‘A ride in my old jalopy down the track should shift it nicely,’ Father said as they bumped their way slowly over the switchbacks in his van along to the coast road, chugging and spluttering to the outskirts of Kirkcudbright and Braeside Nursing Home. The red sandstone villa was set back from the coast road with a shale driveway and steps up to the porch. The sun was shining on trees dripping with early pink blossom, the borders edged with crocuses. Netta could sniff the salt spray from the shore, feel the soft Gulf Stream breeze on her cheeks. This was a moment to savour: stepping proudly over the portals into an unseen world of bed pans and babies.

Nurse Sadie Plenderleith was waiting for the new arrival and ushered both of them in with their brown suitcase. ‘Away you go to see Hector, Angus. A braw day for your first grandchild’s coming, is it no?’

He hesitated, thinking to wait with Netta, but was hustled into the hall. ‘Don’t worry, Angus Nichol, we’ll take good care of her. There’s women’s work to be done here. I need to examine her just in case she’s having us all on.’

Leithy welcomed her charge through the door with a broad, beaming smile. Who could not fail to feel more confident, thought Netta, knowing the hundreds of babies she had delivered over the years, the bundles wrapped in shawls and bonnets she had handed over to proud parents? Braeside was a home for invalids and convalescents but difficult confinements were her speciality. Comings and goings, births and deaths, Leithy and her brother who ran the establishment were respected in the district for cleanliness and efficiency beyond the call of duty. Woe betide any assistant who tried to cut corners or skimp rations, they were sent packing with no references. ‘This is my nursing home and while I’m in charge it’ll be home from home for my patients too. Cheery faces heal wounds, good food feeds the spirit. Come in and let’s be seeing to you, Mrs Hunter.’

Leithy had a plump matronly air, a face framed with salt and peppery sandy hair scraped back off her freckles into a loose Victory roll at the nape of her neck. A woman in her late forties perhaps. She always wore a bottle green nursing uniform and a white starched apron which crackled, a watch pinned to her ample bosom.

Netta followed meekly as if stepping inside a warm cocoon away from all the troubles of the outside world into a special place never to be forgotten. When she left Braeside there would be a baby in her arms. Tears welled up in her eyes.

‘Oh, Rae! I wish you were here, holding the case, fussing over me, trying not to look frightened,’ she whispered to herself. Why did talking to Rae feel like talking to thin air sometimes?