One kiss, after Rebecca. You, believing that’s how babies happen but being too polite to say no. Nobody questioning a quick wedding. Not with a war on. Widow’s pension if the worst happens. Honeymoon, a single night in Morecambe. Not what you were expecting. Listening to the sea’s roar, trying to think of England. Familiar cramps in the morning signalling the start of your long-awaited monthly. A spider scuttling across the dressing table. Him, trapping it between a glass and a beer mat, then releasing it out of the window. You, thinking at least you haven’t married an unkind man.