Connie’s gaze lit on a photo of the doctor’s wife and three children in a brass frame next to the clock. She remembered a story Harry had told her about his cousin’s friend. The girl had been made pregnant by her married neighbour. There had been talk that she had been forced, although nothing was proved, and regardless of that, Doctor Franklin had refused to recommend an abortion. In the end, she had gone to a backstreet. Hot water, carbolic mixtures, douches and knitting needles. The girl had nearly bled to death.

Why would Doctor Franklin make a different decision for Connie? Besides, she knew his recommendation wouldn’t be enough. She wasn’t sure how getting an abortion worked. She only knew it wasn’t easy and would cost money and where would she get that?

The doctor coughed again.

Connie gathered herself. ‘Yes. I mean I don’t have it now, but . . .’

‘Ah.’ He rocked gently from side to side as if unsticking the seat of his trousers. A line of sweat had gathered on his upper lip. Connie could feel her own sweat pooling between her breasts.

‘You’re probably low on iron,’ he said. ‘It’s common in young girls. Are you eating well?’

‘Yes. Maybe. I don’t know.’

Picking up his pen, he paused and gave her another look. ‘And you have no other symptoms?’

She shook her head.

‘In that case . . .’ He scribbled a prescription, signed it with a flourish, tore off the sheet and handed it across. ‘This is a tonic,’ he said. ‘Take it three times a day and you’ll be as right as rain. Your diet is poor, that’ll be it. It’s not surprising without . . .’ He stopped, winced, glanced at his watch. ‘Give my best to your father, won’t you? Is he recovering, keeping busy?’

It would take more than keeping busy to make her father stop missing her mother, but she told the doctor he was fine.

Outside, she ran, her feet pounding on the pavement. How stupid she was. How cowardly. Seeing the doctor had been a waste of time. But if she hadn’t had the courage to confess to him, who could she tell?

There was no one. If only her mother were alive. She would know what to do. She had been practical, no-nonsense. Connie had heard her talk more than once about the unfairness of women’s lives hanging in the balance as they waited for the doctors’ judgement. A solution was available only for girls who were rich, she had said, and could get themselves to Harley Street. Not that her mother had thought lightly about abortion, but she thought there should be a choice for those in desperate straits.