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In an extraordinary case that has confounded scientists, a woman from Kent claims to have given birth to a baby in 1947 while still a virgin. Born in Switzerland, Gretchen Tilbury, twenty-nine, of Sidcup, was an inpatient at St. Cecilia’s Nursing and Convalescent Home in Broadstairs for four months between June and September 1946, during which time her daughter, Margaret, was conceived.

Throughout this time, she had been bedbound with acute rheumatoid arthritis and sharing a ward with three other young women. The patients were attended by nuns and nursing sisters. Several of these have been interviewed and confirm Mrs. Tilbury’s account.

When the eighteen-year-old Gretchen Edel, as she then was, went to her doctor in November 1946 with sickness, fatigue and aching breasts, she thought she must be suffering from a virus. She was amazed to be told by the doctor who examined her that she was expecting a baby.

“I had never even so much as kissed a man,” she told me over tea and cake in her immaculate suburban parlor. “I thought, they’ll soon realize they’ve made a mistake.” But as the weeks passed and the pregnancy became visible, it was clear that there was no mistake.

With the support of her own mother, who never doubted her daughter’s story, Gretchen resolved to keep her baby rather than give her up for adoption. Margaret was born on April 30—a dark-haired, blue-eyed replica of her mother . . .

Jean stopped typing, interrupted by the ringing of the telephone on her desk. She could tell, even from the almost inaudible intake of breath before he spoke, that it was Howard.

“Hello,” she croaked, her throat raw from smoking.

In front of her, the ashtray overflowed with the evidence of her unease. She had been putting off this conversation, but there could be no deceiving him.

“Can you escape?” he asked. “I’ve some news.”

From the steady tone of his voice she couldn’t be sure whether or not she needed to worry.

“And I have some, too,” she said as brightly as she could manage.

“Oh? Good or bad?”

“Well, that rather depends.”

“I’m outside.”

“All right. I’m on my way.”

“I love you.”

“Yes.”

They crossed the railway line to Willett’s Wood and followed the path through the trees. Over the years Jean had often escaped here to eat her lunch, or to clear her head from the stuffiness of the office.

Within minutes they could no longer hear cars or any man-made sound apart from their own footsteps. It was a beautiful, cold day. A few tenacious leaves clung to the bare branches, scraps of red cloth against the blue sky. Frost had crusted the ridges of mud with silver; puddles of ice crackled underfoot.

“So, tell me,” said Jean, lacing her hand in his and feeling his returning grip.

“I have to go and see Aunt Edie tomorrow,” he said. “To help her move. Will you come with me? We could stay overnight in one of the empty rooms.”