Katie could see that Miss Poulter was coming round a little.

‘You should have told me,’ she said stiffly. ‘You haven’t been straight with me and I don’t appreciate that.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Katie said, demurely. ‘Only’ – she lowered her voice even further – ‘it’s a bit embarrassing to talk about.’

‘Quite so.’ Miss Poulter looked out of the window, down at the yard where a truck was turning, belching out exhaust fumes. ‘If you can be as discreet as possible, you can stay. But any trouble . . .’

‘Yes, Miss Poulter. Thank you.’

She followed the woman’s stiff walk back to their room, flushed with relief.

Twenty-Two

Winter 1944

Somewhere in the distance, she could hear a baby crying. Muzzily Katie opened her eyes to see pale-blue walls, and a big dark wardrobe. She tried to move, but flopped back, a wrenching pain shooting through her belly. She heard a crackling noise and realized she was lying on sheets of newspaper. Her breasts ached sharply. Between her legs was some sort of cloth pad, and everything down there felt damp and sticky.

‘Oh, dear God. Oh, Mom, Mom, why aren’t you here?’ she murmured in a heartbroken voice, before slipping back into sleep.

‘Katie?’ It seemed only seconds later that she was woken again. The stickiness had grown worse. A face floated into focus. ‘How’re you feeling? I’ve brought little’un up for you.’

No, Katie thought. Don’t make me do anything! I can’t manage – I can’t even get up.

But Ann’s mom, Mrs Miller, plump and capable like her daughter, came and sat on the side of the bed – Ann’s bed, which normally she shared with two of her younger sisters. Mrs Miller’s thin, faded hair was scraped up in a bun and she was missing several front teeth, which gave her a rakish smile. The bundle she was holding in her thick arms gave off snuffling noises, sneezed, then let out a vexed-sounding wail. Mrs Miller wobbled with laughter.

‘Hark at him! ’E wants his dinner, ’e does!’

Exhausted as she was, Katie pushed herself up again, full of longing curiosity about the little being who had shared the night’s ordeal. The nightmare of the hours of pain in the darkness was still close to her, but now he had arrived, she wanted nothing more than to hold her son. Sitting up, she frowned.

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Miller. I seem to be bleeding rather a lot.’ She was worried about staining the bed.

‘It’s all right, bab, I know how it is. Don’t you worry – we’ll soon get yer sorted out. ’Ere ’e is, look! ’E’s a fine lad – look at that hair! Go on, that’s it: you give him a feed.’

The little boy took the breast enthusiastically and Katie winced as he started to feed. She stroked the mop of black hair that was slathered to his head. She could see nothing of Simon in him, only her own dark looks, and about this she felt stingingly triumphant.