She left her bike by the side of the road, grabbed her bag, pushed her way through the tree ahead, twigs and branches snagging at her legs and cape. The wind lifted and propelled her forward, faster than she could run, so she stumbled, caught herself before the gale laid her flat. She had memorised this last part, straight on and right, left and right again. The evening was made darker by thick ebony clouds. There’d be no light in the farmhouse, not with the blackout, and Dora wasn’t sure she’d find it on a night like this.

Her cape and skirt hung in sodden swags, stuck to her body, wrapped round her legs, making walking hard. Head down deep and shoulder to the wind, she saw the bobbing light of a torch and then there was a woman’s hand on her elbow.

‘Thank God, nurse, thank God.’

She followed the woman into the farmhouse, through the kitchen, up the stairs. The house was cold and unlit, save for an oil lamp in the bedroom.

A man sat on the edge of the bed, rocking a woman in his arms. He was lowing, like a wounded beast. Dora went over, lifted the woman’s swollen hand. There was no pulse.

She freed the body from his embrace, laid it on the bed, fished the torch from her pocket, lifted a puffy eyelid and stared into the glassy vacuum. Delved into her bag for her Pinard horn, even though she already knew the baby would be dead.

‘She was having fits.’ His voice quivered, his face haggard in the glow from the lamp. ‘Stomach pains.’

‘We rang as soon as we could,’ the other woman said. ‘But the lines were down. We had to go into St Martin.’

‘Put the kettle on,’ Dora said. ‘Bring me some warm water and make some tea.’ She turned to the man. ‘Do you have more lights?’

‘The electricity’s gone,’ he said. ‘The storm–’

‘Do you have more lights?’

‘In the shed,’ he said. ‘With the cows.’

‘Fetch them.’

Dora took the lamp and placed it closer to the woman, touched the chalky skin and felt the chill of death. Rigor mortis had not yet set in. Her limbs and face were bloated, stomach bulbous with her unborn child, her hip bones sharp and angular against her flesh. Fits. Pains. Oedema. Pre-eclampsia. There was little she could have done even if she had arrived earlier, and the baby, that little frog of a child, dead within her. She was, Dora noted, young.

The man returned with two storm lanterns, and the woman came in with a pot of tea.

‘Give it to him,’ Dora said. ‘Sweeten it, if you can.’ She took one of the lamps, laid it by the bed. ‘What was your wife’s name?’

‘She–’ he broke off, swallowed. ‘Margaret,’ he said. ‘Margaret.’

‘And yours?’

‘Geoffrey.’ His voice was flat. ‘Geoffrey Laurent.’