LITMIR.BIZ

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      Reggie wouldn’t. Annie knew that. He probably couldn’t have cared less. Wouldn’t even notice, because these days he seemed to prefer his time at the bloody pub. So much for the honeymoon ruddy period. Even so, just Agnes thinking that he might made Annie annoyed with her. If she hadn’t been so immobile she might have leapt the fence separating them and given Agnes a slap – just for being as annoying as she always was.

      Which she had been, ever since they’d moved in two years back. An Irish couple in their thirties, they couldn’t have kids, apparently. Which meant they didn’t have any kids cluttering up their house, which for some reason seemed to make them feel superior. And it meant she had time, did Agnes Flanagan, something Annie sorely lacked. Time to have the cleanest windows, the shiniest step, the tidiest garden.

      But she’d show the Flanagans. Show everyone, in fact. Once this little one was born, she’d definitely show them. They’d been talking about it, and Reggie had made her a promise – to dig up the garden and lay some turf for a proper lawn. Annie couldn’t wait to see the old cow’s face when she saw that.

      ‘Shut your cakehole, Agnes,’ she said now, anxious to get her own jibe in. ‘If your old man had a job, maybe he wouldn’t have the time to spend on women’s work. You only come out to the step so you can do your gossiping. It doesn’t even need cleaning. Stan only painted it again last week.’

      ‘Oh, my old man should get a job, should he?’ Agnes huffed, standing up now the better to waggle a finger in Annie’s direction. She was fond of doing that. Assuming the ten or so years that separated them gave her permission to carry on like she was Annie’s mother. ‘I’ll have you know, girl,’ she added, ‘that he has a chance of a great job. The railways are setting on and he’s been told he’s in with a chance. Now, that’s a job,’ she said, pausing to let the emphasis sink in. ‘Hmm, let me see … What is it your man does now? Oh yes, that’s right. He waits on up at the Punch Bowl, doesn’t he? When he’s not up there blind drunk, that is.’

      Annie flinched as the pain left her back and gripped her abdomen. Gripped it hard, like a fist. Like a vice. Oh, how she wanted to fly for the old witch next door, but now definitely wasn’t the time. She was in labour. She knew the signs. And she knew time was short – little Margaret had been so quick she’d fairly fallen out. So instead, she leaned towards her neighbour and gripped the fencing between the houses. ‘Agnes! Go get the midwife, will you?’

      Her neighbour’s demeanour changed instantly. ‘Oh, Annie,’ she said, looking anxious now. ‘Is it your time? Is it the baby?’ She dropped the brush and raised her hands to her cheeks. ‘Oh, sweet Jesus, what’ll I do?’

      ‘Just get the bloody midwife!’ Annie screamed as it hit her very forcefully that the pains were coming quicker now, and that her little one was spark out in her cot indoors, oblivious. ‘Then come straight back here and watch our Margaret for me!’ she added, trying to keep her legs from buckling. ‘Don’t stand there looking gormless, Agnes. Go!’

      Agnes seemed to get the message then, abandoning the soap as well as the brush, then running down her path and out onto the estate. Thankfully, the local midwife only lived a few streets away and if there were no other babies being born that day – and fingers crossed there wouldn’t be – Agnes would find her home and ready to be called out.

      Feeling reasonably calm now she knew help was on the way, Annie supported herself using the wall, and waited for the latest pain to subside before staggering back into the house. Once there she knew she had to try and think straight. Margaret was still asleep, curled into a comma in the cot Reggie had made for her, and for a moment or two Annie dithered about waking her. It was almost dinner-time though, and she’d soon be needing a feed. And if things started moving quickly, there’d be no chance of giving her one.

      Decided, Annie moved towards the cot. She had to nurse her. And quickly, before the next contraction came – she knew only too well that it might be hours before she was fit enough to do it later. Groaning with the effort, she hauled her daughter from the cot, bringing the blankets with her, then settled into the big chair, better to get her breast out from under her pinny. ‘Come on, baby,’ she soothed to the semi-conscious toddler. ‘Shh, there, come on. Time you had your tea.’

      Margaret was angry. And so she would be. She’d been disturbed from her slumbers. She kicked and fussed, at first refusing to take the breast. ‘Come on, you little bugger,’ Annie soothed, wincing as Margaret’s teeth clamped round her tender skin. ‘Make the most of it. You’ll be having to share it soon. Either that, or it’ll be down to the wet nurse with you,’ she gently joked. ‘And knowing her, it’ll come out sour!’

      Margaret relaxed eventually and started to suckle, but as the pain started building again Annie knew it wouldn’t last – and, sure enough, as Annie writhed beneath her, Margaret snapped her head back angrily. ‘Mammy, no!’ she yelled, smacking Annie’s breast hard and kicking her. ‘Want bread! Want bread!’

      ‘Hush, Margaret,’ Annie soothed, trying to keep her voice from rising. The pain deep within her was becoming unbearable. If she didn’t coax her daughter down now, she’d end up falling off anyway. It was just so hard to sit, when she felt compelled to bear down. It was coming. There was no doubt. It was coming.

      ‘Down you get,’ she said, gently urging Margaret to climb off of her. ‘Baby’s coming now. Remember Mammy’s baby in her tummy? Baby’s coming now –’

      ‘Baby?’ Margaret’s glass-blue eyes widened. ‘Baby, baby, baby!’

      She shuffled down now, energised, and ran towards the cold hearth. ‘Baby!’ she squealed, picking up a stray piece of coal, scribbling on lino with it as Annie convulsed in pain again.

      She needed to be down there with her daughter, Annie realised. There was no point in even thinking about her bed now. She needed to be down on the floor where Margaret was. And quickly.

      This wasn’t the way I’d planned it! she thought irritably, lifting her skirt.

      Agnes and the midwife rushed into the living room together, just at the point when Charles Hudson made his entrance. He slithered out, huge and glistening – a ten pounder, it turned out – and with a pair of lungs any town crier would have been proud of.

      ‘Oh! It’s a little boy, Annie!’ Agnes cried, her voice breaking. ‘A little gift from God to replace your Frank.’

      Agnes had never known Frank. She and Stan had moved into their house in Broomfields a while after he’d died, but Annie knew her neighbour’s emotion was genuine, and felt an unexpected rush of warmth towards her. She felt like crying too, her eyes filling with tears as she held both her babies, wishing above all that Reggie were home to hold his son. She gazed down at the angry pink bundle swaddled close to her chest. He’d be the light of Reggie’s life, she just knew it.

Chapter 3

      1932

      Charlie was a handsome boy. Everybody said so, especially the women. And he knew it, too. He’d heard it said often enough.

      ‘Ooh, your Charlie’s gonna be a heartbreaker!’ he’d hear them say to his mam. ‘Ooh, look at those eyes of his!’ they’d coo. ‘Look at that lovely head of hair!’ Then they’d ruffle it and mess it up, which annoyed him.

      His hair was black, like his dad’s. His eyes were greeny-blue, like his mam’s. He’d look at himself in the chipped bit of mirror propped above the basin in the scullery, and he’d wonder what it was about his face that was so special. Because it clearly was. The girls in school were always trying to hug and kiss him, and if he rewarded them with a smile they’d squeal in delight.

      It was different with the men, and especially with his father, who didn’t seem to trust him. Charlie never understood what it was that his dad disliked about him – was it because he wasn’t Frank? The baby that had come before and

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