The kettle was boiling, and the table made a pretty sight, covered with her best white cloth and set for two, with a jar of ale for him and a measure of cider for her. ‘It might be the last meal we have together if he takes my news badly,’ she said sadly. ‘We’ll just have to wait and see.’

By seven thirty everything was ready. The aroma of food wafted on the air and carried to every room in the house. The fire blazed cheerily in the hearth; the house was warm and cosy, and in her best blue dress Bridget was a sight to behold. Her brown hair was combed loosely about her face, and her eyes shone with the glow of a woman carrying a new life inside her.

‘Dear God,’ she sighed, gazing into the flames. ‘Please let it be all right.’ Yet, in her deepest heart, she could not imagine how Tom would ever forgive her.

For one wonderfully precious moment, she let herself think of the child; Harry’s child. Would it look like him? Would it take after her? Or would it carry the marks of them both? More importantly, did it really matter? Surely all that mattered was that it should not suffer because of her.

Thirsty after her rush of work, Bridget poured herself a glass of cider and sat by the fire, her gaze going occasionally to the door. She wondered how long Tom might be, hoped he would be back before the meal started to spoil.

The minutes ticked away.

The cider made her feel relaxed, and the heat from the fire was mesmerising. She glanced up at the mantelpiece clock. ‘Ten minutes to eight. Where is he?’ Her eyelids grew heavy. She began to feel sleepy.

Closing her eyes, she thought of Harry. How could a woman love two men at the same time? she asked herself. But she did, and it was a strange thing.

When the clock chimed the hour, she sat up with a jolt. ‘Tom!’ But he wasn’t home yet.

The aroma filling her nostrils had been warm and teasing. Now it was drier, tinged with the smell of burning. Quickly she got up and inspected the contents of the range where she had earlier arranged the meal on two plates, each plate then covered by another, turned upside down.

Taking the plates out, Bridget uncovered them to find the meal shrivelled and inedible. ‘Ruined!’ Disappointment brought a rush of anger. ‘Damn and bugger it, Tom! Why didn’t you tell me you’d be gone all this while?’

Carrying the plates to the midden, she scraped them clean. ‘Spoiled! All spoiled!’ Somehow the sum of her life was lying on those plates, she thought sadly. And anger turned to despair.

With the entire evening and all her efforts wasted, she busied herself by washing the pots and pans, and then stacking them away. ‘Where can he be?’ Now she was concerned. This wasn’t like Tom at all. ‘Ten o’clock. He’s been gone for hours!’ Normally, he would always tell her where he was going and how long he was likely to be. Never before had he just taken off and stayed out for this length of time.