Chapter Text
The biting air clung to Carmody as he walked home from a late call, his breath forming small clouds in the darkness. The familiar silhouette of Skeldale House emerged from the gloom like an old friend, its windows darkened by blackout curtains. Somewhere in the distance, the muffled drone of a Lancaster bomber cut through the night, flying off to some far flung corner of Europe - a constant sound that had become the soundtrack of his life.
Carmody pulled his coat tighter against the wind that swept down from the Yorkshire moors. His bag felt heavier tonight, weighted not just with instruments and medicines but with the accumulated fatigue of wartime practice.
Everything was harder now. Simple supplies that he'd once taken for granted - sulpha powder, decent surgical thread, even proper bandages - required careful rationing and creative substitution. The local chemist's shelves grew barer each week, and Carmody found himself making do with remedies that would have horrified his professors at veterinary college.
He'd spent the evening at the home of an elderly lady in the village, trying to save a sheepdog that had developed complications during birth. The old lady had watched with anxious eyes as Carmody worked by lamplight, her weathered hands wringing together.
“She’s all I’ve got left,” She’d muttered, and Carmody understood. The war had taken her two grandsons - one to the Navy, one to the Army. This dog represented hope for her when the future seemed increasingly uncertain.
The dog had survived, at least for tonight. But Carmody couldn't shake the feeling that he was fighting a losing battle against forces much larger than sick animals. The whole country felt stretched thin, like a piece of elastic pulled to its breaking point. Young men disappeared from the village with alarming regularity, called up to serve in places whose names appeared in the newspapers with grim frequency. The ones who returned came back changed, carrying invisible wounds. Every day, Carmody was grateful for his profession being protected.
As he approached Skeldale House, Carmody allowed himself a moment of gratitude for the solid walls and warmth of the home ahead.
The house stood empty tonight - Siegfried was away at a conference in Edinburgh, James and Helen were visiting Helen’s father up at Heston Grange, and Tristan had recently been called back to stay at Doncaster with his teaching duties. Only Mrs. Hall remained in residence, and she would have retired hours ago after leaving a plate of something nourishing in the pantry, despite the restrictions that made every meal a careful calculation.
He paused at the door, fumbling for his keys with fingers stiff from the cold. As Carmody's key found the lock, a sound stopped him sharp - a thin, reedy cry that seemed to emerge from the darkness itself. He froze, his hand still on the door handle, listening intently. The sound came again, weak but unmistakably human, unmistakably distressed.
"What on Earth...?" he whispered, his heart beginning to race with a mixture of confusion and alarm.
Following the cry, he stepped back from the door and peered into the shadows beside the entrance. There, tucked against the stone wall of the house, was a wicker basket. Even though the street was dark due to the blackout regulations, there was enough moonlight for Carmody to see the pale edge of a blanket and the small, moving form within.
"Good God," he breathed, his bag falling from nerveless fingers as he stared at what was unmistakably a baby.
The infant - for that's undoubtedly what it was - let out another cry, stronger this time, and Carmody felt a surge of panic that made his hands shake uncontrollably.
A baby. Here. On their doorstep. In the middle of February. In the middle of a war.
The infant was tiny, perhaps only a couple of weeks old, wrapped in a thin woollen blanket that provided insufficient protection against the night. Her face was red with cold and crying, but her movements seemed strong enough.
"Where did you come from, little one?" he asked frantically, looking around the empty street as if expecting to see someone lurking in the shadows. "Where's your mother? What am I supposed to do with you?"
The baby's cries intensified, and Carmody felt his panic rising to match them. She was so small, so helpless, so completely dependent on competent care that he was utterly unqualified to provide. What if she was ill? What if he did something wrong and made things worse?
With infinite care and considerable terror, he lifted the baby from the basket, cradling her against his chest with the awkward movements of someone who had never held an infant before. She was surprisingly warm despite the circumstances, and he could feel the rapid flutter of her heartbeat against his palm as she cried against his chest. The weight of her, the complete trust with which she settled against him, made him feel dizzy with responsibility.
