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startled and jumped in her box. Her eyes opened wide and her little arms were rigid as they shot upwards with tiny fists clenched. Her lips puckered up and for a second Maura thought she was about to wake and cry.
    ‘Please, God, no,’ she whispered, ‘not today, I need another hour to get everything done.’
    She stroked the back of the baby’s hand, making gentle shush, shush sounds to try to prevent her from waking fully. It worked; as she leant across and looked into the box, the baby’s eyes slowly closed, her arms softened and dropped gently back down to her side, her face relaxing into a dreamy smile as sleep and innocence won the battle with the slamming door.
    Today, as Tommy used the outhouse for his morning ablutions, he was more preoccupied with the state of Maura’s mind than on the running order of the horses.
    His reverie was suddenly broken by an urgent call from his oldest child.
    ‘Da, will yer hurry now, I’m desperate!’ shouted Kitty, her voice cutting through the wind and rain from the back door. On a finer day, she would have been knocking on the outhouse door itself, giving him no peace.
    Kitty was his eldest; she was five going on fifteen and, now that she was in the infant school, had refused to use the pot that was kept under the children’s bed. Kitty might have been only five but, as the eldest of seven, she could change a nappy and soothe a crying baby as well as her mammy. With her auburn hair and her mother’s eyes, she was one of the prettiest and sweetest little girls on the four streets and definitely took after her father in temperament.
    The sleeping arrangements were cramped, with the girls in one bed and two sets of twin boys sleeping behind a curtain in another. The new baby would join the girls’ bed soon enough and be trusted into Kitty’s care.
    ‘I’ll be out in a minute, Queen,’ shouted Tommy loudly.
    He would do anything for their Kitty, his first-born and the apple of his eye. He would even abandon his normal morning routine of studying the horses’ form whilst sat in the outhouse with a pencil behind his ear, ready to mark out a promising filly. As he prepared to vacate his throne for Kitty, Tommy wondered, yet again, what they were going to do to prevent Maura getting pregnant again. It wouldn’t be long before all the children were refusing to use the pot and demanding the outhouse, his morning sanctuary. Seven little ones in their two up, two down, was as much as the place could take.
    Tommy had a great deal to concern him today. He was also worried about the tears that had poured continuously down Maura’s face during the six days since Bernadette had died. It was too much. She had cried for too long. One of the neighbours had told him that she felt Maura was making herself sick. What could he do to stop her?
    Last night, when they were in bed, Tommy had clutched at straws. He was lying on his back and Maura on her side, her arm propped up with her hand behind her head.
    ‘If ye keep on crying like this, the upset will get through to the babby and make her ill,’ he told her.
    He was no master of the art of child rearing, despite the fact that they had so many of their own, but he had heard enough women in the four streets say exactly the same thing to Maura over the last few days to know it was a comment that carried some collective weight. And anyway, imparting such wisdom made him feel authoritative and useful, rather than just criticizing Maura for crying all the time, and, other than Tommy, God alone knew how much she had cried.
    His stress management technique was rewarded as Maura responded, ‘I know. I feel so sick and I can’t eat for crying. I know ye are right.’
    Her breast had fallen free from her nightdress, which was still open from the baby’s last feed, and lay bare against Tommy’s chest. That was enough. His hand moved from stroking her arm to stroking her breast for just a minute, which was all it took.
    As she quietly sobbed