**I Wont Give Her Up**
*”So, you wont take the little one?”*
*”No. And I wouldnt advise it either, Barry. Youve no idea what a babys like. I do. Raised three myselfjust crawled out of nappies, they have”*
*”I wont leave her!”* Barry slammed his small, faceted glass onto the oilcloth-covered table at his sisters house. Hed drunk too much. Again.
*”Keep your voice down! The kids are asleep!”* Jean hissed. *”We warned you, didnt we? But noNo mother-in-law, what a blessing! Well, jokes on you now.”*
*”Whats that got to do with anything?”*
*”Everything. If thered been a grandmother, at least But no. Just you.”*
Barry had his reasons for drinking. Not that he did it oftenthis was only the second time since his wife died. The first? After the funeral.
Lydia hadnt made it through childbirth. Or rather, just after.
The nurse whod pocketed his chocolate bar clattered upstairs in her worn-out slippers, returning moments later.
*”Its a girl, Dad. Big oneeight pounds.”*
*”A girl?”* Barry found himself grinning. Odd. Hed wanted a son. All men do, dont they? Yet here he was, beaming. *”Hows Lydia? When can I see her?”*
The nurse frowned, spreading her hands. *”No idea. Breech birth. Theyre saying theres bleeding. Come back tomorrow.”*
Barry dismissed the bleeding. Must be normal, he figured. Men dont understand these things.
He returned the next evening after work, walking past the dry acacias with their twisted brown pods, the damp rowans heavy with red berries, the poplars reeking of bitter autumn. He smiled at the hospital windows. Maybe Lydia was already up, watching for him?
His bag wasnt heavyjust fresh bread, boiled eggs, apples, and grapes. The lads at the factory had advised him. Back then, nursing mums werent so restricted.
He loitered in the corridor, hiding his lathe-blackened hands in his pockets until a doctor finally appeared.
*”We did everything we could. The haemorrhaging was severe. These things happencomplications. My condolences.”*
Barry stared blankly. What was she on about?
White as a sheet, he sank onto a couch. They gave him water, then drops. He drank obediently, then looked up. *”Shes dead?”*
*”Yes. Im sorry.”*
He nodded. Understood now. Awkward, all these people watching. He stood, heading for the door. *”Ill go. Ohgive her this.”* He gestured to the bag, then snatched it back. *”Ill go.”*
*”Wait. Well keep the baby longer. Dont worry. The bodys in the morgue. When will you?”*
*”The baby? Right”* He hadnt yet separated the two in his mind. Brought in one person, left with *”Shes alive?”*
*”Perfectly healthy. Just focus on the funeral. Well mind her.”*
*”Funeral?”* He was lost. *”Right. What what do I do?”*
The truth hit him at home. Grief stabbed his heart, gnawed his skull, retreated, then returned fiercer. *Lydia my Lydia* His soul refused to accept it. *I failed her.*
Barry grew up in Barrow-on-Trent. Worked on a farm, took ages to marrynever found the right one. Then his mum died, leaving him in his sisters crowded house. Jean was sharp-tongued, shadow-eyed, forever exhausted by chores. When the factory in Riverton needed hands, he jumped at it.
There, he met Lydia.
Young, gentle, kind. Raised in care, but her gran lived in town. Lydia moved in after tech college. Barry followed. The old woman was a shrew, hardened by lifeher drunkard daughter and rowdy mates had seen to that. Shed hated Barry on sight.
Their homemore a shack tacked to a landlords housewas crumbling. Two tiny rooms, a windowless kitchen with an ancient, rust-stained bathtub Lydia had scrubbed raw, and a narrow veranda.
Worse, the place was rotting. Some ravenous fungus or beetle devoured the floors, the lower walls. Chairs wobbled, sinking into the boards. No matter how he stoked the stove, cold seeped in. Barry replaced floorboards, fought the infestation, but it always returned.
The shack sat in the old market district, down a dead-end alley where only locals or pub stragglers wandered. Maybe thats why Lydias mother drank? Why Lydia herself couldnt stand the smell of alcohol?
From the day they met, Barry barely touched a drop. Knew shed cry if he did.
Gran softened when she saw he was a grafter. The house brightened; Lydia, once so withdrawn, bloomed. By the end, Barry carried the withered old womanbarely seven stoneto the bath himself. She lingered six months, then slipped away.
Now factory turner Barry Hayes was alone in that house. Or soon would be, once he collected his daughter. Nearly two months old, the hospital couldnt keep her longer.
Hed begged Jean for help. She refused. Fair enoughshed just gone back to work, her three boys finally manageable. Barry offered money, though his own wages were tight. She still said no.
Lydia had come alive with him. Turned out she wasnt so shy after all. Took two years before she opened up about the childrens home.
*”They beat me on my third day, Barry.”*
*”Boys?”*
*”No. Matron. I was cheeky, playful. She dragged me by my hair into a cupboardlocked me in. Taught me to be quiet.”*
*”Christ, Lydia! They do that?”*
*”Some. Not all. Break the loud ones, leave the quiet. I hated that place. My kidsll never end up there. Never.”*
Now Jean insisted: *”Send her to care. Better than you bumbling along. Fetch her when shes older.”* Barry remembered Lydias words. *No. She stays with me.*
They gave him leave. A month to figure it out.
The old nurse eyed his hands with pity and irritation. *”Where dyou think youre putting those? Black as soot! This isnt a metalwork, its a baby!”*
*”Its not dirt. Wont wash off. Turners stains.”*
*”Not my problem. Scrub or no baby.”*
Soap failed. She brought a medical solution. The grime bubbled away.
*”Call those swaddles? Lord Know how to bathe her? Arrange formula? Oh, youre hopeless”* She bundled the baby, rattling off basics. *”Find a woman to help. Youll drown otherwise. Name?”*
*”Registered as Alexandra. Lydia wanted a boyAlex. So Alexandra Barry.”*
*”Little Lexi, then. Right.”* She handed over the bundle. *”Papers, milk, off you go. Call a doctor if she turns blue.”*
The bottle swung in his carrier bag. Outside, winter light made the baby scrunch her face. She yawned, pink mouth round, then sighed.
Only then, feeling her warmth, did panic strike. *Shes alive. Not a doll.* He covered her face, heading for the bus stop. Snow crunched underfoot.
Lexi slept. Barry sat numb.
*What now? Feed, change, keep alive?*
No love yet for this wriggling “worm,” though she was sweet enoughless red than at birth, cheeks filling out. In his head, she was *the baby.* Not *his.* Just a problem to solve.
On the bus, lost in thought, he nearly dropped her.
*”Sir! Youll lose her!”* a woman scolded.
He clutched Lexi tight. Her lips twitchedsmiling in sleep. He held her closer.
At home, he feared unwrapping her, dreaded her cries. He used all the hospital milk, then ran to the clinic when her wails pierced the walls. Luckily, it was nearby.
Closed. But a worker took pity, gave extra bottles, told him to come before eleven daily.
Days blurred. Lexi screamed endlessly. Barry jiggled her, took her temperature, swaddled, unswaddled. She kicked, red-faced. Maybe care *would* be better? Surely they didnt hit newborns
Her cot stood emptyshe slept with him.
*”Whys she always howling?”* asked his neighbour, still
