‘You’re on holiday, then?’ He was quizzing for answers, peering at her closely, and she stiffened. ‘I’m very tired. I need to rest.’

‘You live alone?’

‘At the moment. I’m a war widow. Just give me something to sleep, please. Then I can get on with things…’

‘Mrs… er… Hunter, I’m not in the habit of dishing out sleeping tablets to people I’ve never met before. Why should you be the exception?’ Netta was trembling with embarrassment. Trust her to find the one over-concientious doctor in the district who wanted a history from his patient before he prescribed anything.

‘Because, Dr Anwar, I’ve just come out of Park Royal near Dumfries. No doubt you’ve heard of that establishment? After eight months in there I need to make a fresh start and I’ve used up my medication. I’m tired and don’t want to be a burden on anyone.’

‘So what took you in to Park Royal? If I’m to help you, I’ll need to know all your details.’ He sat back in the shadows, patiently awaiting her reply.

Netta began slowly with just the barest details: the baby, the fever, Peg and Angus. Then out it all poured, the whole sorry tale: Rae, her disgrace, this banishment. What did it matter if he knew the truth. Who was there to tell but strangers? ‘Now you see why I need to rest.’ Tears rolled down her nose and she fumbled for a handkerchief and buried her face from his gaze.

‘I’ll give you something just for tonight but I want you to call in again in the morning… just to make sure. Where are you staying?’

Netta mumbled the address. He stood up but she did not look at him, too ashamed. ‘Thank you.’ She turned to the door.

‘Hang on! Don’t forget this chitty to take to the dispensary down in the back room. They’ll need to see your identity. And please, Mrs Hunter, make another appointment for tomorrow. You can talk to me again then.’ Netta sensed him searching her pallid face with the dark circles under the eyes. She took the prescription, blindly nodding her thanks, went to the dispensary then fled out of the back door.

She wandered the streets aimlessly, feeling the box in her pocket for comfort. She bought a cheap bottle of medicinal brandy, splashed out all her sweetie coupons on a big bar of Fry’s Five Boys chocolate. Why shouldn’t her last hour on earth be comforted by childhood favourites?

The bedsitting room would have done Dickens proud. It was threadbare and stale smoke from the previous occupier fouled the air but it was clean enough and the bed had enough blankets to coorie under. There was a gas fire with a meter. She had everything she needed for her purposes.