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The first time that Hester was called a mother, there was no baby in her arms. It wasn’t in a maternity ward with a handsome man holding her hand as most mothers-to-be awaited eagerly for.
Instead, it was in the familiar backdrop of the typing pool, with a mortified young woman stood behind a desk like a deer caught in the headlights.
She and Tom had once talked of parenthood, many decades and many wars ago. Hester had bitterly bemoaned how she’d never be able to give Tom a child of his own, the words falling on deaf ears as Tom gripped her hands and shook his head. Instead, he’d entranced her with dreams of adopting children in need of a safe home, of raising them in a beautiful house in the countryside where hatred would never find them.
Children like Hester, he’d promised her.
Those children had never come. Yet Hester hoped, in that idealistic way that she allowed for herself every so often, that simply existing in the view of the young women whose paths took them through the war office might be enough. That the mere presence of an older woman who was (mostly) respected and (mostly) content would serve to remind them that their life was always theirs to choose. Miss Leslie was far from the first girl to look up at Hester with wonder in their eyes upon reiterating ‘it’s Miss Leggatt,’ even if she was the first person to call Hester ‘Ma’ in the midst of a workplace conversation. And even if ‘Ma’ and ‘Ma’am’ could be easily confused in the right accent, the bright red that flooded Jean’s cheeks betrayed her instantly.
Hester couldn’t help her fond smile as she made a flustered exit. It had only been three weeks since Miss Leslie had joined their ranks, and somehow their cramped office on St. James’ Street seemed far brighter for it. Most of the younger secretaries had been transferred to Bletchley Park when the London Controlling Section separated from the rest of MI5, so someone of Jean’s calibre was both a breath of fresh air and a test for Hester’s fraying nerves.
She’d needed a lot of guidance it was true, but it didn’t take a genius to elicit from Jean’s clipped comments that she wasn’t getting any at home. If it took Hester mothering her a little more than etiquette allowed for Jean to find her feet, then she was glad to do it.
The second time that Hester was called a mother, there was still no baby in her arms. There was still no hospital, still in the same backdrop of the typing pool. But any trace of familiarity had been wiped out in a single blow.
“Ma,” Jean sobbed, an expression of undiluted pain on her face. Her torso twisted as she reached out towards Hester, thick blood dripping from her palm onto the shattered glass below.
Hester paid no heed to the crunching beneath her shoes, only sparing a second to ensure there were no shards beneath her knees as she crouched at Jean’s side. “Jean, dearest, it’s Hester,” she tried to soothe her, allowing Jean to cling desperately to her hands.
Her heart ached to take the trembling girl into her arms but her subconscious held her back. It wasn’t her who Jean was crying out for, she forced herself to remember. Jean had a mother, and it wasn’t Hester. “We are going to get you to a hospital, and then someone can telephone your Ma so that she can –”
Jean shook her head in hysterics, tears streaking down her bloodstained cheeks. “Ma, Ma, Ma,” she howled over and over.
The sound cut Hester to her core. Not even the appearance of Adolf himself would have stopped her from pulling Jean into a tight embrace, holding her steady as she continued to sob violently into Hester’s shoulder.
Her hand moved subconsciously to card her fingers through Jean’s hair as if she’d been doing it all her life. She bit her lip as tears pricked at her eyes; her little girl needed her to be strong now, and from a brief glance upwards at Charles clinging to an equally shaken Monty’s hand, so did her boys. There would be time to process everything once the immediate danger was over.
She didn’t let go of her for more than a moment until they reached the hospital. And then suddenly she was taken from them, her hand slipping from Hester’s as John placed her limp body onto a stretcher.
“Ma’am? Ma’am, can you hear me? Are you this girl’s mother?”
Hester wrenched her gaze away from the operating theatre doors. With Jean out of sight and no steady pulse beneath Hester’s fingers, she was suddenly so frightened that she could barely breathe. Gasping like a fish out of water, she looked at the nurse waiting impatiently for an answer and whispered “Yes.”
