Chapter ElevenMy baby was going to die. Of that much I am certain. You could see it in the midwives' eyes. They'd smile and cluck and talk about 'best foot forward', but they knew and I knew that the poor little thing was too small and wasn't feeding. She only had a few days left in her, then they'd have taken her from me and put her into a wooden box and that would have been that. Poor mite. She really was very small and steadfastly refused to take my breast, like she just wanted to get it over and done with. To stop the pain of being alive.
On the night when it happened, when so many people including my baby died, I remember holding her in my arms and looking out of the hospital window at London, at all the gas lamps and the fog rolling in off the Thames, and I remember thinking that it
