Letters from Alice: Part 2 of 3: A tale of hardship and hope. A search for the truth.

‘Oh, no, you go ahead,’ Alice said, sitting down next to the drawer. She smiled down at the baby and slipped her forefinger into her tiny palm. ‘Do not worry about tea for me.’

Elizabeth bustled out of the room. She returned a few minutes later, carrying some linen and a jug of water. ‘Come on,’ she said briskly, taking Daisy from Alice. Immediately the baby vomited on her shoulder.

Elizabeth’s arms shot out, her face reddened in alarm. The baby hovered at arm’s length, her legs dangling below the unravelling blanket. A moment later, the woman recovered. She dabbed at her dress with a cloth, mumbled something in a mildly chastising tone then sat on a stool by the fire. She settled the baby on her lap so that the small head was resting on her knees, her tiny feet nestled against Elizabeth’s plump middle. With fingers that were still slightly clumsy, she fumbled at length with the baby’s nightgown and lifted the tiny body up. The skin on the soft limbs protruding from her cloth napkin was already less saggy than it had been a few days earlier, a healthy pink glow replacing the grey.

‘Is she all right?’ Alice asked. ‘She’s terribly small.’