The Honourable Midwife

by Lilian Darcy

  At the end of the shift there was a message, and it was from Pete himself. Could she phone him at his surgery?

  She did so at once, using the public phone in the main foyer as she didn’t want colleagues to overhear, and she was put straight through. His voice was low, as if he also wanted to make sure he wasn’t overheard.

  ‘Listen, you need to understand what happened this morning, since you were there,’ he said. ‘You must be on your way home.’

  ‘Just about. Pete, are the girls safe? That’s what I’ve been concerned about all day. The rest is—’

  ‘They’re fine. She dropped them off at preschool, although it wasn’t their session today. The teachers handled it. Now they’re with me.’

  ‘Oh, thank goodness!’

  ‘Look, if it’s convenient, you could drop in to the surgery. I’ve had a couple of cancellations. Hell, that sounds as if I’m slotting you in!’ There was a rough, rusty scratch in his tone.

  ‘It’s fine, Pete. I’ll be there soon. Not that you owe me an explanation, but if you want to talk…It’s obvious that something’s seriously wrong.’

  ‘I’ll see you in a few minutes,’ was all he said.

  When Emma reached the surgery, he was still with a patient. His girls were here, too, as he’d said, playing on the carpeted floor with the box of toys and books provided for waiting littlies. They recognised Emma, and Jessie said, ‘You live in our rental house, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘It’s nice.’

  ‘I have to work pretty hard sometimes to keep it nice. I did lots of painting before your daddy lived in it. It was fun, though.’ She was rambling, in a vain attempt to cover her jittery state, but fortunately the girls didn’t notice.

  Pete opened his office door, and ushered out the elderly man he’d been seeing. ‘I’ll see you again in two weeks, Mr Carpenter, if you want to make another appointment now.’

  He caught sight of Emma, held her gaze for a long heartbeat, then glanced around his waiting room and gave a little nod. ‘Thanks for coming. Girls…?’

  ‘We’re hungry, Daddy,’ Jessie said.

  ‘And thirsty, too.’

  ‘Mrs Meredith will…uh…’ he wiped a hand around his neck and pinched his chin ‘…go over to the shops and buy you some chocolate milk and a banana each. Is that all right, Angela?’ he asked in a quick aside.

  ‘It’s fine,’ the older woman nodded. ‘They’re getting a little bored, I’m afraid. We don’t have time to read to them. Old Mrs Paston tried, before she went in to see Dr Anderson, but then they started bouncing on her knees and—’

  He winced. ‘Right. Lucky nothing got broken. I’ll try my sister again in a minute. Emma…’

  His eyes blazed suddenly as he looked at her once more. She nodded, and smiled tentatively. His hair was a mess, as if he’d been running his hands through it all afternoon. His mouth was tight and tired. The energetic, freshly showered look from this morning had gone. He held the door open for her and she passed him into the room, feeling his heat and his tension.

  He nudged the door shut with his foot, stepped towards her as she faced him and then pivoted on his heel to turn away again.

  ‘Claire’s been admitted to the psych unit,’ he said, pressing his fingers to the muscles around his eyes. ‘Nell Cassidy thinks she’ll be diagnosed with bipolar disorder—manic depression, some people still prefer to call it—and from what I know of that illness, it rings so true I’m wondering why I didn’t think of it before. I must have been blind! It came on gradually, I guess, but—’

  ‘You’re too close,’ Emma said at once. ‘Don’t blame yourself. It’s often like that. Sometimes it takes someone who—’

  ‘I know.’ He waved her helpless platitudes aside. ‘But I’m a doctor.’

  ‘And a good one, Pete.’

  ‘Look, I wanted to tell you because you took that message from Nell when Claire was being brought in. You saw her arrive, and you knew how worried I was about the girls.’

  ‘Of course you were…’

  ‘This is going to get out, I imagine. It’s going to be all over town, in all likelihood. She was nearly arrested in the park when she began taking off her—Oh, Lord, it doesn’t matter what she was doing! But then the police officers realised that she was mentally disturbed. I didn’t want you to hear about it at third or fourth hand.’

