‘And what could you have done?’ Bridget asked. ‘You’ve been through enough yerself, and besides, Nelly forbade me to have visitors until this morning.’

‘Oh, Bridget, you look so worn and washed out.’ The daylight was streaming in through the bedroom window, lighting Bridget’s face and marking the dark rings beneath her eyes. ‘Was it awful, gal?’ she asked kindly, reaching out to hold Bridget’s hand.

Bridget tried to remember, and found she couldn’t, not properly. It was as though when the pain went, the memory of it went too. ‘It’s over now,’ she answered softly, ‘and I’ve got the most beautiful daughter to show for it all.’ Pointing to the crib, she said, ‘You haven’t seen her yet. Go on, Fan. Take a peep at her.’

Going on tiptoe in case the baby was sleeping, Fan laughed out loud when she found herself staring into a pair of curious, dark blue eyes. ‘Oh, Bridget,’ she purred. ‘She’s just like you, so small and pretty.’

Bridget fell silent, her eyes downcast and her fingers playing with the fringe on the bedspread.

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ Fanny remarked softly. ‘I’m your friend, Bridget. You can talk to me about anything, and it won’t go any further.’

Through troubled eyes, Bridget looked at her. ‘Do you think she looks like Tom?’

‘Maybe,’ she answered. ‘But then newborns all look the same at first.’

‘That’s what Nelly said.’

Fanny lowered her voice. ‘You’re wondering if it might be Tom’s after all, is that it?’

Bridget shook her head. ‘I know it isn’t Tom’s,’ she said truthfully. ‘He knows it too.’

‘Well then.’

‘I was just thinking…’ She bit her lip. ‘He’s better with me now, Fan, more friendly, more tolerant, if you know what I mean.’

Fanny gave a rueful smile. ‘But?’

‘It seems too good to be true.’ Even though he was attentive and forgiving, there was a kind of despair about Tom, and it frightened her. ‘I wonder if he’ll cope with it all,’ she murmured anxiously.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Once we’re home, me and… everything.’ She glanced towards the crib and smiled. ‘I’ve named her Ruth.’

‘Ruth… Ruth Mulligan.’ Fanny’s face lit up. ‘Yes, I like it. You’ve chosen well, gal.’

‘What did you name your son?’ Bridget hadn’t found a chance to ask until now.

‘I gave it a great deal of thought, gal. In the end I decided I’d make bloody certain that bugger who fathered him wouldn’t forget, and neither would his cow of a wife.’

‘You called him Bill, didn’t you?’ Bridget might have guessed.

Looking immensely proud, Fanny answered cagily, ‘Not quite. I’ve called him Billy. It kinda suits him somehow. But on his birth certificate he’s named William, just like his father, the old bastard!’ Her expression softened. ‘D’you know summat, in a way I owe a debt to Bill Norman, though I would never let him know it. But, as God’s my judge, that little lad is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.’