“Oh, that,” I said. “It’s for tiredness, but I suppose she didn’t need it after all!”

“Could I have a look at it?”

“No, you can’t,” I snapped, and then, pulling myself together, added, “It was used up, so I threw the bottle away.”

“Can I see the empty bottle?”

“No,” I stammered, quashing down a panic that whipped up my throat like poisonous snake. “I think I must have left it at the Manor.”

She pondered. “Don’t you think it may have been the reason she went into labor? She wasn’t supposed to be giving birth for another week.”

“I’m not sure,” I said. “She may have got her dates wrong. The baby is a fine size for her small frame, and perfectly formed. She was definitely ready to come out today, if not sooner. I’ve seen it happen dozens of times, dates all mixed up.” I looked at her, smiling as if to emphasize my superior understanding of such things. “Especially with first-timers.”

I looked at my front door. “I really need to get home now.” I gave her a final pat on the arm, then headed down the path.

Once inside my own house, I leaned against the door for support and slid down onto the floor, lying there for a while, curled up in a question mark, exhausted, confused, and—I have to admit it—scared. It’s clear that the Tilling woman smells something fishy. I only hope she doesn’t speak to Mrs. Winthrop about her birth. Having two births the same day with the same minor emergency will almost certainly rouse suspicion.

Why didn’t I think of that?

Why didn’t I think of so many things? I was stupid enough to think this would be simple as cracking a rooster’s neck. I should have been planning, thinking about how I could cover my tracks. At least I know that proof will be almost impossible—she’ll have to piece a lot more together to make the whole story. It makes me feel all tied up in knots to think that I could be at the mercy of this wretched woman.

Or the Brigadier! I know he’d have to step in for me if the Tilling woman brings the law into it—after all, it’d be his moth-eaten backside on the line, too. But if he gets wind that Mrs. Tilling suspects, then I’ll never see the other half of my money, and I’ll have him on my back as well.

I’d had enough of it all, and tried to forget about it and get on to bed. Except I keep hearing Hattie’s cries in my head, screaming at me not to take her baby.

I will carry on as usual for now, keep my head down and wait for the money from the Brigadier. But the whole thing has given me the willies, and you must promise me to burn this letter as soon as you’ve read it. The walls have ears these days.

Until I have more news,

Edwina

Friday, 10th May, 1940

Today Germany invaded Holland and Belgium. I feel almost numb with horror, the sheer brutality and viciousness of these people. Now that they’re so much closer to us, they’ll almost certainly be using the air bases in Holland and Belgium to make raids over England, especially over us in the southeast. France will be invaded next, and after that?

Our Prime Minister, Mr. Chamberlain, has stepped down because he underestimated Hitler, tried to appease him, and it is said that Mr. Churchill will replace him. We all know that Churchill wants to take us into all-out war, regardless of the fact that they’re bigger and stronger and likely to win. Doesn’t he remember the millions of men killed in the last one? What about David? Will his life be wasted on a battlefield because of some idiotic notion that we have to try?

“Winston Churchill will be much better for this war,” Mrs. B. chortled when we met at the shop. “He’s such a ruthless old bulldog! The Nazis are petrified of him. He’s the only one who can win it.”

“But he can’t stop them. They’ll overrun us, like they’re overrunning everyone else. Surely it’s better if we negotiate peace now?”

“It’s talk like that that makes us look like cowards,” she said sharply. “Where’s your fighting spirit, Mrs. Tilling?”

I nodded weakly and studied the shelves of tinned peas for a few moments, before deciding to leave the shop without buying anything. You see, I don’t have a fighting spirit. The thought of all-out war overwhelms me. I feel like Britain is a bird wounded from the last battle, and there’s a savage crow right there, ready to push us out of our nest and take over.

I had to get on. Apart from my other visits, I had to check on Mrs. Winthrop and baby Lawrence. The Brigadier has been keeping me away, insisting that Miss Paltry is seeing to her, which is ridiculous as I’m just as well qualified. But today I heard that the Brigadier was going to London, which left the coast clear. I was desperate to hear about her birth story, find out how it fit in with Hattie’s. So I trudged determinedly up to the Manor.

Mrs. Winthrop was looking exhausted. “He can’t stop crying, poor lamb,” she sniffed. “Nanny Godwin says she’s never seen anything like it.”

“I’m afraid some babies are like that. It’ll pass with time.” I scooped him up to calm him down, his dark, scraggy hair glued to his scalp with the sweat of crying. “Now tell me about the birth. Did Miss Paltry give you some medicine at all?”

“Yes, some nasty green stuff. I thought I was going to be sick, but then the contractions started. It might even have brought them on,” she mumbled, almost as if she were talking to herself. “But the dreadful part was when the baby came and she had to rush him away to her house because of the breathing problem.”