**Diary Entry**
“Are you really not taking the little girl?”
“No. And I wouldnt advise it either, Barry. Youve no idea what its likea baby that small. But I do. Raised three of my own, barely out of nappies…”
“I wont leave her!” He slammed his thick-rimmed glass onto the table, the sound sharp in the cramped kitchen of his sisters house. The checked oilcloth was worn, the room stuffy. Barry had drunk too much, and now he sat hunched over, gripping the glass like an anchor.
“Keep your voice down! The kids are asleep!” His sister, Margaret, hissed. “We warned you, didnt we? But noAn orphan, means no mother-in-law, what a blessing! Look where your jokes got you.”
“Whats that got to do with anything?”
“Everything. If thered been at least one grandmother, but like this…”
Barry had his reasons for drinking. He didnt do it oftenthis was only the second time since his wifes death. The first had been after the funeral.
Lydia had died in childbirth. Or rather, just after.
The nurse, whod pocketed a bar of chocolate, scurried off in scuffed slippers, then returned shortly.
“Youve got a girl, Dad. Big oneeight pounds.”
“A girl?” Barry had grinned stupidly. Hed wanted a son, hadnt he? All men did. But instead, hed beamed. “Hows Lydia? When can I see her?”
The nurse had scowled, throwing up her hands. “That, I dont know. Breech birth. They said there was bleeding. Come back tomorrow.”
Barry hadnt thought much of the bleeding. Assumed it was normal. Men didnt understand these things.
He returned the next evening, after work.
The hospital path was lined with skeletal trees, their branches clawing at the grey sky. Dry leaves crunched underfoot. He walked, scanning the windows, smiling. Maybe Lydia was already up, watching for him.
His bag wasnt heavyjust some fresh bread, boiled eggs, apples, and grapes. The lads at the factory had told him what to bring. No one stopped him in the corridor, though he hid his grease-blackened hands in his pockets.
Finally, a doctor approached.
“We did everything we could. But the bleeding was severe. Sometimes complications happen after birth. My condolences…”
Barry stared, uncomprehending.
He sank onto a bench, white as a sheet. Someone handed him water, then drops of something bitter. He drank mechanically before lifting his eyes.
“Shes… dead?”
“Yes. Im very sorry.”
He nodded. Understood now. The crowd of staff made him uneasy. He stood, moving toward the door.
“Ill… go. Give her this.” He gestured vaguely at the bag, then snatched it back. “Ill go.”
“Wait. Well keep the girl a little longer. Dont worry. Your wifes body will be in the morgue. When will you come back?”
“The girl? Oh… right.” His mind hadnt separated them yet. Hed brought one person here. “Shes alive?”
“Alive and healthy. The babys fine. Just… arrange the funeral first. The girl can stay with us.”
“Funeral?” He was lost. “Right. What… what do I need to do?”
The weight of it hit him at home. Grief came in wavesstabbing his heart, gnawing at his skull, then retreating only to surge back.
Lydia… His Lydia. His mind refused to accept it. He hadnt protected her.
Barry had grown up in a Yorkshire village, worked on a farm. Never married youngnever found the right one.
Then his mother died, leaving him in the house with his sisters family. Uncomfortable, that. Margaret was sharp-tongued, worn down by chores and children.
When a factory job opened in Sheffield, hed left. There, he met Lydia.
Young, quiet, kind. Shed grown up in care but lived with her grandmother in the city. Barry moved in too.
The old woman was bitter, life-hardened, her daughter lost to drink and bad company. Shed hated Barry at first.
Their homea crumbling annexe to a landlords housewas damp, rotting with mould. Two tiny rooms, a windowless kitchen with an ancient bathtub, a narrow porch. The floors sagged, walls chewed by woodworm. No matter how much he patched, the cold seeped in.
The place sat near a market, tucked in a dead-end alley where only locals wanderedand the occasional drunk from the pub. Maybe thats why Lydias mother had turned to the bottle. Maybe thats why Lydia couldnt stand the smell of drink.
Barry had stopped drinking when they met. Knew it made her cry.
The grandmother had softened when she saw he worked hard. The house brightened, Lydia bloomed.
By the end, hed carried the frail old woman to the bath himself. She lingered six months, then slipped away.
Now Barry was alone. Or soon would be, when he brought his daughter home. She was nearly two months old; the hospital couldnt keep her longer.
Hed gone to Margaret, begged for help. She refused. Fair enoughshed just gone back to work, scraping by with three boys. A hundred quid a month was too much, even with Barrys promise to send money.
Lydia had come alive with him. Shy at first, then slowly opening up. Took two years before she told him about the care home.
“They beat me on the third day, Barry.”
“Lads?”
“No. A carer. I was cheeky, playful. She dragged me by the hair, locked me in a cupboardtaught me to be quiet.”
“Good God. They do that to kids?”
“Some. The quiet ones are left alone. The rest… broken. I swore my children would never end up there.”
Margaret insistedsend her to care. Better than his bungling. Maybe he could take her back later.
Barry remembered Lydias words. No. His girl would stay with him.
They gave him leave at the start of the year. A month to figure things out.
The nurse eyed his grimy hands with pity and irritation.
“Where dyou think youre putting those? Thats a baby, not a lump of metal!”
“Its not dirt. Wont come off. Turners grease.”
“Wash properly or youre not holding her.”
Soap failed. She brought a medical solution, the blackness bubbled away.
“These arent nappies! Did you think at all? Know how to swaddle? Bathe her? Signed up for the baby clinic? Oh, youre hopeless…”
She fussed, wrapping the baby, explaining feeds and baths.
“Find a woman to help. Youll never manage alone. Whats her name?”
“Registered her as Alexandra. Lydia wanted a boyAlexander.”
“Little Lexi, then.” The nurse handed over the bundle. “Papers, milk, and off you go. Call a doctor if needed.”
The bottle in his bag sloshed. Outside, the cold bit. The baby wrinkled her face, squinting at the winter light, mouth a tiny circle.
Her warmth in his arms struck him suddenlyshe was alive. Not a doll. He draped his coat over her and headed for the bus.
Lexi slept. Barry sat numb.
What waited at home? How would he feed her, change her, keep her alive?
He didnt love her yet. She was pretty enough, her face less red than at birth, cheeks filling out. But in his mind, she was just “the baby.” Not his.
A wriggling, needy problem. On the bus, his grip slackened.
“Sir! Youll drop her!” a woman snapped.
He clutched Lexi tight. She twitched in sleep, smiling. He held her closer.
At home, he feared unwrapping her, dreaded her cries. He fed her the hospital milk, then fumbled with nappies. When she screamed, he ran to the baby clinic.
Closed. But a worker took pity, gave him bottles, told him to come before eleven.
Days blurred. Lexi cried endlessly. He jiggled her, took her temperature, swaddled, unswaddled. She kicked, red-faced. Maybe care *would* be better.
Her cot stood emptyshe slept with him.
“Whys she always screaming?” A neighbour asked. Theyd fallen out over Lydias grandmother.
“Dunno! Like Im doing it on purpose!”
The woman came, offered advice. It helped a little.
Exhausted, he took Lexi to the GP. Drops for colic, tummy timenothing worked.
Would it never end?
Then the lads from work barged in. Loud, cheerful, smelling of frost. With them, Cathythe
