Surely it would.

Dora was used to things going her way.

They would go her way this time too.

She’d have the baby, give it a decent burial, and then she’d be able to get on with her life at last.

But then it happened.

58

She’d been getting cramps all day, rotten horrible bursts of pain that fluttered across her midriff and made her gasp and double over. Sheet-white and nauseous, she’d told Mrs Wilkes she wasn’t feeling well and straight away the landlady put her to bed.

‘Time’s getting close, I reckon,’ said Mrs Wilkes. ‘I’ll bring you up a hot-water bottle, don’t worry, lovey, all’s going to be fine.’

That had been about one thirty in the afternoon. Her stomach roiled and churned, but eventually she was able to drift into an uneasy sleep. Mrs Wilkes had made her hot milk, which she couldn’t drink. She felt too sick. That evening, the bar was noisy as usual, all laughter and the clinking of glasses and the rumble of the kegs being rolled across the cellar floor. People were having fun, but Dora felt like death.

Maybe she would die, maybe the baby would take her too. She’d heard of that happening, women dying in childbirth. It happened to others, it could happen to her. She slept fitfully, dreaming of funerals and crying babies. Downstairs, she heard the bell ringing for last orders and then slowly over the next hour silence descended on the bar. She heard Mrs Wilkes coming up, but she didn’t want to talk so when her door creaked open she kept her eyes closed, hoping the woman wouldn’t come in and start going on about everything would be fine.

Everything wouldn’t be fine, Dora knew that perfectly well. Her baby was dead inside her, and it was tragic, it was awful, because . . . well, wouldn’t it be nice to have a tiny person, someone who relied on you absolutely, someone you completely loved and who loved you back? Now it came to the point where the birth must be only days away, Dora thought that it would be very nice indeed.

But her baby was dead.

Tears flooded out of her eyes and slid down over her face into the pillow. Her chest was suddenly tight, her throat constricted with grief. She was never going to be able to go home to Mum and say, look, you’ve got another grandchild, isn’t it marvellous? That would have been a way back in, Mum would have been so delighted because Dora’s child would be special to her. And surely that would also be the key to unlock her father’s icy heart? Not even he would turn his own grandchild away.

She drifted in and out of a troubled sleep, half-crying, half-waking, her belly cramping hard, and then finally she awoke fully, sweating, flooded with horror, feeling dampness on the sheets, thinking she’d wet the bed, that the pressure of the baby on her bladder had finally proved too much. Fumbling, coughing, she reached for the bedside lamp. It smelled strange in here. She found the switch. A cramp hit her middle so hard that she let out a shriek, then she coughed again. The sheets were wet. They were sodden. And . . . she couldn’t see across the room.