‘Rae must not have got round to informing them before they left for France… Don’t fuss. When I feel stronger I’ll make enquiries,’ answered Netta warily as Father gave her one of his quizzical looks out of the corner of his eye. ‘I’ll take in sewing and dressmaking. No bairn of mine will go without,’ she vowed.

‘Now your time’s up, Bump.’ Netta smiled, patting the bulge. The baby was long overdue and she was hoping this strenuous outing would give it the impetus to put in an appearance.

She felt as useless as the china dogs that sat looking down from the kitchen mantelpiece. Her bulk got in the way of the Brigg dairy routines. Like a galleon in full sail in her maternity smock made from gingham curtain offcuts, she kept knocking over Peg’s precious knick-knacks with the swirl of her skirts. Everyone said Mrs Hunter was the best-dressed expectant mother in the Stewartry, war or no war. Making smocks out of blackout linings, two-piece skirts and tops from old suiting, stopped her hands from shaking. She recalled all Vida Bloom’s sewing tricks as she spent long evenings listening to the Third Programme while she got on with the layette, knitting and blanket making. No wonder they called her ‘Nettie Thimble’ or ‘Mrs Sew and Sew’. Handsmocking by firelight soothed her sad spirits.

Staying in Stratharvar, pregnant and numb with grief, was not an ideal solution but she needed a roof over her head. Once resigned to her condition, Father made few allowances for it and showed scarcely any enthusiasm, though that was nothing new. Lately he wore the expression of a man disappointed in life; the look of a man whose women have let him down: his first wife dying unexpectedly from heart failure, having produced only one lass who had eloped and disobeyed him without so much as a backward glance; Peg no better at producing an heir for him. There would be no future for Brigg Farm once he was gone without an heir, and it had soured him.

Netta stared out to sea, hugging her knees. The March wind was chilly and her ankles were puffed up. This was no place to linger alone. It was time to return to the greystone farm in the hollows, its whitewashed byre and red-painted barns jutting out like arms encircling the house; time to check the suitcase ready for the nursing home by the coast where Nurse Plenderleith was waiting to deliver Bump.

Some things never change. She smiled at the sight far down the track of Wee Alec, the travelling draper, busy on his rounds, lumbering the mile down the bumpy track with three large cases.