To put voice to a bone-deep yearning that she had suppressed for eighteen months made her feel sick to her stomach.
The sense of guilt only worsened as the days wore on. It had become harder to convince herself that Jean merely thought it was her own mother’s presence she felt at her bedside. Yet every time she sought comfort in Hester’s presence only reminded her bitterly of how she could have prevented this. She should have taken more notice, should have acted on her suspicions when the pattern of Jean’s commute seemed to change, should have done something for Christ’s sake.
But instead she had done nothing. Nothing, except for dare to pose as Jean’s mother when the damage had been done and Jean had already paid the price. All she could think of was how undeserving she was of such a title.
Leaving her even briefly to put out a metaphorical fire at the office or steal an hour’s sleep was just as hard as leaving her behind the operating theatre doors. To hear from Monty and Charles that she’d woken up in such distress during Hester’s absence felt even worse. Every waking moment from that point on was spent in vigil at Jean’s bedside, watching for any flicker to her expression that might mean her Jean was coming back to her.
A creaking floorboard and heavy sigh announced John’s presence. “Come to bed, Hester,” he pleaded quietly, placing a hand on her shoulder. “It’s late, you need to rest. She’ll wake up again when she’s ready.”
Hester knew he was right. But as she turned to leave, the gut feeling that had been bothering her all evening tugged her back towards her vigil. “I might just be being an old nag, but I can’t shake the feeling that she’s not right,” she fretted, looking worriedly up at John.
John gave an uncertain hum, squinting in the dim lamplight. “She does look pale. Like –”
“Like a ghost in the night.”
“Well, I was actually going to say: ‘like someone who’s lost a lot of blood’.”
In better times, Hester might have spared a smile at his refusal to engage with figurative language. But then Jean made a tiny sound of distress; everything else was forgotten as she went to rest her hand on Jean’s cheek, to reassure her she wasn’t alone. “God, John, she’s burning up,” Hester muttered, recoiling for a second at the heat beneath her fingers.
She almost wept with relief when Jean’s eyes slowly fluttered open. “Oh, thank goodness,” she breathed, reaching out to brush back a few sweat-slicked curls that clung to Jean’s forehead. Her auxiliary nurse training from wars past battled against rising fear, and she forced herself to swallow her panic. “Can you drink some water for me, dear?”
Jean nodded, blinking glassy eyes up at Hester. Her whole body trembled as Hester helped her sit upright, barely possessing the strength to hold a glass of water in her shaking hands. She let out a pained whimper as she was laid back on the pillow, her brow furrowed as she shifted uncomfortably.
“Where does it hurt, darling?” Hester asked, almost begged. Jean gave no response, only whined again as Hester cradled her tiny hand in her own. The steady pulse that had reassured Hester the night of the bombing had been replaced by something reedy and erratic. She hurriedly pushed the duvet aside; if the heat radiating from her flushed cheeks had been bad, the reddened skin around her bandage felt nothing short of blistering.
John voiced the exact thought that had been gnawing at Hester’s mind. “That looks like an infection to me.”
Hester’s voice shook as it exited her chest. “John, we have to do something. Should we take her back to hospital?” she asked frantically.
“There’s a good doctor who lives on the next road. I’ll call him, we’ll start from there.”
She nodded, turning her gaze back to Jean as John went to make the telephone call. If she’d been in her right mind she could have probably come to that conclusion herself, but fear was beginning to win the fight against whatever logic she still possessed on such little sleep.
Faintly she heard Monty and John’s discussion in the corridor but she paid them no heed. “Just stay with us, Jean. You’re going to be alright,” Hester promised, still tracing circles with her thumb over Jean’s knuckles. There was no response. “Just hold on a little longer for me, please.”
