**Diary Entry March 12, 1985**
I wont leave her. My daughter.
*”So, youre not taking the little girl?”*
*”No. And I wouldnt advise it either, Tom. Youve no idea what a babys like. I do. Raised three of my ownbarely out of nappies…”*
*”I wont leave her!”* Tom slammed his small, faceted glass on the table.
Hed drunk too much. Now he sat hunched over the worn oilcloth in his sisters house, gripping the glass like it might steady him.
*”Keep your voice down! The kids are sleeping!”* His sister, Margaret, hissed. *”We warned youbut no, you had to joke about it. An orphanno mother-in-law to meddle, what luck! Look where thats got you.”*
*”Whats that got to do with anything?”*
*”Everything. If thered been at least one grandmother around…”*
Tom had reason to drink. Not that he did oftenthis was only the second time since his wifes death. The first had been at her funeral.
Lydia died in childbirth. Or rather, after.
A nurse, tipped with a chocolate bar, had clattered up the stairs in worn slippers, then returned.
*”A girl, Dad. Big onethree pounds, eight ounces.”*
*”A girl?”* Tom found himself grinning. Odd, since hed wanted a son. All men do, dont they? Yet there he was, smiling. *”And Lydia? When can I see her?”*
The nurse scowled, threw up her hands. *”No idea. Baby came breech. Theyre saying theres bleeding. Come back tomorrow.”*
Tom dismissed the bleedingassumed it was normal. Men dont understand these things.
He returned the next evening, after work.
Walked past the hospital fence under brittle acacias with twisted brown pods, beneath damp rowans heavy with red berries, past poplars that smelled bitter with autumn. He glanced at the windowsmaybe Lydia was already up, watching for him?
His bag wasnt heavy. The lads at work had advised himfresh bread, boiled eggs, apples, grapes. Nursing mothers werent restricted much back then.
He waited forever in the corridor, handsblackened from the lathehidden in his pockets.
Finally, a doctor approached.
*”We did everything we could. The haemorrhage was severe. Complications happen. My condolences…”*
Tom stared, uncomprehending.
White as a sheet, he sank onto the bench. They gave him water, drops of something. He drank obediently, then looked up.
*”Shes… dead?”*
*”Yes. Your wife has passed. Im sorry.”*
He nodded. Understood now. Felt awkward with so many eyes on him. Stood, moved toward the door.
*”Ill… go. Give her this.”* He gestured to the bag, then snatched it back. *”No, Ill take it.”*
*”Wait. Well keep your daughter a little longer. Dont worry. The body will be in the morgue. When will you come?”*
*”The… daughter?”* His mind hadnt separated wife from child yethed brought one person here. *”Shes alive?”*
*”Alive and healthy. Babys fine. Just… focus on the funeral. Well look after her.”*
*”The funeral?”* He was lost. *”Right. What… what needs doing?”*
The full weight of it hit him at home. Grief stabbed his chest, gnawed at his skull, retreated, then returned fiercer.
Lydia… His Lydia… His heart refused to accept it. *I failed her.*
Tom had grown up in Barrow Heath. Worked on the farm, married latenever found the right girl.
Then his mother died. The house felt wrong with his sisters family thereshe was sharp, shadow-eyed, always worn out from chores.
When the factory in Riverton offered work, he left. Thats where he met Lydia.
Young, gentle, kind. Shed grown up in care, but her grandmother lived in town. Lydia moved in with her after school.
Tom moved in too. The old woman was sour, life-hardened, her daughter lost to drink and deadbeat men. She didnt welcome him.
The housemore a shack, reallywas crumbling. Two tiny rooms, a windowless kitchen with an ancient bathtub, a narrow porch.
Worse, the place was rotting. Some voracious mould or beetle ate the floors, the lower walls. Chairs tipped, tables wobbled. No matter how much he stoked the fire, it stayed cold.
They lived near the market, tucked in a quiet dead-end alley where only locals and the odd drunk wandered. Maybe thats why Lydias mother had turned to the bottle. Maybe thats why Lydia couldnt stand the smell of alcohol.
Tom had stopped drinking when they met. Knew it made her cry.
The grandmother softened when she saw he worked hard. The house changed. Lydiaonce so quiet, so damagedblossomed.
At the end, Tom carried the frail old woman to the bath. She lingered six months, then slipped away.
Now, factory turner Tom Harper was alone. Or rather, soon to have a baby girl in his arms. Nearly two months oldthey couldnt keep her at the hospital forever.
Hed gone back to the village, begged his sister for help. She refused. Fair enoughshed just gone back to work, scraping by with three boys. A hundred quid a month was steep for him too, but hed promised to send it. Still, she wouldnt budge.
Lydia had only truly lived with him. Turned out she wasnt shy, just locked away. She never spoke of the home, not for two years. Then one night:
*”They beat me on my third day there, Tom.”*
*”The boys?”*
*”No. The matron. I was cheeky, playful. She dragged me by my hairlocked me in the storeroom. Taught me to be quiet.”*
*”Christ, Lydia! They do that to kids?”*
*”Some. The quiet ones stay quiet. The rest… they break. I hate that place. My children will never go there. Never.”*
Now Margaret insisted: *”Send her to the home. Theyll care for her better. Fetch her when shes older…”*
Tom remembered Lydias words. No. His girl would stay with him.
They gave him leave at the start of the year. A month to figure it out.
The nurse eyed his hands. *”Where dyou think youre putting those? Black as coal! This isnt a latheits a baby!”*
*”Its not dirt. Wont come off…”*
She brought medical solution. The grime bubbled away.
*”These arent proper nappies! Do you even know how to swaddle? Bathe her? Signed up for the infant clinic? Oh, lord help us…”*
As she wrapped the baby, she explained the basics. *”Find a woman to help. Youll never manage alone. Whats her name?”*
*”Registered as Alexandra. Lydia wanted a boyAlexander.”*
*”So, Sasha then. Right.”* She handed him the bundle. *”Papers, milk, and off you go. Call a doctor if needed.”*
The bottle swung in his bag as he stepped into the frosty air. The baby screwed up her face, squinted at the light, yawned.
Only then did he panic. She was alive. Not a doll. He shielded her face, headed for the bus stop.
She slept. He sat numb.
What waited at home? How would he feed her, bathe her, live?
He didnt love this wriggling thing yet. Called her *”the girl”* in his headnot *Sasha*, not *his*. Just a problem.
On the bus, his grip slackened.
*”Sir! Youll drop her!”*
He clutched her tight. She smiled in her sleep.
At home, he feared unwrapping her. Fed her the hospitals milk, then ran to the clinic when she screamed. Thankfully, it was close.
Closed. But a worker took pitygave him two bottles, told him to come before eleven.
Days blurred. The baby cried endlessly. He jiggled her, checked her temperature, swaddled, unswaddled. She flailed, red-faced. Maybe the home *would* be better.
Her cot stood emptyshe slept with him.
*”Whys she always wailing?”* The neighbourstill frosty after rows with Lydias granasked.
*”Dyou think Im doing it on purpose?”*
She came, gave advice. It helped a little