  He sounded very stiff, as brittle as if he might snap in two. She didn’t know whether to reach out and say, Let go. Talk. Cry, if you want to.

  He looked as if he needed to, but also as if it would be the last thing he’d let himself do. He’d already shown her last week that he would close up, distance himself, if he regretted a confidence he’d shared. She had no right to push.

  Instead, she said, ‘You need someone to mind the girls this afternoon, obviously.’ A concrete offer of practical help was often better than words, she knew.

  ‘My sister’s not answering her phone or her mobile.’

  ‘Could I take them, Pete? They don’t know me very well, but they know my house. You can collect them when you’re ready. You probably need to see—’

  ‘Claire? She won’t. She’s still very manic and out of control. I won’t repeat what she said to me at the hospital, but Nell agreed it was best to wait until she’s on medication and stabilised before I talk to her…before I even see her. There’s a very good chance this illness can be controlled, and that she can live a balanced, normal life, if she’ll accept that there’s a problem and take her medication consistently. She’s…You know, she’s sensible in a lot of ways. I think she will. As for the girls, I can’t ask you to do that.’

  ‘You’re not,’ she pointed out. ‘I’m offering. I want to, Pete. I want to do something. I care about you,’ she gabbled. ‘And it’s only for a few hours.’

  He looked at her, eyes narrowed, then let his face relax a little at last.

  How had he taken that admission of care? Emma wondered. It was open to a broad interpretation. Should she have let it slip out, or kept it firmly in? She wasn’t always good at hiding what she felt.

  ‘That would be great,’ he said. ‘I should finish here by six. Or if I can get hold of Jackie—’

  ‘Six is fine. Later, if you have errands to run. Save your sister for another day, when you really need her.’

  ‘She’d appreciate it, I think!’

  The girls were happy to go with Emma, and agreed to wait until they got to her place before they ate the bananas and drank the chocolate milk. Emma had correctly suspected that they’d get into a mess.

  After they’d washed and snacked and washed again, she played hide-and-seek with them in the garden, and then they were happy to watch children’s after-school television for an hour. Sitting cross-legged on her couch with their eyes fixed on the screen, they looked very young and so vulnerable.

  They were just four years old, both blonde, but not identical. They were petite in build, and Emma wondered as she stood in the doorway, watching them, how strong they were in spirit. A child’s resilience to upheaval was hard to measure. Even as watchful and caring a father as Pete might not know how his separation was affecting his daughters. Claire’s newly diagnosed illness would add to their problems.

  While the girls watched television, Emma made a spaghetti sauce. She felt like a witch, hoping to lure Pete into staying for a meal with the potent aromas of her cooking. The girls would need something nourishing, and she doubted whether he’d thought about cooking for them. When he turned up at ten past six, however, he brought potent aromas of his own in the form of two large, hot pizzas in square cardboard boxes.

  ‘And in case the pizza is a nuisance, instead of being a way to say thanks…’ he said, and held out a huge bunch of spring daffodils. He had a bottle of wine tucked under his arm as well.

  ‘They’re lovely. And the pizzas aren’t a nuisance. I—I was hoping you’d stay, Pete.’

  Emma took the flowers and hid her face by bringing them t
o her nose. They smelt earthy, sweet and full of pollen, and she knew she’d start sneezing any minute if she didn’t take them away. But at least the heat in her cheeks had subsided a little. She’d been too honest with him today.

  Pete smiled crookedly, his face tired, watching her reaction to the flowers. He took in a deep breath, the sound of it hissing a little between teeth he’d closed tightly together. She thought he was about to speak, but he didn’t.

  ‘We’ve got two dinners, actually,’ she said quickly, ‘because I made spaghetti sauce. But that will keep. Come in. You didn’t have to bring any of this. Not as thanks, anyway. The girls have been lovely, and no trouble.’

  They were still glued to their television show. The fact that they greeted their father so casually, barely dragging their gazes from the screen, was a reassurance that they felt at home here. Pete leaned over the couch to give them each a quick kiss on the tops of their heads. The fabric of his shirt stretched across his shoulders, and his dark trousers tightened across an already taut rear end. Emma moved deliberately away.