She’d been half-hoping that she was overstating Jean’s deterioration. But once Jean was finally persuaded to allow the doctor to see her, it quickly became clear that the situation was just as sinister as Hester had feared. The thermometer in her mouth audibly rattled as Jean’s teeth chattered from feverish chills. From where Jean sat slumped in Hester’s lap, her back against Hester’s chest to keep her somewhat upright, Hester watched over her shoulder as the mercury climbed higher and higher. It was by no means a shock, considering the clammy sheen to her skin and the heat rolling off her in waves. But to see objective evidence of how ill she’d fallen still caused a knot to tighten in Hester’s stomach.
The doctor, a man of few words, paused with an alcohol-soaked swab in his hand to flash Hester a warning glance. Barely a second passed before Jean was screaming. Hester fought to hold her still as she retched and writhed against the pain, one hand on her brow to shield her eyes and the other arm tight around her too-thin waist.
“It’s alright, it’s alright,” Hester gasped, tears welling in her eyes. She doubted Jean could even hear her over the sound of her own agonised screams, but it was all Hester could think to do. She loathed herself for contributing to the ordeal, ached to whisk her charge away and snap at anyone who so much dared to touch her. She could only pray that Jean wouldn’t remember it once the fever released its hold on her.
Once it was over, Jean collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut. She sobbed as Hester cradled her in her arms, her face hidden in the crook of Hester’s neck. Hester’s lips grazed Jean’s hair as she whispered senseless comforts and rocked her softly as if she were a newborn. As Jean burned and shivered in Hester’s embrace, frail like a baby bird with her ribs visibly heaving for air, Hester wondered when the new girl in the typing pool had become one of the only people in this world that mattered to her.
Even after Jean’s cries had softened to barely audible whimpers Hester still held her, not quite able to bear the thought of letting go just yet. “You did well to notice her decline so early,” the doctor said, Hester almost startling as the silence was broken. “I’m not sure she would have lasted the night without medical attention. Septicaemia claims its victims quickly once given time to take hold.”
Hester felt herself go cold at what he implied. “I don’t know what it was. I just knew that I couldn’t leave her,” she croaked.
The doctor nodded. “I see it often. Maternal instinct is a powerful thing, Mrs Leslie. Your daughter is lucky to have you.”
The tears she’d been holding back all evening finally streamed down her face, holding the girl in her arms a little tighter.
“Ma? Are you alright?”
Hester blinked. Images of Jean cradled lifelessly in Hester’s arms vanished into the early evening breeze as she looked into Jean’s concerned eyes. “Yes, sorry,” she sighed, slowing down as she realised that Jean had almost been jogging to keep up with her. “I was just distracted, that’s all. But we’re almost there.”
“Oh thank goodness, I thought I was going to lose all the grips out of my hair,” she gasped dramatically, panting slightly as she continued to trail behind.
Privately Hester doubted that, considering she’d seen Jean tearing through the corridors of MI5 without so much as a curl falling out of place. But she still made a point of slowing down even further to what she’d personally consider a leisurely stroll. It wasn’t just Jean whose short stride struggled to match Hester’s pace; John had suffered the same when they first started courting, the perfect excuse for Hester to coyly ask to hold onto his elbow as he walked her home.
As she pushed open the wrought iron gates of their destination, Jean craned her neck to look up at the ornate building. “Woah. Is this it?” she asked, eyes wide as saucers.
Hester chuckled at the wonder in her eyes. “Yes, this is the Viscount Clements’ house. It’s just as beautiful inside as out, Diana has kept a lovely home. She takes her piano tutees here, you see.”
“It’s the fanciest place I’ve ever been in my life. Well, except when we got our MBEs at the palace, obviously,” Jean corrected herself. She was avoiding Hester’s gaze, a surefire sign that she was beginning to lose her nerve. Hester was about to ask what was troubling her when she blurted out: “Do you think they’re going to like me?”
Smiling fondly, Hester placed a firm hand on Jean’s shoulder. “Diana has been begging me to bring you along for our family dinners since the autumn. We would have both been here for Christmas if we hadn’t been pulled into the office,” she promised sincerely.
