Angus went about his farm chores, organising the yard boy and Land Army girl, saw to his beasts, but each time he returned to the kitchen he, too, would put his boot to the cradle. A man could shut out the wailing, Peg thought to herself as she peeled the tatties for the hash, but now and then she caught Angus glancing in under the earned oak hood to see the pink face and black hair, now rubbing off on to the sheets. ‘This one’ll be bald as a coot afore long. His eyes aren’t Nichol blue, more like you see at the swimming baths. Must be the father’s?’

Neither of them could bring themselves to call the child Raeburn. Perhaps he would grow into that name when he grew whiskers, thought Peg, but now it was such a mouthful for a wee mite. ‘Raeburn Angus, while you’re in this house we’ll call you “bairn” for short. It’s to the point, there’s no fancy fol-de-rols in that handle – and that reminds me, you must away down the Register Office, Angus, and get this wean registered,’ ordered Peg.

*

She had always hated hospital visiting despite her brief training. This place was better than most: set in beautiful grounds, high up overlooking the Nith Valley. It was a palatial estate of gracious buildings dominated by a huge cathedral of a kirk at its centre. Inside, however, the wide corridors of the building, decorated with panels of carved woodwork and plasterwork ceilings, were more in keeping with a baronial mansion than an asylum but it still felt like a long dark tunnel to her.

She sat on the bench waiting for the visitors’ bell. Someone must have spent a bonny penny on this place, sure enough. Netta was to have the best they could afford. She was not to go in the ordinary wards but in the rate-aided department where she would be allowed to share a room and wear her own clothes.

The bell rang and there was a thud of feet down yet more corridors. No matter how many bowls of flowers were arranged to adorn the place, Peg could still detect that hospital pong.