She was desperate for a daughter.

She gave birth to a son.

As a result David grew up in a world where his confidence was perpetually undermined, to the point where he doubted himself.

This is the true story of a boy struggling to be accepted by his mother.

She would never love him, but worse, she would never forgive him for not being

Her Margaret.

Taster follows.

It was half past one in the morning; Basil was sleeping soundly. Sibyl, however, lay awake beside him, unable to find sleep because of the regular sharp pains in her abdomen.

“There, there,” she said, softly patting the large hump of her belly and smiling to herself, “not long now I think.”

She snuggled further under the bedcovers, pulling the rough ex-army blanket tight to her neck so none of the warmth could escape.

Half an hour later she felt another sharp pain, followed by a regular series of pains; then she felt a warm wetness between her legs and realised that her waters had broken and were flowing freely. It was indeed her time.

“Bass,” she called as she shook her husband awake, “it’s Margaret; she’s coming.”

“Are you sure?” Basil was only half awake and squinted against the glow of the forty watt bulb that hung above the bed; he did not want to be disturbed if he could help it.

“Yes I am sure.” She shook his shoulder roughly and there was irritation in her voice. “My waters have broken how more sure do you want me to be?”

Basil swung his legs out of the bed lazily, his feet touching the cold linoleum, and with eyes reluctant to focus he stumbled to the chair that held his clothes. Thrusting his legs into his trousers he stood and dragged them up to his waist, shrugged his arms into his shirt and dragged on a pullover.

“Don’t worry Sib, I’ve got everything under control.” He said calmly, knowing that he had planned carefully for this occasion. He was determined to savour every second of the baby’s arrival, having missed the birth of his first child whilst serving in Egypt with the army.

Once dressed he slipped into the adjacent bedroom, swept his sleeping son into his arms and walked briskly three doors down to number ten Lanark Rd, the home of their friends the Armitages, where his unceremonious banging on the front door was eventually answered by a bleary eyed Ivy who squinted down her thin pointed nose at him.

“Sibyl has gone into labour,” he said as he placed the young man into her outstretched arms, “thank you for looking after Keith.” He turned, heading toward the telephone kiosk on the corner.

“Thank you, I’ll let you know when the baby arrives.” He called over his shoulder.

Two quick phone calls, one to summon a taxi and another to the maternity home to warn them of their imminent arrival, and he returned to Sibyl to find her sitting huddled on the second step of the stairs with her small brown cardboard suitcase in front of her.

Anxiously they both waited. The pains were stronger now, and closer together. Sibyl was getting nervous, she was being kept waiting, she didn’t like to be kept waiting.

“Oh where is that damned taxi?” She moaned, the agitation showing in the tremor of her voice. “I don’t want to have her here on the stairs.”

Basil smiled an uneasy smile and did his best to calm her.

Eventually a battered Austin arrived, the dim headlights catching a thin morning mist, and the expectant couple slipped into the rear seat. Sibyl clutched the small suitcase to her chest as if it contained pure gold instead of just a nightdress, a thin dressing gown and some clean underwear.

“Wingfield Street maternity home please.”

“Hmm, guessed as much.” Replied the surly driver.

The struggling headlights cast a faint creamy glow on the road as they made their way along a deserted Sidegate Lane, over the railway bridge and eventually into Cemetery Lane.

“Why have we come this way,” Sibyl complained, as she watched the steel railings of the cemetery flash past, “it’s spooky.”

“It’s the quickest route. Don’t worry though the railings will stop anybody getting out.” Basil said with a wry smile; his humour fell on deaf ears.

Sibyl’s contractions were coming thick and fast by the time the taxi turned into the heavy darkness of Wingfield Street and crept between the high brick pillars that guarded the narrow entrance to the maternity home, finally pulling up outside the thick oak door set into the imposing red brick facade. Sibyl was moaning in time with the pangs she was experiencing, Basil jumped from the car and helped her struggle out. The door to the home stood open and a white clad midwife waited on the step beside a blue clad nurse. They each took an arm and guided Sibyl inside.

“Father can wait in the waiting room, your work is finished.” The nurse said barely acknowledging Basil’s existence as the trio hustled through into the lobby and disappeared away down the corridor into the depths of the building.

Basil paid the taxi driver and stood, looking rather bemused, alone and somewhat deflated, as the entourage disappeared from view.

“My but you didn’t leave yourself much time did you,” scolded the midwife as she carried out an initial examination, “the head is engaged already. You nearly delivered in the taxi my girl.”

“It was that damned taxi driver’s fault he took an age to arrive.” Sibyl was not about to change the habits of a lifetime and admit or accept any responsibility.

An hour later and it was all over. Sibyl lay exhausted but elated on the delivery bed, thinking how much easier this delivery had been compared to her previous one. The new arrival cried weakly and waved its arms about on the weighing scales until the nurse wrapped it tightly, to keep the arms and legs restrained, lifted it into her embrace and moved toward the bed.

“Here we are my dear, seven pounds and thirteen ounces, a bonny little one to be sure.” The nurse beamed.

“Seven pounds and thirteen ounces,” repeated Sibyl stretching her arms out expectantly, “that is big for a girl. Oh let me hold her.”

“Of course, but it is not a girl, it is a fine healthy boy.”

“What!” Sibyl’s arms dropped onto the bed, disappointment starkly etched across her face. “No you must be wrong, this is my daughter. I don’t want another damned boy.”