  Straightening, he followed her through to the kitchen. ‘I’ve got some beer in the boot of the car as well,’ he said. ‘Would you mind if I had one of those? Would you like one?’

  Emma only very occasionally fancied a beer, but she instinctively felt that tonight should be one of those times. As a gesture of companionship, more than anything else. She didn’t want to spout a whole lot of clumsy words of support. It would embarrass him, and would betray too much of what she’d begun to feel so strongly and suddenly. To join him in a beer, though, might be worth more than language right now.

  ‘Lovely!’ she said.

  While he went back out to the car, she set plates and glasses on the table in the sunroom. No cutlery. Pizza was finger food.

  And beer, according to Pete, had to be drunk direct from the can. He took several long gulps before he called the girls to the table, and Emma’s gaze was drawn to his stretched, tanned throat and to the long lashes that fringed his half-closed eyes.

  The pizza was still piping hot—pepperoni for the girls and Supreme for Pete and Emma. It was a very casual meal. Pete had brought lemon soft drink for his daughters, and Zoe spilled hers. Her father leapt up from the table before Emma could react. He strode to the sink, grabbed a sponge and wiped up the mess with calm efficiency.

  ‘This is why I only ever put two inches at a time in their glasses,’ he said. ‘Zoe’s elbows don’t behave when she’s thinking about something else.’

  ‘Naughty elbows,’ Zoe said.

  ‘My elbows aren’t as naughty, but a bit naughty,’ Jessie came in, not to be outdone.

  They were sweet girls—lively and imaginative, but never intentionally naughty. They didn’t mention their mother at any point during the meal, and Emma wondered about that. What had Pete told them, if anything, about Claire’s illness? Perhaps he was waiting for the right time.

  Had he always been the steadier parent? The one Jessie and Zoe relied upon, and turned to? He was that sort of man. Not spectacular. Not the sort who needed to be the centre of attention, or the one who always got his own way. But he was as steady as a rock, as steady as the beam of a lighthouse in a storm.

  And Claire was evidently the storm—the wild and unpredictable partner in their marriage. Was that what had broken the two of them apart? And if it all changed, once Claire was on medication and emotionally stable again, would their marriage have another chance? Emma didn’t know how recent their problems were, or how long Claire’s illness had been developing.

  Her beer tasted over-bitter suddenly. It had gone to her head before the pizza could soak it up, but the lightheaded feeling wasn’t pleasant any more, as it had been at first. She knew that her growing feelings for Pete were feeding on dangerous illusions.

  He ate largely in silence, and she didn’t try to chatter. Let him have these few moments of relative peace. Let him enjoy the tasty mouthfuls of pizza and the refreshing, yeasty sting of the beer. She would have done so much more for him than this, if she could, but she knew it wasn’t possible.

  This man was still married.

  The fact didn’t stop her from offering him tea or coffee after they’d cleared away the meal, and he accepted a decaf.

  As for the girls…‘I don’t usually do this, and it’s probably setting a dangerous precedent,’ Pete said, ‘but would you mind if I turned on the TV for them again? I just…don’t have the energy for full-on parenting tonight.’

  The weariness and strain were stark in his face for a moment, and Emma said quickly, ‘Of course I don’t mind. There’s probably a sit-com on, or something.’

  They sat at the table drinking their coffee, and without the girls there, chattering and unaware of deeper nuances, the silence between them was less comfortable.

  Emma asked him, ‘How’s your new place? You wanted to know about paint colours. Are you painting inside or out?’

  ‘I’m getting some landscaping done,’ he said. He looked relieved at her innocuous and relatively impersonal choice of subject. ‘They started last week, and it’s nearly finished. Paths and terraced stone walls, and a deck with a pergola out the back, which I’ll want to paint.’

  ‘It sounds lovely.’

  ‘It’s making the place look less raw. I thought I might cruise some garage sales and go out to the recycling centre at the tip, pick up a couple of old wheelbarrows. I’ll paint them and plant them with flowers or herbs, soften the newness of the house a bit.’

