Easing himself between the white sheets he shuffled up against the warmth of his wife’s body, wrapping an arm around her distended midriff as she groaned in her sleep. Below his hand he felt an unborn hand reach out and punch beneath taught skin.
The morning sun streamed through the lace covered windows in the gap where the threadbare curtains failed to meet. Charlie stirred as it’s warmth hit his cheek, sending his sleeping thoughts back to the heat of the foundry. He woke suddenly, eyes stinging with the bright light after the darkness of a nights rest. Beside him Mary was snoring gently, her laboured breaths beating an uneven rhythm in the quiet of the bedroom.
Throwing back the bedclothes Charlie pulled on his trousers and shirt and leant over the bed to prod his wife ungraciously, “Wake up woman, it’s morning”. He didn’t need the prompting of any time-piece, the daily routine of the working day embedded on his subconscious by it’s grinding regularity.