out of the timbers and corrugated iron from the pigsties, just between what was to be our coal bunker and the little hut. By now the plumbing had been done, thank goodness, and we had been able to get rid of the Elsan. The drains were a bit complicated. There was no main drainage in Kirton so Mr Woolnough had dug and lined an enormous cesspit half way down the garden, fed by several lidded chambers, to hold hundreds of gallons. This was to purify itself and the “clean” liquid would disperse through the orchard via “weeping pipes”. At least, that was the theory. But in practice after the system had been inspected the pipes were more or less joined together, an extra one was put in to allow the presumed clear liquid to escape into the ditch and be carried down to Kings Fleet and the sea. The council provided a twice-a-year free emptying service, but if we wanted more, we had to pay.

The ditch never smelled really bad so we presumed it all worked and asked no questions.
The kittens were a great joy to Gale. As soon as they became mobile they took to climbing up inside her rather wide trouser legs, and when I sat down they would climb up and sit hiccuping on my rather large bump.

Peter’s parents, Florence and Arthur, had agreed to come and look after Gale and Peter while I was in hospital. One day Mr Rivett, the bricklayer, came to find me. He had just fixed the Redfire into the new kitchen with its back boiler, and, never having done one of these before, was anxious to test it to make sure he had done it right. So he had spent his meagre lunch hour picking up little bits of coal left around under the mulberry tree from the old days of the mill being a mill, had lit the fire, heated the water and now said that if I was very, very careful not to splash, as the floor was not done yet, I could have a bath. I did, and it was bliss. By now I was too large to be able to wash my feet, and had to take a bus down to the sea to bathe if I wanted to clean them, by paddling.

My Dad went home, and Florence and Arthur arrived at the beginning of August as baby was due on the 15th and they wanted to be in good time just in case it was early – but weeks went by and I was still as large as ever. Dr Smith was away on holiday and his stand-in was most abrupt when I rang to ask if such a delay was all right. A fortnight went by. Still no baby. Florence and Arthur were due to go home!

Finally, on Wednesday August 30th I cycled into the village for some stewing steak and cooked a sturdy stew, potatoes, cabbage, the works, on my new gas cooker in my new kitchen. The house was almost finished – the workmen had been racing the baby. They just had the fireplace in the mill to finish. Dear Mr Rivett went round the garden with Peter,