taken him from you. Well raise the child ourselves.
Mabels pregnancy proved difficult. One stormy night, while her parents were at work, she was rushed to the maternity ward at St.Barnabas. Under anaesthetic, she gave birth to a boy, only to be told in the next ward that the infant was stillborn.
The paperwork was completed, the tiny body was handed to the grieving parents, and they laid him to rest in a modest plot outside town. Mabel, still in the ward, missed the funeral entirely.
Afterwards, Margaret sold the Turner familys flat on Headingley Road and moved away, muttering, Its for the best, love. You tangled with Peter, and he walked on with a haughty grin.
Mabel whispered back, I hope, Mum, that Ill forget him sooner.
Eight years slipped by. Mabel worked as a translator for a small firm in Sheffield, when one day Peter stepped into her office.
Why do you appear in my life again? Ive long stopped thinking of you, she said coolly.
Im sorry, Mabel, but tragedy has brought me back to you.
Its odd, Peter. You have a strong mother. Talk to her about your troubles. I have no time for you. Please leave my office.
Peter begged, Mabel, I need you to listen. It matters to you too. Ill wait at the café across the street after work.
She turned back to her screen, Ill only come out of curiosity, she replied, ending the conversation.
That evening, they met again outside the café.
Im sorry, Mabel, but my son is ill and needs a donor.
Youve the wrong address, Peter. Your mother has more resources here.
Weve been waiting, and no donor is available. Ive even listed my flat for sale. Youre a motheryou might have a better chance of helping our son.
Might this be some cruel jest, Peter? Our child was stillborn. My parents buried him.
Hes alive, eight years old now.
How?
Remember the day we lodged our marriage notice?
Ill never forget your cruel message.
Peter repeated the tale his mother had told him, of the night she had filmed Arthur in the hallway. Mabel explained who Arthur was, and Peters face went pale. He still loved her, yet he had never remarried. She, too, remained single, fearing another pregnancy might bring the same heartbreak.
Peter, tell me about our son. What did your mother do?
When you were in the maternity ward, my mother saw you being wheeled through the corridor toward the operating theatre. She guessed, halfin jest, that I was the father. The test proved she was right, but she refused to give you the child. Im to blame for agreeing to that. My grudge against you has haunted me. It seems God has punished us; our son, Samuel, is ill.
Lets get him tested for compatibility. If Im not a match, he must share my blood type, which is Opositive.
Yes, Mabel, I am type Anegative.
Mabels hands trembled as they entered the clinics paediatric ward.
Samuel, Ive finally found our mother. Weve been lost for years, but kind strangers have led us back, Peter said, while Mabel stood, speechless.
Mum, Ive waited for you, imagined you just like this. We dont even have your picture at home, Samuel whispered.
Mistress, everything will be alright. Im here and will do whatever it takes to make you healthy, Mabel wept, hugging her son.
The doctor says youre a match, Mabel. Samuel can be cured, Peter added.
The treatment succeeded. Peter sold the last of his remaining assets and paid the clinics fees in full. They now live together in a modest flat above Mabels parents brewpub in York.
Mabel, forgive me. We must marry, and you should have another child. Our sons doctor says a sibling would be a better donor than a parent.
Ive read that, Peter. For the sake of our children, Im ready for anything.
Peter and Mabel finally wed, and besides Samuel they now raise two more childrena boy and a girlwho fill the house with the laughter they once thought they would never hear again.
