The door opened and a figure appeared. Connie opened her mouth to call out, but the pain came again, rising and sharpening, taking her breath. She writhed and groaned, grabbing hold of the bedstead, trying to haul herself up, but she was too weak, and before she could stop herself, she leaned over the bed and vomited straight into the bucket that Dorothy held.

The pain subsided and she lay back, wiping her mouth with her hand, wishing the room would stop spinning. A few minutes lapsed and it began again. She wanted to scream, but in the back of her mind she knew she must be quiet: this was her secret; she wasn’t ready for it to be discovered. Yet the baby was coming, even though it was too early. How could a baby survive coming into the world so soon? It was her fault. All the times she had considered getting rid of it, and the times she had tried, shifting the furniture, running as hard as she could, taking that hot bath.

The pain faded and she found that she was clutching Dorothy’s hand. Letting go, she turned away.

‘Did you do something?’ said Dorothy. ‘Did you take something to bring this on?’

‘No,’ moaned Connie. ‘I want my baby.’

‘Hush,’ said Dorothy, and as the pain came again, she pushed something hard and wooden inside her mouth. ‘Clamp down,’ she said and Connie did, grinding her teeth, tasting the darkness and earthiness of what? The handle of a brush, a wooden spoon? She wanted to choke.

On and on came the pendulum of pain. There were longer periods of hell. Shorter and shorter reprieves. Dorothy’s face loomed as Connie slipped in and out of consciousness. When she was awake, and a contraction began, she flailed and thrashed, grunted and moaned. Her hair stuck to her neck and forehead with sweat. But she didn’t scream. She bit obediently onto the wooden handle.

‘I’m dying,’ she said between gasps of agony.

‘You’re not,’ said Dorothy. Her voice was matter-of-fact, but Connie could see something else. Fear, perhaps.

‘Do I need a doctor?’ she said in a moment of calm.

Lips pursed, Dorothy shook her head. ‘I can do this.’

‘But it’s too early,’ Connie wailed. ‘I don’t want my baby to die.’

Another contraction was coming. ‘Clamp down,’ Dorothy instructed.

And she did, biting the wood, pushing her fists into the mattress, trying to resist the nausea that swept through her.

‘Don’t fight it,’ said Dorothy.

Connie tried to trust her.

A soft rain pattered against the glass. The pain raged on. In her lucid moments, Connie imagined being with Johnny, walking hand in hand through the streets of Paris. If only she had gone sooner. If only she had sent him her letter. What would happen to her now? What if the baby died?

Suddenly she felt a searing as if her body was splitting apart.