"Right," he said aloud, his voice shaking slightly. "Right. Inside first. Warmth. Then... then I'll work out what to do next."
But as he fumbled with his keys again whilst trying to support the baby with one arm, the magnitude of the situation began to overwhelm him. This was a child who had been abandoned on their doorstep, and he hadn't the faintest idea how to care for her properly.
Clutching the baby carefully against his chest, he managed to unlock the door and stumble inside Skeldale House. The warmth hit him immediately, and he felt the baby relax slightly in his arms.
"Mrs. Hall!" he called out, his voice carrying through the house with an urgency that bordered on panic. "Mrs. Hall! Please, I need help! Something's happened!"
The sound of quick footsteps came from upstairs, and Mrs. Hall appeared at the top of the staircase, hastily wrapping a dressing gown around herself. Her hair was in curling papers, and her expression shifted from mild annoyance at being woken to sharp concern as she took in the scene below.
"Mr. Carmody? Whatever's the matter?" she asked, hurrying down the stairs at speed.
"I found her," Carmody said, his words tumbling over each other in his distress. "On the doorstep. In a basket. She's just a baby, Mrs. Hall, and I don't know what to do. I haven't any experience with infants. We have to do something, but I don't know what..."
Mrs. Hall reached the bottom of the stairs and moved immediately towards them, her expression transforming into alert competence.
“Let me see her," she said firmly, extending her arms.
"Should I call for the doctor?" Carmody asked frantically as he transferred the baby to Mrs. Hall's experienced hands. "Or the police? There must be procedures for this sort of thing. Someone must be looking for her. We can't just..."
"Hush now," Mrs. Hall said quietly, her attention focused on the baby as she began her own assessment. Her hands moved with practised efficiency, checking the infant's temperature, examining her colour. "She's cold but not dangerously so. Well-nourished, from the look of her. Healthy enough.”
The baby stopped crying and was now gazing up at Mrs. Hall curiously. Her eyes, dark and surprisingly focused, seemed to take in every detail of her new surroundings.
"We must call the police," Mrs. Hall said practically, returning to Carmody’s question. "Someone will be missing her."
"Yes, of course," Carmody agreed, feeling slightly calmer now that Mrs. Hall was taking charge. "I'll telephone the constabulary immediately. Though at this hour..."
"They'll have someone on duty," Mrs. Hall assured him. "And the sooner we report this, the better for everyone involved."
The telephone call, when Carmody finally managed to place it, was answered by a weary-sounding desk sergeant who took the basic details with the kind of resigned efficiency that suggested abandoned infants weren't entirely uncommon in wartime Britain. He promised to send someone round as soon as possible, though he warned that with only one constable on night duty for the entire district, it might be an hour or more before anyone arrived.
"An hour," Carmody reported back to Mrs. Hall, who had settled into a kitchen chair with the baby and was making soft, soothing sounds that seemed to comfort her considerably. "What do we do until then?"
"We do what needs doing," Mrs. Hall replied matter-of-factly. "She'll want feeding, and soon by the look of her. There's some tinned milk in the pantry, and I can make up a bottle if you'll fetch the supplies. We’ll have to borrow some of Jimmy’s things but I’m sure Helen won’t mind.”
The next hour passed in a blur. Mrs. Hall prepared the formula and coaxed the now hungry baby into accepting the bottle, whilst Carmody simply hovered anxiously nearby, offering assistance wherever possible.
When the knock finally came at the kitchen door, Carmody felt a mixture of relief and apprehension. The police would know what to do, would have proper procedures for handling abandoned children, would take responsibility for decisions that he felt utterly unqualified to make.
The man who entered when Mrs. Hall opened the door was Constable Wilkins, a middle-aged officer whom Carmody recognised from various village functions. He looked tired and slightly harassed, as if this call was merely the latest in a long series of wartime complications that had made his job considerably more difficult than it had been in peacetime.