Jean rolled her eyes at that and Hester shared the sentiment. MI6’s mishandling of Bletchley Park intelligence had allowed the Germans to catch them by surprise with the Ardennes Offensive, resulting in MI5 working overtime to ensure their double agents weren’t compromised and facilitate the counter-offensive. Hester’s impeccable plans for her and John’s first Christmas together had all been tossed to the wind. At least, all things considered, it would hopefully be their last Christmas spent in wartime.
Catching Jean’s eye, still nervously regarding the front door, Hester prompted her gently. “Are you feeling ready to go in?”
“I think so. Are you sure you’re alright?”
Hester’s knife-sharp perceptiveness was a skill she’d honed well, to the chagrin of her typing pool girls who always bemoaned how she’d known anything was wrong. But it seemed recently that she was reaping what she’d sown; Jean had clearly acquired Hester’s knack for it, as Hester could scarcely get away with anything remaining unsaid anymore. “Thomas’ period of leave ends this week. He’ll be departing for the front before I have a chance to see him again after today,” she sighed.
She didn’t say that he was being deployed to Sri Lanka; loose lips sink ships and all, and she would find out soon enough once Kensington’s populace couldn’t overhear them. She also didn’t say that the reawakened memories of Thomas’ disappearance in the Mediterranean the previous summer had become so intertwined with Jean’s fight for her life after the office bombing, that she could scarcely think of one without the other.
Looking back at Jean, it was easy to pick up on the anxiousness that had settled back over her expression. “But that’s no matter. Today is a day for happiness,” Hester declared, nudging Jean with her elbow until she cracked a tiny smile.
Thankfully, Jean’s nerves seemed to dissipate upon being immediately accosted by Delilah. Diana’s youngest had spent the two months since she turned seventeen in training with the Auxiliary Territorial Service, having recently returned to London to begin her first role as a lorry driver. Hester’s discussion with Thomas was interrupted by Jean’s astonished squawk upon learning that the ‘Elizabeth’ who Delilah had trained alongside was none other than the crown princess. Over the dinner table they enthusiastically traded anecdotes from their respective workplaces, with Hester only stepping in periodically when Jean’s tales threatened to present a national security breach.
After dinner Delilah and Thomas crammed themselves onto the piano stool to plonk out a duet together, their laughter pealing like bells across the drawing room. Hester smiled wistfully as she watched them, reminded of another time in a much humbler drawing room, as Tom interrupted a giggling Diana’s performances with tuneless chords. Tomorrow they would face the war again; Thomas would be on the train to Newport to reunite with his squadron, Delilah would be behind the wheel on supply runs across London, and Jean would be transcribing briefing minutes to be distributed across High Command. All far too young to bear a nation’s burden on their shoulders. But today, just for a moment, they could be children again.
While watching her niece and nephew bickering over key signatures, snippets of Jean and Diana’s conversation reached her ears. “It’s been a really wonderful evening, Lady Clements,” she started, nervous yet sincere.
“Please, call me Diana. I’m still a country girl at heart, I’ve never had time for silly titles,” Diana insisted.
Hester felt Jean relax from where she sat next to her on the settee. “Got it. But it has really been wonderful,” she continued, “Thank you for inviting me to come along with Hester.”
“Of course you’re invited. You’re Hester’s cuckoo.”
Jean tilted her head. “Her cuckoo?”
Diana chuckled before she explained their decades-old inside joke. “Cuckoo chicks are never raised by their own parents; they lay their eggs in another bird’s nest. When Hester came to us and my folks took her in, she was our cuckoo. And now she has a cuckoo chick of her very own.” The pride in Diana’s voice made tears well in Hester’s eyes but she didn’t give away that she’d been eavesdropping, keeping her eyes carefully trained on the pianists.
“Oh,” Jean said. Hester felt her shift to lean into Hester’s side, who put her arm around Jean’s shoulders with barely a thought spared to the action. “Oh.”
