It was still pitch-dark in the cottage. There was no pale line of dawn or moonlight above the door. Marion pulled the cover, damp with her breathing, up to her face. Her nose was as cold as Alice’s. Into the silence dropped a tiny clink of bark falling from a burnt log, indicating that the fire was not out. Peterkin, still curled up at her feet, breathed more heavily. Peter, a lump rolled in blanket at her side, moved slightly, altered the tone of his breathing for a moment, then subsided into silence again. There was a faint rustle of straw and a thump from the goat, the other side of the partition. Silence again, and perhaps Marion dozed until another whimper from Alice, almost a wail, woke her. But Alice quietened at the touch of her mother’s hand. A dream, perhaps a nightmare, had frightened her, and Marion lay wondering what forms fear and horror might take in the mind of a two-year-old child.

The unease in Marion’s stomach continued and she wondered whether she should attempt to relieve herself. The thought of rising into the chilly air, of going out into the icy dark was very unpleasant. They had always been against adults defecating in the cottage. Perhaps she should wait for the dawn, but no bird in the forest had tried his voice and the cock on the other side of the partition had not even croaked, so dawn could not be imminent. Drowsy but undecided she lay still.

Suddenly Alice gave a yelping cry, a choking cough, and a loud wail. Marion slid out her hand again and encountered warm slimy vomit, which seemed everywhere round the child’s face. Instantly alert to the danger of a baby choking to death, she sat up, pulled away the feather quilt, which seemed sodden, and picked up the wailing child. The cheesy smell of the vomit was increasing her own queasiness. She felt Peter heave and turn over.

‘Alice has been sick,’ she muttered.

He grunted and lay still. Alice continued to cry as much as before. After a while Marion sat on the edge of the bed holding Alice on her lap and wiping at her with a handful of straw from the floor. Peter heaved again.

‘Put her back in the cradle, she’ll soon go off to sleep,’ he said.

‘The quilt and the straw are probably covered in sick – the quilt certainly is. She’d freeze.’

Peter could not sleep with the wailing child, so he sat up. He pulled their blanket over Marion’s shoulders.

‘She’ll quieten down soon,’ she told him, trying to reassure herself.

‘Get back into bed with her,’ Peter said. ‘You’re getting too cold yourself.’ Marion continued sitting and nursing the smelly bundle. ‘Come,’ Peter urged, ‘roll her up in the blanket and keep her on your side of the bed. She’ll go to sleep again. You can clean the cradle in the morning.’

In their fourteen years of marriage they had had many babies, who had often been sick in the night. He was used to it.