"Evening, Mrs. Hall, Mr. Carmody," he said, removing his helmet and accepting the offered chair with obvious gratitude. "Sorry it's taken so long to get here. It's been quite a night - someone lost their livestock and couldn't find them in the blackout. It caused havoc.”
Mrs. Hall waved away his apology good-naturedly. “Nevermind it. Now, Mr. Carmody found this young lady on the doorstep around half past ten.” She reported efficiently, rocking the baby as she spoke. "She looks no more than a few weeks old. No note, no identification, nothing to indicate where she came from."
Constable Wilkins pulled out his notebook and began taking down the details with methodical thoroughness. But when Mrs. Hall asked about arrangements for the baby's care, his expression grew troubled.
"That's where we run into difficulties," he admitted, his pen hovering over the page. "The usual channels for this sort of thing... well, they're not what they used to be. The orphanage in Leeds took a direct hit three weeks ago. Most of the children were evacuated safely, but the building's gone, and they're still trying to find alternative accommodations.”
"What about other institutions?" Carmody asked, though something in the constable's tone suggested the news wouldn't be encouraging. He sat forward in his seat, anxious to hear the answer.
"Stretched to breaking point, I'm afraid," Wilkins shrugged sadly. "Between the evacuees from the bigger cities and the children who've lost parents in the bombings, there simply aren't enough places. The few institutions that are still operating have waiting lists months long."
"So what happens to her?" Mrs. Hall asked quietly, her arms tightening protectively around the infant.
"Normally, we'd place her with a foster family temporarily," the constable explained. "But even those are in short supply. Most people who might take in a child already have evacuees or their own family members to worry about."
The silence that followed was heavy with implications that none of them wanted to voice directly. Carmody looked at the baby, sleeping peacefully in Mrs. Hall's arms, and felt his chest tighten with an emotion he couldn't quite identify.
"How long would it take to find something suitable?" he asked finally.
"Could be weeks," Wilkins admitted. "Could be months. The war's turned everything upside down, and children's services are just trying to cope as best they can."
Mrs. Hall was quiet for a long moment, studying the baby’s sleeping face with an expression that Carmody recognised as her thinking look. When she finally spoke, her voice carried the kind of quiet determination that had seen her through years of managing crisis situations.
"Then she stays here," she said simply.
"Mrs. Hall..." Carmody began, but she cut him off.
"Look around you, Constable," she continued, addressing Wilkins directly. "This is a large house with plenty of room and people who know how to care for vulnerable creatures. Mr. Carmody here is a qualified veterinarian with steady employment, I've raised a child before, and we have the resources to provide proper care."
"It's highly irregular," Wilkins said slowly, though his tone suggested he was considering the possibility rather than rejecting it outright.
"Everything's irregular these days," Mrs. Hall pointed out reasonably. "The question is whether it's better for this child to stay somewhere she's wanted and can be properly cared for, or to be shuffled around various temporary arrangements until some overworked official can find time to process her case."
Carmody found himself staring at Mrs. Hall with something approaching awe. In the space of a few hours, she had transformed an impossible situation into a manageable one.
"What would be required?" he heard himself asking, surprised by the steadiness of his own voice. "Legally, I mean. If we were to... to foster her temporarily."
Wilkins consulted his notebook, flipping through several pages of what appeared to be official procedures. "Emergency placement can be authorised locally, provided there's proper supervision and regular visits from someone in authority. Given the circumstances - the lack of alternatives, the suitability of the household - I think it could be arranged."
"Then that's what we'll do," Mrs. Hall said firmly, as if the matter were already settled. "She'll stay here at Skeldale House until proper arrangements can be made.”
As Constable Wilkins completed his paperwork and left, promising to return with the necessary forms for temporary guardianship, Carmody found himself alone with Mrs. Hall and the baby who had so dramatically altered their quiet evening.
