London, 1925

Crying babies weren't a foreign sound, every day one could be heard, from a pram, from an open window, from the arms of a parent of sibling, but never your front doorstep.

It had taken Alfie some convincing to move to the countryside, he'd become so settled in his ways as a bachelor until you'd arrived, but he knew it was time, time to work less, relax more.

Initially it didn't suit him, and as a result the house you now shared was full, wall to wall with books, equipment, things that facilitated your husband's penchant for picking up a new hobby every two months or so, getting shoulder deep into it's most detailed facets and abandoning it for another as soon as it took his fancy.

But now.. now his world was about to be turned upside down due to a little bundle on his front doorstep.

You'd gone to investigate, woken in the wee small hours of the morning by the sounds of harsh knocking and a baby crying.

"The neighbours having a barmy again?" Alfie has grumbled upon your waking.

A grey fog and a chilly wind greeted you from the seafront when you opened the door, as you looked to your feet you saw a woven basket, inside was a bundled up infant, no more than a month old, crying it's little heart out.