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be allowed to go on for long – Irish tempers flared far too easily – but at least peace had been restored now they were both asleep.
    In the soft light of the candle that flickered in a saucer on the bedside cabinet, Daisy continued to suckle, unaware of everything but her hunger. Peggy smiled as she held her close. She’d forgotten how delicious babies could be, and how the great waves of love almost overwhelmed her every time she lookedat her. Nonetheless, the reality of being a new mother again at forty-four was a bit of a shock, and although she’d thought she was prepared – after all, she’d had four other children and was also a grandmother – she was rather disconcerted by how weak and sore she felt. But, looking down at the tiny person at her breast, she knew it was all worth it.
    Daisy would be her last baby – the doctor had insisted upon that after the complication of her breech birth – and she was determined to enjoy every single moment of this precious and surprising gift. They grew so quickly, changed from helpless babes to demanding toddlers, and even more demanding young people struggling to find their place in the world, and she knew she had to hold onto this time and treasure it.
    The minutes ticked by, the sound of snoring continued, and Peggy’s eyelids fluttered, heavy with sleep. It had been a long, exhausting and exciting day, and the arrival of little Daisy had thrown the household routine into chaos. There had been a stream of visitors to coo over Daisy, and for a while Peggy had felt like a queen, sitting up in bed in the new and obviously expensive pink silk and lace bedjacket her sister Doris had brought. But the euphoria that had followed the protracted and painful labour had dwindled into an overwhelming weariness, and she’d been rather relieved when Alison Chenoweth had firmly sent everyone away.
    She looked down as Daisy stopped feeding. She was fast asleep. ‘Long may it last,’ she whispered asshe rubbed the tiny back to bring up any wind, and bundled her against the cold in the soft blanket Mrs Finch had spent the last six months knitting.
    The old cot which had seen much use over the years stood at the foot of the bed, well away from the draughts that whistled through the rattling frame of the sash window and made the blackout curtains sway. Peggy wrapped the bedjacket more firmly round her shoulders, eased out of bed and shivered as her bare feet touched the cold lino. There was another icy draught coming under the bedroom door from the hall.
    She carefully tucked Daisy into the cot and made a mental note to get Jim or his father to find something to block the draughts out, but she suspected it would be up to her as usual. The pair of them meant well, and could certainly talk a good story about how capable they were at mending and making things – but they always seemed to have something more important to do than things about the house.
    Once Daisy was warmly settled, Peggy drew Jim’s thick dressing gown over the bedjacket and winceyette nightdress and stuffed her feet into her slippers. She picked up the tall glass of milk from the bedside table and took a long drink before blowing out the candle and drawing back the curtains. She still felt rather wobbly and light-headed, but at least she was upright. It wouldn’t be long before she was back in harness again.
    Peggy stared out of the window to the sky wherethick clouds scudded across the moon. There had been no bombing raids all week, and although it was a relief not to have to camp out in the freezing cold, damp Anderson shelter with everyone crammed in like sardines, there was still a tension in the air which increased every time a plane flew over.
    Beach View Boarding House was three streets back from the seafront, and one of the many four-storey Victorian terraced houses that lined the steep hill. It had been in the family for years, but after war had been declared the visitors had stopped coming, and now the