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a sweet tooth. There is nothing more soothing I find than sharing a quarter-pound of barley sugars of an evening, or crunching on a bit of slab toffee. It was one of the few treats we permitted ourselves before the war. And we all need something sweet to take the bitter edge off these bleak days now it’s finished.
    I had seen quite enough of death when the Second World War was finally over. So had we all. These days everyone you meet has lost a relative, a son, a brother, a husband. Here countless homes have been destroyed, and hundreds of thousands are dead, Papa among them. I don’t like to contemplate how many of our brave boys are buried under foreign soil. The Germans have much to atone for. Hitler is gone. They say he took the coward’s route committing suicide at the last. The Nazis are obliterated. But it will take decades for the wounds to heal. I suppose I should count myself lucky. I am one of the few who still has her husband by her side. But I do not have a baby in my arms.
    We have been trying for some years now, letting nothing disrupt our routine. During the war, Merfyn became so keen on having a baby, on becoming a father, that I gave my consent. He duly abandoned the use of prophylactics. However I have not conceived. Unlike many women, I do not have the excuse that my husband has been away either. Merfyn thought that frequency, or rather the lack of it, might be the culprit. So we followed a twice-weekly schedule for in excess of six months – but to no avail. My menses come like clockwork.
    I dislike being thwarted. Besides, it is vinegar to me to see my sister-in-law, Enid, with her two children, Frank and Rachel, my nephew and niece. She doesn’t seem to appreciate how fortunate she is. And Rachel is such a darling. True, it must have been tough for her with Gethin invalided at Dunkirk. Gethin was Merfyn’s younger brother. He hobbled home more a burden than a boon and, despite Enid’s constant nursing, eventually caught influenza and died. Widowhood, and with so few men returned home no hope of a second husband … awful! Still, I’m sure her children are a comfort to her.
    I want a child, a daughter. I have been mulling it over. A son would be too messy. Muddy boots and cricket bats. Dirty kit. Meccano all over the floor, tripping me up. Matchbox toys and rowdy cowboy and Indian games? What a headache! But a daughter? A pretty girl who I can dress up in the clothes I make, dress up like a dear little doll, me teaching her sewing, knitting, crochet, cooking, housework. I have had myself checked out. It seemed common sense. As far as the doctors can tell there is nothing amiss, which leads me to conclude that the fault lies with Merfyn. But how to tackle the subject?
    An evening while Britain is busy throwing off the millstone of war, and a Labour government is getting into its stride, I approach Merfyn. ‘Are you planning to go to the doctor,’ I enquire delicately. ‘To see if … if any problems you might be unaware of are holding us back from having a … a family?’ My cheeks flame and quiver with shame. Head down, I peer through my glasses at an intricate bit of pearl stitching around the snowy toe of a hopeful baby’s bootie. We are listening to Gracie Fields singing ‘Now is the Hour’ on the radio.
    ‘No, I don’t think I am, Harriet,’ Merfyn, rejoins, rolling the pipe clenched between his teeth to allow his words through passage. Like me his head is bowed as if he is intent on his paper.
    I unwind a bit of two-ply, and moisten my lips with the tip of my tongue. Haven’t I undergone an examination, embarrassing and intrusive as it was? From beyond the grave my papa’s chill grey eyes bore into me. Outside our front door they are constructing a new city from London’s rubble, and I want our daughter to be a part of it. My knitting needles click in irritation. ‘So that’s that,’ I mutter.
    A pause that I take for my answer abruptly and unexpectedly ends. ‘Not