h, there you are, Mrs Lowther,’ Dr Stalkley said, hurrying through the swinging doors of the waiting room. ‘Mrs O’Neill has been asking for you.’

Emma stood up, clutching her handbag tightly. ‘Please,’ she said anxiously, ‘is everything all right? I don’t understand what happened so suddenly.’

The doctor gave her an avuncular pat on the shoulder. ‘It was a question of operating or going through with the natural childbirth. Because of her religion, Mrs O’Neill was quite adamant about the operation—’

‘What do you mean? I’m not following you, Doctor,’ Emma interrupted peremptorily.

‘Mrs O’Neill would not permit us to operate because there was the possibility—in fact, the great probability—that she would have lost the child. The operation would have been wiser, safer, of course. However, she would not take any chances with the child’s life.’

‘But is she all right?’ Emma demanded.

‘Weak,’ the doctor responded quietly, avoiding Emma’s eyes.

‘And the baby?’

‘A fine boy, Mrs Lowther.’

Emma’s stare became more penetrating. ‘Mrs O’Neill isn’t in any danger, is she?’

‘She’s tired, naturally. It was a difficult birth,’ the doctor said. ‘But let’s not stand here chattering. She’s waiting to see you. Please come this way.’

Emma followed him down the corridor, her mind racing as she tried to assess the gravity of the situation. Instinct told her Dr Stalkley was hedging and this frightened her. When they reached the door of Laura’s room the doctor paused and turned to Emma. His face was unreadable as he said, ‘We’ve sent for the priest.’

‘Priest! Why?’

‘Mrs O’Neill asked for him.’ The doctor shook his head. ‘She is very weak. Worn out. Please don’t excite her.’

Emma clutched his arm. ‘She’s not—’

The doctor opened the door for her. ‘Please, Mrs Lowther, let’s not waste time.’ He ushered her in and closed the door softly behind him.

Emma hurried to the bed, her eyes sweeping over Laura, who lay propped against the pillows. She was at once aware of Laura’s terrible exhaustion. Her lovely face, so wan in the cold light, was etched with lines of extreme fatigue and there were dark smudges under her huge eyes, which lit up at the sight of her friend. Emma’s heart sank, for she recognized all the distressing telltale signs, but the smile on her face did not falter for an instant. She bent over Laura and kissed her cheek. Smoothing back the honey-blonde hair that tumbled over the pillows, she said softly, ‘How are you feeling, darling?’

Laura smiled. ‘So happy. And grateful. It’s a boy, Emma.’

Emma sat down on the chair next to the bed. Swallowing hard, she adopted her most cheerful tone. ‘Yes, it’s wonderful. Blackie will be thrilled.’

Laura nodded, her eyes shining. She reached for Emma’s small hand, took it in hers, and squeezed it. ‘Have you been waiting long, dear?’

‘No,’ Emma lied. ‘And you mustn’t worry about me. You’re the one who needs all the care and attention now. I expect you’ll be discharged in a week and then you’re coming to stay with me and the children. I’m going to look after you like you looked after me when Edwina was born. You will come, won’t you, darling?’

A faint smile flickered on Laura’s white lips. She said, ‘I want him to be called Bryan.’

‘That’s a lovely name, Laura.’

‘And Shane Patrick, after Blackie and Uncle Pat.’

‘They will be pleased, love.’

‘Come closer to me, Emma,’ Laura murmured, ‘so that I can see you better. The light seems to have dimmed, doesn’t it?’

‘Yes, it is getting dark outside,’ Emma said, even though the light was still very bright.

Laura’s fine eyes searched her face. ‘I want Bryan to be brought up as a good Roman Catholic. You know what Blackie is like. So careless about some things. You’ll see to it for me, Emma, won’t you?’

Emma’s fear flared again. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I want you to promise me that you’ll make sure Uncle Pat does the right thing while Blackie is away, and that you’ll take care of Bryan for me until his father comes back from the war.’

‘But you’ll be doing that, love.’

Laura’s brilliant eyes remained unwavering. ‘I’m dying, Emma.’

‘Don’t say that!’

‘Emma, listen to me. Please listen. I have so little time left,’ Laura whispered, her faint voice now vibrating with urgency. ‘Promise me that you’ll make certain Uncle Pat has Bryan christened in the Roman Catholic Church and that he attends to his religious training as long as Blackie is gone. And promise you’ll look after Blackie for me.’

Emma was unable to speak for a moment. ‘I promise,’ she finally said, her voice thick with emotion and quavering.

Laura lifted her hand weakly and touched Emma’s face. She smiled at her. ‘I love you, Emma.’

‘Oh, Laura, I love you, too.’ Emma could no longer suppress the tears and they spilled down her cheeks and splashed on to Laura’s hand.

‘Don’t cry, dear. There’s nothing to cry about.’

‘Oh, Laura—Laura—’

‘Hush, darling. Don’t cry.’

Emma took a deep breath and endeavoured to pull herself together. ‘Laura, listen to me now. You must fight. Try harder, love. Please fight to live,’ she implored with great intensity. She gathered Laura’s frail body into her strong arms and cradled her close, pressing Laura harder against herself, as if trying to infuse her dying friend with some of her own enormous strength, her own stubborn will, as she had done so long ago with her mother.

A small sigh escaped Laura’s lips, a soft fluttering sigh that was hardly audible. ‘It’s too late,’ she said in a fading voice.

Emma placed her back on the pillows, her lips shaking, her face white and strained. ‘Please try, love. Try for Blackie. For the baby. For me.’

There was a rustling noise as the priest came in carrying a black bag. He touched Emma on the shoulder lightly. ‘She must receive Extreme Unction, Mrs Lowther,’ he said.

