Lilian Gough had to see Mr Russell at St Mary’s. He was very nice but they didn’t really know why some women had her problem and couldn’t carry to full term. But he was clear that there was little hope of the situation improving. She had expected him to say that. Well, more or less, but she had hidden a tiny ray of hope that she would be proved wrong. There was also the vexed question of sex. Blushing like a beetroot, she had tried to broach the subject. ‘But my husband, that side of things . . .’ Wanting the ground to swallow her up. Pushing her tortoiseshell glasses back up her nose. ‘There are devices . . .’ ‘We’re Catholic,’ she said in a rush. ‘Ah!’ ‘And the rhythm method, well, we got caught out like that the first time.’ Her cheeks blazed. She fiddled with the strap of her bag. She wished she’d left her long, light-brown hair down instead of putting it up in a chignon, then she’d have been able to hide behind it. ‘It’s not reliable,’ Mr Russell said crisply, ‘and there seem to be several versions doing the rounds.
