Putting her hands out to support herself on the cold brick walls which were damp, even in summer, she looked upwards and saw the stars through the missing tile on the roof. As a contraction subsided, an icy coldness ran like a glaze from her head downwards and needles of pain began to penetrate the palms of her hands as she pushed harder against the wall to keep herself from sliding down onto the sodden, earthy floor. Outside, cats howled and fought for scraps in the entry as bin lids lifted and crashed down again. It was that time of the evening in stable homes where routine begat comfort and order.

A dog barked in a yard in one of the houses further down Nelson Street and Peggy held her breath as footsteps scuttled down the entry towards the house.

‘Paddy,’ she gasped. ‘Paddy, is that you?’

The footsteps slowed and then stopped. ‘Peggy?’ a voice called out. ‘It’s Mary, are you all right?’

Oh, thank God, help was here! For the briefest moment Peggy’s heart soared with relief then she recognised the voice and her hopes were dashed as fast as they had risen. It was Deirdre’s daughter, Mary. Deirdre, the last person Peggy would want to see the dilemma she was in – her children without shoes, the disorganised mess in the kitchen and the mantelshelf bare, her pride and joy, her mother’s clock, gone. She would judge the lack of food on the press, the missing blankets and cutlery. And when this baby came there was no coal to heat water, no clean towels to wrap it in. Help was on the other side of the gate, but it was help neither her pride nor self-respect would allow her to take.

With every ounce of strength and willpower she had, Peggy held her breath, resisted the urge to pant. She stood stock-still until the footsteps continued on their journey and the silence surged softly back. Peggy was trapped in a nightmare and her mind began to wander and dart about.

‘No, no, no! Please no,’ she sobbed as tears ran down her face – and suddenly she was no longer in the outhouse. She was up in her bedroom, with the fire lit and Maura sitting on the end of her bed with little Paddy in her arms.

‘Your firstborn a boy, isn’t that marvellous?’ said Maura. ‘And would you look at that head of hair! Sure, he’s nothing like his father.’

And they had both laughed as the midwife went about her business, making Peggy comfortable. A candle burnt on the windowsill, to let the street know little Paddy had arrived, one for a boy, two for a girl.

‘Maura,’ Peggy gasped, ‘Maura!’