"Right then," Mrs. Hall said practically, settling the baby more comfortably in her arms. "If she's staying, we need to sort out who's to be responsible for her care. Mr. Farnon's got the practice to run and can barely manage his own schedule. James and Helen have young Jimmy to think about, and not to mention James is still settling back into civilian life after his discharge. And Tristan's away at Doncaster with his teaching duties."
Carmody felt a growing sense of dread as the logic of the situation became clear. "Mrs. Hall, surely you don't mean..."
"You're the obvious choice, Mr. Carmody," she continued. "You've got the most flexibility in your schedule, you're here in the house, and you found her. It seems only fitting."
"But I know nothing about babies!" Carmody protested, his voice rising slightly in panic. "I wouldn't know the first thing about feeding schedules or nappy changes or... or any of it! What if I do something wrong? What if she becomes ill and I don't recognise the signs?"
Mrs. Hall fixed him with the kind of steady look that had quelled more experienced men than Carmody. "Mr. Carmody, you're a veterinarian. You know how to care for vulnerable creatures, how to observe their needs, how to respond when something's amiss. A baby isn't so very different from a lamb or a calf, when you get down to it."
"She's completely different!" Carmody exclaimed, staring at the tiny face peering up at them. "She's human! She's someone's daughter! I can't just... experiment on her the way I might with veterinary treatments."
"You won't be experimenting," Mrs. Hall chided. "You'll be learning, just like every new parent does. And you won't be doing it alone - I'll help you. I'll show you everything you need to know about feeding and bathing and all the rest."
"But your other duties, the household to manage..."
"Can be adjusted," Mrs. Hall replied with the kind of practical certainty that even Carmody couldn't reason against. "This little one needs someone dedicated to her care, and you're the one with the time for it."
Carmody looked down at the baby, who had begun making small, seeking movements with her mouth. The responsibility felt overwhelming, terrifying in its completeness. "What if I'm not suited for it? What if I can't manage?"
"Then you'll muddle through like everyone else does," Mrs. Hall said, not unkindly. "Babies are remarkably resilient, Mr. Carmody. They don't need perfection - they need consistency, warmth, and someone who cares about their welfare. I rather think you can manage that."
The baby chose that moment to let out a small cry, and Mrs. Hall immediately began making soothing sounds.
"We'll need proper supplies if she's staying more than tonight," She carried on. "Infant formula, proper bottles, nappies, clothes suitable for a baby her age. I'll go into the town in the morning and see what I can manage. We might have to borrow a few things from Helen depending on what I can find."
"Are you certain about this?" he asked quietly, slightly dizzy. "About me being... being her primary caretaker? It's an enormous responsibility, and I haven't any experience with children."
"Neither did I, the first time," Mrs. Hall replied. "But you learn as you go. Besides," she added, looking down at the baby with an expression of growing fondness, "look at her. You can tell she's going to be a fighter, this one. Tenacious as anything, like a proper little wren. Reminds me of myself when I was in the Wrens during the last war - small but determined, never giving up no matter how difficult things got."
"Wren," Carmody repeated, and somehow the name made everything feel more real, more permanent. "That's... that's a good name for her, isn't it? Better than 'the baby' or whatever the authorities might call her."
She needed a name, if nothing else.
"Wren it is then," Mrs. Hall agreed with satisfaction. "Little Wren."
Mrs Hall rose from her chair with the baby - Wren - still secure in her arms. “First things first, we'll need to set up somewhere proper for her to sleep. I’m sure Helen has an old moses basket somewhere. And I'll see what I can find in the way of baby things to tide us over until I can get to the shops tomorrow."
As they made their way upstairs, Carmody reflected on how completely his quiet, predictable life had been transformed in the space of a single evening. This morning, he had been a bachelor veterinarian living in comfortable routine; tonight, he was responsible for the welfare of an abandoned infant. Carmody found himself wondering if any amount of time would be sufficient to prepare him for the responsibility that had quite literally been left on their doorstep.