Mary was in her ninth month, and very ungainly. The baby made a huge mound in the centre of the bed, a mound that didn’t seem to belong to the woman who carried it. Mary’s once-strong arms were thin, her hands bony, as was the rest of her body apart from her belly. It was as if all her strength and energy had been drawn from her and given to the unborn child. Evelyne propped up the pillows behind her Ma, and Mary leaned back. As Evelyne put the tray carefully on the bed, she noticed the tea and bread she had brought earlier had not been touched.

‘How’s our Mike, he get on all right, Evie?’

Evelyne nodded and began to tidy the room, patted the drying sheets.

‘Are you feeling any better, Ma? You not been sick?’

She watched as Mary used both hands to lift the mug of tea.

‘You eat the stew if you can, Ma, you need your strength.’

‘Get along with you, Evie Jones, treating me like I was a baby.’ Mary lifted the spoon and tried to eat but couldn’t, she felt too exhausted. ‘Spend some time with Mike tonight, it’s always bad on their first day. I’ll maybe finish my supper later … have you been in to see little Davey?’

‘I’ll go to him now. You try and eat, Ma, there’s not too much salt is there?’

Mary put her hand out to take her daughter’s, gripped it tight. ‘You’re a good daughter, and the stew’s just perfect… I’ll have a little rest now.’

She felt so weary, and her eyes closed. She was more than worried, she’d not felt as bad as this even with little Davey.

Little Davey was in his cot, his nappy wet, his shining face red and blotchy.