‘It’s coming,’ said Dorothy. ‘Keep going. Push now.’

She tried: she pushed and pushed, and when the next contraction came, she pushed again.

‘It’s coming,’ Dorothy repeated. ‘Do you want to see?’

Connie was exhausted, spent, but somehow – somehow – she found the strength to press her hands against the mattress, force herself upwards, and there, between her legs, she saw a crown, a head. In another instant, a shoulder and a chest, a whole body, arms, legs. It was a tiny naked being, smeared in skin and blood and mucus, and it was the most incredible sight Connie had ever seen. She reached out, but the pain kept on coming.

Dorothy was busy: clamping and cutting and checking the baby. ‘It’s a girl,’ she said. Connie felt emptied out and desolate, as if her body had given something up, but then Dorothy wrapped the baby in a blanket and placed the bundle into Connie’s arms and, as she looked into her child’s face, love replaced the loss. She bowed her head as her tears swelled. A girl. A daughter. Her daughter.

Dimly, she heard Dorothy swear, saw her face contort as she reached between Connie’s legs and drew out a lump of gristle and flesh, which she dropped into a bowl. She was only half aware of Dorothy examining her, frowning and mopping and pressing and prodding. Because how could she concentrate on anything other than this beautiful baby in her arms? How could she concentrate on anything else ever again? Gently Connie touched the damp mass of hair that was black, like her mother’s.

Sarah.

She whispered the name in the baby’s ear.

She slept and when she woke, her arms were empty. It was dark in the room. There was an ache inside her and a sharp pain between her legs. She could feel a wetness there too, and put down her hand and touched blood. Struggling to sit, dizzy and frantic like a child who’d lost her mother – yet this was the other way around. Where was her baby? Where was Sarah?

Connie’s panic grew wild. She flung out an arm, knocking the lamp, fumbling for and finding the switch, and then spotted a blanketed bundle on the floor.

Relief became desperation. She must reach the bundle. She must pick up her baby. She must keep her close and warm. She tried lowering her legs over the side of the bed, but pain stopped her. Desperately, she gripped the bedside table, twisting her body, using it as leverage. The lamp fell. The baby let out a cry. The door opened and light sliced the room.

Dorothy rushed in, picking up the bundle and placing her in Connie’s arms. The baby burrowed close, her tiny face screwed up with concentration as she suckled.