**A Daughters Keeper**
“Are you really not taking the girl?”
“No. And I wouldnt advise it, Barry. Youve no idea what a babys like. I doraised three myself. Just crawled out of nappies, they have…”
“I wont leave her!” Barry slammed his small glass tumbler onto the table.
Hed had too much to drink. Now he sat hunched over the worn oilcloth in his sisters kitchen, gripping the glass tightly.
“Keep your voice down! The kids are asleep!” Sandra hissed. “We warned you, didnt we? But no’An 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 even one grandmother But like this…”
Barry had reason to drink. 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 accepted a bar of chocolate, had clattered up the stairs in worn slippers and returned soon after.
“Youve a daughter, Dad. Big oneeight pounds three.”
“A girl?” Barry found himself grinning. Hed thought he wanted a sonall men did, didnt they? Yet here he was, beaming. “Hows Lydia? When can I see her?”
The nurse scowled, throwing up her hands. “No idea, no idea. Breech birth. They say theres bleeding. Come back tomorrow.”
Barry dismissed the bleedingjust something all women went through, surely. Men didnt understand childbirth.
He returned the next evening after work.
Walking past the fence under dried acacias with twisted brown pods, under damp rowan trees heavy with red berries, under poplars bitter with autumns scent, he smiled at the hospital windows. Maybe Lydia was already up, watching him approach?
His bag wasnt heavy. The lads at work had advised him what to bring: fresh bread, boiled eggs, apples, grapes. Nursing mothers werent so restricted back then.
He lingered in the corridor, ignored by staff, hiding his lathe-blackened hands in his pockets. Finally, a doctor approached.
“We did all we could. The bleeding was severea complication. My condolences…”
Barry stared, uncomprehending.
White as a sheet, he sank onto a bench. They gave him water, drops. He drank obediently, then looked up.
“Shes… dead?”
“Yes. My condolences.”
He nodded. Understood now. The crowd around him made him uneasy. He stood, headed for the door.
“Ill… go. Give her these,” he gestured at the bag, then snatched it back. “No, Ill take them…”
“Wait. Well keep your daughter longerdont worry. Your wifes body will be in the morgue. When will you return?”
“My daughter? Oh… right.” His mind hadnt yet separated wife from childhed brought one person here. “Shes alive?”
“Alive and healthy. But… focus on the funeral first. The baby will stay with us.”
“The funeral?” He was utterly lost. “Right. What… what needs doing?”
Grief struck fully at home. Pain lanced his heart, gnawed his skull, retreated, then returned fiercer.
Lydia… His Lydia… His soul refused to accept it. He hadnt protected her.
Barry had grown up in the village of Barrowley, worked on a farm, married latelife hadnt lined up right.
After his mother died, hed lived with his sisters family. Uncomfortable, that. Sandra was sharp, shadow-eyed, perpetually exhausted by chores.
When the factory in Rivermere called, hed left. There, he met Lydia.
Young, gentle, kind. Raised in care, but her gran lived in town. Lydia had moved in after care and college.
Barry joined them. The old woman was sour, life-weary, haunted by a daughter whod drunk herself to death with her cronies. Shed despised Barry at first.
Their homea crumbling outbuilding attached to a landlords househad two tiny rooms, a windowless kitchen with a rust-stained tub, and a narrow porch.
Worse, the house was sickdevoured by some insatiable rot. Floors sagged; chair legs sank into wood. No matter how they heated it, cold clung. Barry fought it, but the rot always returned.
The place stood near the market in a dead-end alley, frequented only by locals and the occasional drunk.
Maybe thats why Lydias mother drank? Why Lydia couldnt stand alcohols smell?
After meeting her, Barry barely drankknew shed cry if he did.
Her gran had warmed to himhe worked hard. The house brightened; Lydia bloomed.
At the end, Barry carried the skeletal old woman to the bath. Shed lain bedridden six months before slipping away.
Now Barry, a lathe operator, was alone. Or soon would bewhen he brought home his baby girl. Nearly two months old, the hospital couldnt keep her longer.
Hed begged Sandra for help. She refusedunderstandable. Just back at work, three boys to feed. Barry offered money, but £100 was steep even for him. She wouldnt budge.
Lydia had only truly lived with him. Shy at first, shed opened up after two years.
“They beat me on my third day in care, Barry.”
“Boys?”
“No. A carer. I was playfulshe dragged me by my hair, locked me in a cupboard. To ‘quiet me.'”
“Good God! They do that?”
“Not to all. Just the lively ones. After that, I was a mouse. I swore my kids would never go there. Never!”
Sandra insisted: “Send her to care! Theyll look after her better. Fetch her when shes older…”
He remembered Lydias words. No. His girl would stay with him.
Barry got leave. A month to figure things out.
An older nurse eyed his hands disapprovingly.
“Those filthy things? This isnt metalworkits a baby!”
“Its not dirtits machine stains.”
“Scrub properly.”
Soap failed; she brought a medical solution. The blackness bubbled away.
“These arent nappies! Do you even know how to swaddle? Bathe her? Signed up for the milk kitchen? Oh, you poor fool…”
She fussed, wrapping the baby, explaining feeding and bathing basics. “Find a woman to help. Youll never manage alone. Her name?”
“Alexandra. After AlexanderLydia wanted a boy.”
“Little Alex, then. Here” She handed over the bundle. “Papers, milk, off you go. Call a doctor if needed.”
A bottle of chilled milk swung in his bag. Outside, the baby squinted in winter light, yawned, grunted.
Holding her warm body, fear struckshe was alive. Not a doll. He shielded her face, headed for the bus stop. Snow crunched underfoot.
Alex slept. Barry sat numb.
What awaited at home? How would he raise her? Feed, change, survive…
He felt no great love yet, though she was prettyless red-faced than at birth, cheeks filling out. In his mind, she was “the baby.” Not his.
He carried a squirming, demanding burden. On the bus, distracted, he loosened his grip.
“Sir! Youll drop her!” a woman cried.
He clutched Alex tighter. Her lips twitchedsmiling in sleep. He held her close.
At home, he feared unwrapping her, dreaded her cries. He fed her the hospital milk, then ran to the milk kitchen when she screamed. Thankfully, it was nearby.
Closedbut a worker took pity, gave him bottles, told him to come before eleven daily.
Days passed in chaos. Alex cried endlessly. Barry rocked her, checked her temperature, swaddled, unswaddled. She kicked, red-faced. Maybe care wouldve been better? Surely they didnt beat infants…
Her cot stood emptyshe slept with him.
“Why does she always cry?” asked a neighbourone theyd feuded with over Lydias gran.
“Dyou think I do it on purpose?” he snapped.
She offered advicehelped a little.
Exhausted, sleepless, he took Alex to the clinic. They prescribed colic drops, suggested tummy timeno use.
Would it ever end?
Then his workmates burst inboisterous, fresh-faced, with Kathy from payroll.
“Come to see the new dad!”
Their laughter filled the cramped house.
“Miss you at work! Come back…”
Alex woke, wailed. He grabbed herbut Kathy took over, cooing.
“Careful, Dad! Youll have suitors
