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five months old when he died and his little body was too fragile to sustain the relentless coughing up of blood, night sweats and fever so typical of the disease. Even though consumption was associated with poor hygiene conditions, Alice had cared for her son in the best way she could. She knew that they were poor. Food was scarce since rationing had started in January 1918, but this was the case with the majority of families during the war and their babies hadn’t died. The flat they rented was a one-room hovel, but Alice had done her best to keep it clean. It was damp and clammy and the moisture clung to everything. Edward had been a sickly baby from birth and the smell of his regularly regurgitated milk hung in the air. At bed time, Alice swaddled him in blankets and took him into her bed, where she held him close all night, waking frequently to check he was still breathing. However, in spite of all her efforts, Edward had died anyway and the guilt had gnawed away at her, slowing sapping her belief in herself as a mother. After he returned from the trenches, Henry withdrew into himself and Alice found it increasingly difficult to reach him. They rarely spoke to each other and this miserable existence seemed set to define their marriage. Even though she doubted herself as a mother, Alice longed for another baby. There was a huge hole in her heart that could only be filled by nurturing a new life. However, the chances of her falling pregnant were non-existent given the distance that had grown between her and Henry.
    Then, one day, quite soon after little Edward had passed away, Alice had overheard two women gossiping in the corner shop. Her ears pricked up and she sidled closer so she could hear what was being said. Then, when she had heard enough, with her heart racing, she left the shop and hurried home. To her relief, Henry was not there so she quickly changed into her Sunday best, complete with fur hat and gloves. The hat smelled musty and dank but it would have to do. She gave it a quick brush and arranged it carefully on her head. She regarded herself in the tiny, square mirror over the kitchen sink, which also doubled as their bathroom, and added a smear of pink lipstick. She knew she should really wear flat shoes for the long walk ahead but heels looked so much more elegant with her suit. With one final look in the mirror, her face a picture of determination, Alice closed the front door and set off at a brisk, purposeful pace.
    The grey facade of the orphanage was ingrained with decades of dirt and weeds grew in abundance in the gutters. The black paint on the front door had long since lost its lustre and was now cracked and peeling. The whole place looked austere and most unwelcoming. Nevertheless, Alice swallowed her apprehension and climbed the stone steps up to the entrance porch. She wafted away a cobweb that had caught in her hat. The huge brass knocker was stiff and she fumbled with it clumsily before managing to coax the iron ring into producing a satisfactory rap. After what seemed an eternity, the heavy door opened and a nurse in a crisp, starched uniform looked Alice up and down.
    ‘Yes? Can I help you?’
    It was at this point that Alice realised she had not rehearsed what she was going to say.
    ‘Hello…err…I…My name is Alice Stirling,’ she stumbled. ‘May I come in?’
    The nurse folded her arms across her chest and stared down at Alice. ‘Do you have an appointment?’
    ‘No, I’m afraid not. Is that a problem?’
    The nurse shook her head and sighed but still opened the door wider and beckoned Alice inside.
    ‘Oh, why, thank you,’ said Alice gratefully.
    ‘Wait here. I’ll get Matron.’
    Alice watched as the nurse disappeared down the hall. The smell of disinfectant and over-boiled cabbage pervaded the air, a combination which made Alice feel nauseous. Her mouth was dry and the perspiration beaded on the back of her neck. She was beginning to regret wearing the hat.
    ‘How can I