‘There is no Johnny.’ His mother raised her voice. ‘He’s gone and he won’t come back if he thinks there’s a baby here to weigh him down. And if he doesn’t come back, what will I do? You have your whole life ahead of you. I have nothing. Except him.’

Connie turned her head away. She wanted to say that she would have a grandchild, but Dorothy was bitter. Angry and bitter. She wouldn’t listen, or care.

‘Barbara has found a couple,’ she continued. ‘They’re coming here this afternoon. I think when you meet them, you’ll agree that it’s for the best.’ She spoke firmly but Connie heard the catch in her voice and saw the colour flaming in her face. Was she trying to convince herself as much as Connie?

The door banged shut. Sarah whimpered. Connie fed her and knew it was now or never. She waited for Sarah to finish, for her breath to slow, her body to relax. She waited for the trickle of milk to slip down her tiny chin. Then she kissed her daughter gently, laid her down on the sheet, and with both hands for support, pushed herself out of bed.

Pain weaved through her. The ache in her belly, the soreness between her legs, the strain of her breasts. Her keys were in amongst her clothes at the foot of the bed. Connie picked them up, then limped from the room, Sarah in her arms. Slowly, she opened the front door. She listened carefully: a drip in the pipes; a creak in the joists. Tip-tap. Kenneth doing his rounds. She moistened her lips. She needed to drink or else she would faint. Shuffling across the corridor to her flat, she unlocked the door, feeling a wave of relief and something like triumph as she closed it quietly behind her.

In the kitchen, she drank water. In the living room, she set Sarah on the settee. In the bedroom, she busied herself looking for the baby clothes that her mother had saved. She lifted the loose floorboard and pulled out the shawl. She found her ticket to Paris and the extra money from the jewellery, which she had hidden inside the poetry book. The letter to Johnny was folded away in a makeshift envelope which she’d stuck onto the back cover. She didn’t need it now because she was going to see him herself. Taking half of the money, she left the rest inside the book, tucking it beneath the floorboard. When she came home, she would give the money to her father to use towards the rent he owed to Kenneth. Next, she slipped on her mother’s wedding ring. Travelling with a baby would be easier as a married woman. Fewer questions. Less unwelcome attention.