Sunday evenings were Hester’s favourite time of the week. She and John had fallen into an easy routine in the seven months they’d lived together; they would assemble whatever ingredients that rationing allowed into an attempt at a Sunday roast, then they would put their feet up and watch the television, and then Hester would make a chamomile tea and John a Horlicks before they retired to bed. Rarely would they be interrupted by an urgent work call or be too tired from the day to enjoy each other’s company. It was perfect, domestic bliss.
“I’m just grateful that we’ve not bombed the bloody Swiss this weekend,” John grumbled when Hester mentioned how she’d enjoyed the peaceful day. Hester was sure that some poor RAF commander had been forlornly erasing their ‘number of days since neutral Switzerland was bombed’ counter back to zero.
She was interrupted from saying so by a knock on the door. “Are we expecting anyone?” Hester asked, giving John a questioning glance.
John startled as the knocking sounded again, more frantic this time. “Who in God’s name is trying to break in at 10pm on a Sunday?” he muttered, pulling his dress robe over his pyjamas as he hurried to the front door.
Expecting it to be nothing more than a circular, Hester continued getting their mugs out of the cupboard while she waited for the kettle to boil. She heard the door latch open, before silence followed for a second. “Err – Hester?”
There was something in his voice, some hint of barely hidden urgency, that made her ignore the kettle’s whistle in favour of rushing down the hallway. John met her eyes first but said nothing, only motioning for her to squeeze past him to the open door.
Stood in the dark without a coat, one hand clamped over her mouth in a poor attempt to stifle her tears, was Jean. Hester had no opportunity to ask what had got her so worked up before there was a bunch of wilting wildflowers and a brown paper packet being thrust towards her.
Jean’s voice cracked as she choked out tearfully “Happy Mother’s Day.”
The words didn’t register in Hester’s mind for a moment. And then she realised with horrible clarity: this was Jean’s first Mothering Sunday since she’d left home. Hester hadn’t spared a thought for the occasion since leaving home over thirty years ago. And now here was her Jean, almost dissolving into sobs on Hester’s doorstep as the gifts in her hands started to shake.
Jean made a noise like a wounded animal, finally shocking Hester out of her thoughts. She rushed forward in her haste and immediately staggered back as Jean flung herself bodily into Hester’s arms. A breath escaped through Hester’s teeth at the unpleasantness of Jean’s sodden shirt sticking to her skin. But still she held her, letting Jean sob into her shoulder as all her grief resurfaced.
“Bring her inside,” John’s voice sounded from somewhere behind her. Jean had already wrapped her legs around Hester’s waist, Hester letting out a grunt as she adjusted Jean’s weight onto her hip to carry her into the apartment.
John held the living room door open for them, but as Hester attempted to settle Jean down onto one of the sofas she cried harder, shaking her head next to Hester’s ear. “My dear, I need to put you down but I’m not going anywhere, I promise,” Hester assured her, the strain in her back easing as Jean released her hold. She wouldn’t meet Hester’s gaze as Hester moved to sit next to her, her knees pulled up to her chest and her arms crossed over her head with gifts still in hand.
Placing a hand on her knee, Hester chose to painstakingly ignore the presence of Jean’s wet shoes on her sofa cushions. “What happened, Jean?” she asked softly.
Sniffing loudly, Jean finally lifted her head to reveal puffy, bloodshot eyes. “It’s Mother’s Day,” she started unnecessarily, and Hester gave a patient nod. “Part of me wanted to send a card but she didn’t send anything for my birthday, or- or for Christmas.”
Hester knew this already, remembered her blood boiling every time Jean returned empty-handed from her mail slot. The sorrow on Jean’s face and slump to her shoulders had been more than Hester could bear.
