‘Not now, he can stay here tonight. Baby’s had enough movement for one day. I’ll prepare his clothing and a bassinet for you, and a timetable for his routine. After such a start in life he’s going to need strict handling, four feeds and no fussing in between, plenty of fresh air and a chance to exercise his lungs out of earshot. Just see his bottom is well oiled and his head out of the sun. Drop the night feed as soon as you can, for your own sakes, you need your sleep too. I can get the district nurse to call in and advise you. Think of it as a Christian act, holding the fort until Mother comes home. A wee chance to get to know your grandchild, Angus. By the way, she’s calling him Raeburn and Angus after you. You’ll have to register him for her.’

‘Come on, woman, time to be seeing to my cows. We’ll send round for him in the morning. Just a temporary arrangement then?’

The nurse patted Peg’s arm. Dr Begg averted his eyes from them, looking back at his patient with concern. Poor Netta Nichol was away with the fairies, not to the Maternity in Dumfries but to Park Royal, the mental hospital. Only they would know how to bring her back from the fantasies of her dreamworld.

May 1949, Friday at Noon

‘I can’t breathe,’ Netta gasped in panic, feeling the attic walls and the clutter of years closing in on her. There were too many reminders of unspeakable times lying all around her. She could not wait for Gus to bring her the milk. She must clear her head and escape, take the farm dogs for a romp in the fields and get on with her packing.

It was time to check the radiator and tyres and ask Father to look at the oil before her long journey south: back to workaday Griseley and her business. The mission had begun with such icy courage and resolve but was quickly melting away again. How could you, after all those years of experience, behave like some tweeny of thirteen around your parents? Must she meekly beat the usual retreat once more from all her past mistakes? For all her business success far from this place Netta, the prodigal, was given the fatted calf here – but it was always dished out cold.

*

Peg struggled up the ladder and through the hatch, trying not to spill the milk. No whip cut so hard as the lash o’ conscience and she was feeling guilty that she had let the girl struggle to find Jeanie’s albums. There had been grim satisfaction at first in letting her loose to root in vain for her photographs when they were all neatly parcelled up on top of the bedroom wardrobe. Now it felt mean and callous to withhold them.