I had eighteen dollars and no childcare, so I took my eight-month-old to work — and at ten past five the blanket in the linen store was empty.

I had been late twice in six weeks — buses and a hospital appointment — and I had been spoken to about it on the ninth.

One more and I was out, and that job pays the rent and the formula and Fern’s prescriptions.

So I packed a bag.

Formula, nappies, two changes, the wooden rattle she likes, and a pale pink blanket.

And I went in through the delivery door at Saltram at half past two, before the staff briefing, with my daughter under my coat.