“I knew Mother’s Day was coming but I just wanted to pretend it didn’t exist,” Jean continued, a bitter note creeping into her voice. “But- but then, I couldn’t stop thinking about what Diana said at dinner the other week. That I’m your cuckoo. And I had to make you something. But I kept making mistakes, and suddenly the day was almost over, and I’d left it too late to buy flowers from the market so I picked them on the way, and I forgot my coat ‘cos I was rushing, and my keys are in my coat pocket, and I-”
She broke off as tears overwhelmed her, a violent shiver wracking her frame. But before Hester could reach out to comfort her, Jean pushed the brown paper packet into Hester’s outstretched hands. Clearly not trusting her voice, she just nodded desperately when Hester met her gaze.
Upon unwrapping the twine that secured the package, Hester found herself looking down at a small oval brooch embroidered with flowers. The stitching was nothing short of chaotic, there was a tiny tear in the fabric from where thread had been unpicked, and a few French knots were threatening to unravel themselves before her eyes. But knowing that Jean had painstakingly slaved over it all day just for her made it nothing short of perfect.
“It’s awful, isn’t it?” Jean croaked. Hester looked up at her in complete bafflement. “It’s supposed to be hyacinths and juniper berries – you know, hyacinth for Hester and juniper for Jean – but you can barely even tell. I was going to do roses for you but I thought that might make you sad, ohmygodIwasntsupposedtotellyouthat, I’m still a terrible daughter, I’m just messing all of this up even more.”
As Jean’s breath hitched in her chest, Hester reached for her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “You are not a terrible daughter, Jean. You never were to your mother, and you could never be to me either. It is truly one of the most beautiful, most thoughtful gifts that anyone has ever given me,” she said, looking at Jean through misty eyes.
Jean’s eyes glittered as she gave Hester a shaky smile through blueish lips. As much as Hester longed to draw her into her arms again, she knew that leaving Jean in her sodden clothes for much longer would only result in her catching a chill. “I’d like for you to stay here tonight, and then we can telephone the warden tomorrow to get you let back into the boarding house. Shall we get you into some warm clothes?” Hester asked, more of a plea than a question.
A pitiful nod answered her. After coaxing the bunch of wildflowers from Jean’s hand, Hester found her warmest set of woollen pyjamas and bundled Jean into the bathroom with them. They didn’t often get worn, but growing up in the India heat meant there were some nights when her preferred nightgowns were simply insufficient against the cold. While Jean changed, Hester busied herself with finding a vase for the flowers before she allowed herself a moment to breathe.
“There’s a hot water bottle ready for her in the bed,” John quietly announced his presence. Hester glanced at the worktop, noticing that their mugs were still empty from when she’d started preparing their drinks what felt like hours ago. The kettle had already boiled by the time Jean made her appearance; he must have prepared the hot water bottle as soon as Hester brought her inside. “I’ll stay in the guest room. She clearly needs you more than I do tonight.”
As she watched, John took a third mug down from the cupboard and added another scoop of tea leaves to the pot. “What did I do to deserve you,” Hester murmured, rubbing a tired hand over her face.
John smiled, capturing her hands in his own. “You cared, love. It’s easy to see how important you are to each other. Helping you care for her is the very least I can do,” he answered, as if it were the simplest thing in the world.
And perhaps it was, Hester thought. John had confessed early in their relationship that he wasn’t good at expressing emotions, that going out of his way to do things for people was often the best thing he could think of to do. He’d softened over their year of courting, Hester’s heart swelling with how comfortable he’d grown telling her of his affections. Hester knew he cared for Jean more than he was able to admit; maybe helping Hester give her the support she needed was his way of supporting her in turn.
Hearing the bathroom door click open, Hester gave John a swift kiss before going to find her little girl. Jean was stood in the doorway of the guest room, utterly dwarfed by Hester’s pyjamas which she’d tied at the waist to keep from falling down. A confused look appeared on her face as Hester steered her away from the guest room she’d inhabited during her recovery and down the hallway. “We thought you might need a little more comfort tonight,” she explained as they walked.
She was answered by Jean’s face suddenly pressed into Hester’s sternum and shaking arms wrapped around her waist. A mournful sob sounded muffled into Hester’s shawl. Hester quickly wrapped her into a firm embrace, rocking her gently on her feet and running her fingers through her damp hair.