Emma stood up and moved away with a degree of self-containment, although her knees were buckling. Tears rolled unchecked down her face and then it darkened as she watched the priest bending over Laura. She wanted him to leave. He was a harbinger of death. If he left, then Laura would live. There is no God! No God, do you hear me! Emma shouted at him, but the shouts reverberated in her head unuttered.

Emma thought her heart was surely breaking. The room was very quiet; the only sounds were the faint swishing of the priest’s cassock as he moved nearer to the bed, the low murmur of his voice and Laura’s as she confessed and he absolved her of her sins. Sins, Emma thought bitterly. She has never sinned. Laura never did anything to hurt anybody. She’s only given love to everyone she knows. She’s never sinned against God. Never sinned against the world. Never. Ever.

The priest administered Holy Communion, made the sign of the cross, and put the wafer in Laura’s mouth. He was anointing her. Emma turned away and looked out of the window. It was all so wasteful. Yes, even sinful. The operation would probably have killed the baby, but Laura would have been alive. This dogma of the Catholic Church was barbaric. Insane. Who cared about the baby? It was Laura they knew and loved.

When the priest had finished the last rites he came to Emma. ‘Mrs O’Neill wishes to speak with you,’ he said dolorously.

Emma brushed past him rudely and flew to the bed. She brought her face close to Laura’s. ‘I’m here, my darling. What is it?’

Laura’s eyelids lifted slowly. ‘I’m sorry to keep asking you to promise me things. Just one more favour. Be brave for Uncle Pat. He’s so old now and he’s going to need your courage, Emma.’

‘Oh, Laura, Laura, don’t slip away from me!’

Laura smiled and her face was glorious, incandescent, and her eyes, so large they seemed to engulf her face, were steady and full of peace.

‘There is no such thing as death in my lexicon, Emma. As long as you live, and Blackie lives, I will live, too, for you will both carry the memory of me in your hearts always. And there will be Bryan for Blackie.’

Emma had no words. She pressed her hands to her mouth, her shoulders heaving.

Laura said, ‘Tell Blackie that I love him.’

‘Yes, darling.’ Emma bit her lip and blinked back the blinding tears. ‘Oh, Laura, what will I do without you?’ she gasped, choked and grief-stricken.

‘You’ll be fine, Emma. I’m very sure of you. You’re so good; so brave. And remember, God never gives us a burden that is too heavy to bear.’

‘Oh, Laura, I can’t—’

‘And don’t forget my Christmas presents for the children, will you? The dog is at the kennel for Kit and the jasmine scent for Edwina is all wrapped. In my bedroom. You’ll find it. There’s something for you, too, my dearest Emma—’ Laura closed her eyes and the smile, so radiant a moment before, was a mere fleeting shadow on her face.

‘No, I won’t forget, darling.’

Emma felt Laura’s hand go slack in hers. ‘Laura! Laura!’ she cried, pressing the cold hand to her lips.

Dr Stalkley had to forcibly uncurl Emma’s fingers from Laura’s hand, so tightly was she grasping it. The priest led her out of the room, murmuring words of condolence. Emma closed her ears, drained and numb in her terrible sorrow.

After a few minutes the doctor joined them. ‘I think we will be able to discharge the baby in a few days, Mrs Lowther. We’ll let you know when you can come and fetch him. That was Mrs O’Neill’s wish.’

Emma hardly heard him. ‘Yes, I understand,’ she responded automatically in a low voice. ‘You have my address and telephone number.’ She left them abruptly and without saying goodbye.

Emma pushed open the door of St Mary’s Hospital and walked along the drive and out through the iron gates, moving like a somnambulist. She turned and headed up over Hill Top, climbing steadily, gazing ahead yet seeing nothing. It was a cold December afternoon and the empty sky was bloated with snow and sunless, and the harsh wind blew hard over the hill and dried the tears coursing down her cheeks.

Emma trod the path of her grief in measured steps—steps that sometimes faltered and often slowed but which never failed completely. She buried her pain deep and the world saw only that face of inscrutability, and as the weeks and months passed she learned to live with her heartbreak and the crushing loneliness of her life.

The baby, Bryan, lived with her and the children. Blackie, who had come home briefly on compassionate leave, had agreed this was the most sensible course to take under the circumstances, recognizing that his son would be in a more normal atmosphere with her than if he was put in charge of a nurse at his Uncle Pat’s house. Blackie, unconsolable, and burdened down by his grief, had returned almost at once to the front, and Emma was alone again.

At first Emma had resented the baby, seeing it as the instrument of Laura’s death, but one day it struck her, and most powerfully, that she was being unjust and bitter. She came then to understand that she was betraying Laura’s love and trust in her and was also negating her own abiding love for Laura with her attitude. This was Laura’s son, the child she had yearned for and had died for so that he might live. Emma was seized by remorse and became ashamed of herself and she took the child to her compassionate heart as if he were her own. Bryan had Blackie’s dark colouring and jet-black hair, yet his eyes were Laura’s, large and limpid and of the same soft hazel. He was a good baby, with Laura’s sweet disposition, and when he smiled it was Laura’s smile that Emma saw and she would pick Bryan up out of the crib and hold him fiercely to her breast, overcome with love, and she determined to cherish him always.

Sometimes Emma forgot that Laura was dead, and her hand would automatically reach for the telephone whenever she had a special confidence to impart, and then it would fall away and she would sit for a while, lost in memories of the past ten years, her eyes moist, her heart aching. But there were always the children to help dispel her sadness and pain. Emma devoted all of her free time to them, aware that they needed her more than ever now, with Joe gone and in their most formative years, and she gave of herself unstintingly. Winston came home on leave and Frank visited her regularly and she found solace in her family.