Mary Vale – a grand old house, albeit spotlessly clean with old-fashioned furniture and worn linoleum – wasn’t what she had had in mind. Feeling utterly miserable, she walked over to the window, which she flung wide open so that she could inhale the first breath of fresh air she had breathed all day. She leant out and gazed at the marsh, silvery sage-green by the light of the almost full moon that was rising over the sea. From the rippling pools left by the tide came the sound of roosting birds and the echoing hoot of a hunting barn owl, sweeping on ghost-like wings over the ground.

‘There’s no turning back, Sybil,’ she firmly told herself, as she closed the window and prepared for bed.

London was another country, far away; for now she was stuck in the North for the duration of her pregnancy.

4. First Impressions

The following morning dawned wet and windy. Feeling hungry after barely eating the day before, Sybil struggled into an expensive tweed skirt and a pretty pink cashmere twinset. She was grateful that she had her own sink – at least she could wash herself and clean her teeth in private. Examining her face in the mirror over the sink, she was tempted to apply a little make-up – she would certainly never have gone to work without applying foundation, mascara and luscious red lipstick – but this morning, with the rain lashing at the window and the smell of food drifting up the stairwell, Sybil simply couldn’t be bothered.

When she arrived in the dining room, Sybil was taken aback by the number of women gathered around the large dining table, where places were laid and crockery set. As all eyes turned to the newcomer, Sister Mary Paul swooped in bearing a large teapot.

‘Good-morning, Sybil,’ she cried. ‘Sit yourself down and I’ll pour you some tea. The toast is still hot, and there’s some butter there from our Mary Vale Farm and blackberry jam I made last autumn.’

Sister Mary Paul, still bustling around, placed Sybil between two women: one looked like she was going to give birth any minute; the other was probably about as far gone as Sybil.

‘Irene and Mavis will show you the ropes, won’t you, girls?’ Sister Mary Paul commanded rather than requested.

Looking awkward, both girls did as instructed, passing butter, jam, toast and a jug of milk towards Sybil, who gave a polite but distinctly weak smile.

‘How long have you got to go?’ Irene, the larger of the women, with a broad Yorkshire accent, asked.

Rather put out by the intimacy of the question, Sybil prevaricated. ‘Do you mean how many months pregnant am I?’ she asked rather pedantically.

Looking annoyed, Irene snapped, ‘Aye, in’t that what I just said?’