With some persistent encouragement, Hester was able to shepherd her into the master bedroom and beneath the duvet. Jean whimpered as she hugged the hot water bottle to her stomach, allowing herself to be manoeuvred with her legs across Hester’s lap and her head rested on Hester’s collarbone. Hester simply held her as her breath continued to stutter with tearful whimpers, allowing her the space to speak when she was ready.
Sure enough, a few minutes later, Jean lifted her head and gave a congested sniff. “I feel all complicated,” she muttered, an infantile pout on her face.
Hester couldn’t help but chuckle at her choice of words. “What’s complicating you?” she asked, sweeping a few strands of hair behind Jean’s ear.
“I never want to see her again. But I miss her so, so badly.”
Her chest hitched as tears spilled down her cheek. Hester pulled her closer, rubbing her hand comfortingly up and down Jean’s arm. “I know you do. It’s to be expected that days like this will feel a little raw for a while. You’re grieving, my dear,” she spoke softly, feeling Jean nod against her collar. “I apologise for neglecting to check in on you before now. It’s not an occasion I have had reason to think about for a long time.”
Jean sniffled again, looking up blearily to meet Hester’s eyes. “Did you miss your Ma? After you left home?” she asked in a wavering voice.
Hester sighed, and Jean stiffened. “It’s alright. You’re allowed to ask,” Hester started, waiting for Jean to relax back into her arms before she continued. “It’s difficult to say. My folks were never particularly involved in my childhood, I was much closer to the nanny I had in India than I ever was to my mother. I certainly felt bereft and saddened that they weren’t able to accept my authentic self. But I consoled myself with the reminder that my loss was entirely voluntary on their part. My mother’s parting words to me were that her son was dead.”
“That’s horrid,” Jean whispered, aghast.
She hummed noncommittally. “But I wasn’t dead, I was barely beginning to live. And it was their choice to distance herself from that,” she pointed out. “It helped that I could busy myself with learning who I was, with choosing a name and learning how to present myself as feminine. It also helped that I was distracted by falling in love.” A wistful smile tugged at her lips, remembering the feeling of Tom’s hand in hers as if it were only yesterday.
“I don’t think that’s ever going to happen to me,” Jean confessed, a look of unease spread across her face.
Hester simply nodded; it wasn’t as if she was hearing that information for the first time. “It doesn’t need to. The equivalent is still pouring yourself into connections with those who value you for the person you are. And I’d say you’re doing a commendable job of that.”
A tiny giggle sounded from the bundle in her arms. Hester returned her smile before she continued. “I am truly touched that you thought to make me a gift in the first place, let alone spend so much effort creating something so beautiful. I will be proud to wear it. Thank you, Jean.”
“Obviously I had to make you something. You’re my Ma, you’ve helped me such a lot this year. And ever since you met me too, but ‘specially this year. I had to say thank you,” Jean said, lifting a hand to wipe the tears from her face.
Fondness indescribable by words alone filled Hester’s chest as she looked into Jean’s bright eyes. “Don’t thank me for caring for you. The privilege of being called your Ma is thanks enough.”
“Is it more than that, though?” she questioned, clearly exhausted by the trials of the evening. “Do you love me, Hester?”
Not for the first time that night, Hester found herself blinking back tears. Of course she wished that Jean didn’t have to carry such a burden of grief for a soul so young. But she could never truly deplore it, as it had given her something so special: a daughter. To be called ‘Ma’ was an honour scarcely reserved for women like her. And having been bestowed it, she would never take it for granted.
“I do.” She cleared her throat roughly as she suddenly found herself too overwhelmed with emotion to speak. “Your Ma loves you, Jean. Very, very much.”
The umpteenth time that Hester was called a mother, she was neither in a maternity word nor the typing pool, but with her head on her own pillow as sleep crashed over her. And as Jean curled into her side, tears still drying on her face yet still smiling even in sleep, there was finally a baby in her arms.