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her kitchen range, sobbing again, struggling to light the fire, which had gone out overnight.
    Her children were yet to leave their dreams behind and the baby, just into its third month, slept in a small cardboard box, wrapped up in a multicoloured, hand-crocheted blanket, made from scraps left over from knitted baby cardigans and school jumpers, with odd ends of yarn salvaged from the wool stall in the market. The box was pushed securely to the back of the armchair, one of only two comfy chairs in the house. It was upholstered in a bottle-green knobbly wool, flecked with the occasional splash of dark orange. The legs were chipped, the wooden armrests worn and two of the springs, covered in brown rubber, which ran underneath the cushion, had snapped. This meant that anyone who sat on the chair sank down into the middle and, having been grabbed on all sides by the cushion and springs, found it difficult to get up again. The baby was just a scrap and the weight of the box was evenly spread across the chair, so the infant was safe enough.
    Maura had only a cardboard box in which to put her baby girl, her seventh child, Niamh. For the first, Kitty, there had been a Moses basket, which had fallen apart after both sets of twins and had never been replaced. Maura had thought the twins were to be her last. She had assumed that every baby after the twins was to be her last and then came Angela. However, her Tommy’s virility showed no sign of waning and they had coped up to now. Maura’s baby might have been in a box, but she was warm, clean, dry and well fed.
    Even indoors Maura was still battling the elements, as the wind blew the thick white smoke back down the chimney, refusing to allow the fire to draw and forcing the smoke to billow back into the living room, making Maura cough and splutter. She was shivering, cold and drenched to the skin, having just run the hundred yards or so from the church to the house, far enough for the rain to have found its way through her coat. She thought about the expression she had just glimpsed on Peggy’s face at the window. She had raised her hand in greeting. But for both women there had not been a hint of a smile.
    A less devout person than Maura would have skipped mass in this foul weather and, indeed, there were only half the usual numbers for the early-morning mass. Shame on them, Maura thought, as she took communion. Today was not a day to skip mass. By the time it was over, Maura would have entered and left the church four times, regardless of the weather.
    ‘There’s already more water running down these gutters than they can cope with, without you adding any more,’ said Tommy, as he passed behind her on his way to the outhouse, carrying the Daily Post .
    Maura sat back on her heels and covered her face with her hands. ‘I just can’t stop meself,’ she whispered back to him through the gaps in her fingers, catching a sob at the end of her breath.
    Tommy knew that if he put his arms round her, she would disintegrate. Better to keep her mind busy on the important daily routine. The things that mattered.
    ‘Two rashers, two eggs and fried bread in ten, thanks, Queen, once you get that fire going, mind,’ he threw over his shoulder as he bustled past her to the back door.
    Tommy was the only person in the house to eat meat and eggs for breakfast. For the rest of the family it was bread in watered-down warm milk. Tommy had to unload a cargo ship each day. Without decent food of some kind he would slack and be laid off. As he was about to make his way into the yard, he was hit by a wall of water as though it had been waiting for him to open the door at just that second. Maybe Maura’s trip to mass hadn’t been in vain after all. Retribution.
    ‘Fecking holy fecking Mother of God!’ she heard in decreasing decibels as his blaspheming words were snatched away from him by the wind and rain and flung into the air. The back door slammed shut with such force that the sleeping baby