  ‘They’ll look lovely!’

  ‘I’ve never done any real gardening before. Know nothing about it. But I have this…’ he frowned, then smiled ‘…deep itch to get my hands dirty, for some reason.’

  Emma knew the reason, or thought she did. She’d felt the same six months ago, when her stepmother, Beryl, had finally packed up and gone to live with her daughter in Queensland. Capping months of manipulative, negative behaviour, she’d accused Emma of stealing from her, and Emma had thrown off the sense of obligation—that she owed her father’s widow a home—and had called her bluff.

  ‘Leave, if you feel that way, if you really think I’d do something like that,’ she had said.

  Beryl had left.

  There’d been a sense of elation at first, followed by an equally painful sense of emptiness. Beryl’s departure had taken away Emma’s excuses. Faced with the rest of her life, Emma had found it lacking. She, too, had itched to get her hands dirty, make changes and complete projects that she could touch and see.

  Sketching all this out to Pete, poking fun at herself a little, she told him, ‘I went crazy around the house. Painted and decorated and gardened. Bought new furniture and linen. Tired myself out, but it was good.’

  ‘You crave the healthy kind of fatigue, don’t you?’ he said, staring into his coffee. ‘The physical kind, the kind that comes with achievement, instead of the drain of dealing constantly with impossible emotions.’

  No. She wasn’t going to let him talk about Claire. She was pretty sure he didn’t really want to.

  ‘You’ve picked the right season for putting in a garden,’ she said quickly. ‘As soon as your landscaping is done—’

  ‘Hopefully this week,’ he cut in.

  ‘You can get things planted. You should phone up the local garden centres and get them to send you their catalogues.’

  ‘Probably easier than dragging the girls round the garden section of the hardware store.’

  ‘The hardware store?’ Emma was shocked. ‘You mustn’t buy your plants from there!’

  ‘No? Why not?’

  ‘Go to the garden centre on Romney Road. There’s a children’s playground there, and even a café where they do light lunches and Devonshire teas. It’s like an oasis, a slice of Australian bush and an English country garden, all mixed up together. The girls would love it, and there’s much more choice, and better quality.’

  Pete pushed his chair back. ‘Speaking of the girls, I should check on them, becaus
e they’re being suspiciously quiet out there.’

  Emma looked at the clock on the kitchen wall and found it was already after eight. ‘Gosh, yes,’ she murmured, but he’d already disappeared along the corridor in the direction of her living room.

  ‘They’re asleep on the couch,’ he reported a few moments later. ‘I should get them home to bed. Thanks enormously for this, Emma. I couldn’t have gone straight home tonight.’ He shook his head.

  Suddenly, there was a heaviness in the air, and a sense of intimacy. Emma felt her pulses slow and begin to throb. She had put their coffee-cups on the sink a moment ago, and had been about to go through to the living room herself, when she’d met Pete coming back from his check on the girls. He’d stopped with his hand on the doorjamb, just a few feet from her.

  Too close. They’d ended up standing too close, and here they still were, not moving.

  It was dark outside, and his daughters had gone to sleep. No one would interrupt them. No one need ever know if they closed the small space between them and went to each other, touched and held each other. If they kissed. If they drowned in each other.

  She knew he was thinking of it. The evidence was blatant in the soft glimmer of his brown eyes, and the way his lips had parted. It showed in the way he was standing. The hard male contours of his body softened a little, and he leaned closer than he needed to. Their bodies were like magnets, clamouring to draw together.

  Emma could hardly breathe. There was no room inside her for rational thought about what should or shouldn’t happen. They wanted this. She knew it. Wasn’t that good enough?

  But then Pete looked away, and drew in a rough breath.

  ‘Gosh. Ten past eight,’ he muttered, as if the clock on the kitchen wall and what it said were the most important things in the room. The muscles in his tanned neck stretched as he craned around.

  ‘Yes, is it that late?’ she answered obediently.

  ‘The garden centre idea that we talked about,’ he went on. ‘Are you free on the weekend at all? Would you like to come? You…uh…made it sound so nice, you should get to join in. If you’d like to, that is.’