“Edna,” says the doctor, coming to stand beside the bed. “You need to wait. It’s not long now. Don’t push. Just hold on, Edna.” In three minutes, it will be July 5, 1948.
She waits until that long, achingly slow clock hand ticks over, and then she pushes. I come barrelling into the world at a minute past midnight, the first baby to be born on the NHS. “Have you thought of a name yet?” asks the doctor later that day, his pen balanced over the papers in his hand.
It’s a few hours since my birth, and Edna’s face has regained some of its colour. “Because if not,” said the doctor, “I have an idea.
She should be named for the man who made this possible. “The man who allowed her to be born here, for free. After Nye Bevan. “Call her Aneira.” Edna
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