Must Be Love

by Cathy Woodman

  ‘Wow, that’s fantastic. I’m so pleased for you.’ Emma gives me a hug. ‘Was it very romantic?’

  ‘More spontaneous, but all the more romantic for that.’ A delicious shiver runs down my spine as I recall his words. I have my heart set on you, Maz. All I want is for us to be together. ‘He asked me over the kitchen sink.’

  ‘He hasn’t asked you to marry him?’ Emma says, eyes narrowed.

  I shake my head. I’m not like Emma, who believes marriage is the only way to cement a relationship. To me, it’s enough that I’m going to live with Alex. I imagine us spending long afternoons in the garden at the rear of the Barn, lazing in the sun and chatting. A tiny movement from the baby jolts me back to reality, reminding me that there will soon be three of us.

  ‘When will you make the move?’ Emma asks.

  ‘As soon as possible, of course.’ I giggle happily as I go on, ‘I don’t want him having time to change his mind. Not that he will.’

  ‘Alex has turned out to be far more reliable than I thought,’ Emma says. ‘I think you’ve been good for him. A civilising influence. But what about his parents, Maz? You’ll be neighbours.’

  ‘Well, I shan’t be popping round to borrow a cup of sugar,’ I say, smiling back, although the fact I’ll be living only a few tens of footsteps away from them does still worry me. ‘Old Fox-Gifford would throw it at me if I did.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chicken Wrap

  In fact, it’s another two weeks or so before I’m ready to move out of Otter House. Alex decides he’d better run the idea past Lucie and Seb on one of their weekends with him rather than have them turn up at the Barn to find I’m already living there; and then the very day I am supposed to move, Alex is called in to act as duty vet at a big showjumping competition at the last minute and I don’t fancy shifting my stuff without help. Okay, I don’t want to have to deal with the old Fox-Giffords on my own.

  A couple of days later, having spent my lunch hour in the flat packing a few bits and pieces in readiness for the move, alone apart from Ginge, who insisted on pouncing in and out of the boxes, I head back downstairs to the practice. I find myself answering the phone in Reception while Frances chases up a request with Izzy for repeat medication for a Labrador with chronic arthritis. ‘Otter House Vets. How can I help you?’

  ‘Hi there.’

  ‘I recognise that voice,’ I say, smiling, ‘so if you’re ringing round to compare prices so you can beat the competition, the answer is no. I can’t possibly reveal the cost of a medium-sized bitch spay.’

  ‘I was thinking of making an appointment,’ Alex says, teasing.

  ‘For?’ I say, wondering if it’s about one of the Fox-Giffords’ farm cats.

  ‘For me,’ he says.

  ‘Oh, I see.’ Realising that he’s teasing, I start playing along. ‘The locum’s had a cancellation this afternoon. We could fit you in then.’

  ‘Okay, there’s no need to rub it in that you have staff and we haven’t.’ Alex lowers his voice. ‘Anyway, I was planning on seeing one of the other vets – Maz, I believe she’s called, the tall, blonde and gorgeous one.’

  ‘I’ll have to see if she’s free,’ I say.

  ‘I’m pretty sure she’ll fit me in if you ask her.’

  ‘How about seven tonight?’ I say, giggling.

  ‘Make it six. I know it’s early, but Lynsey and Stewart have asked us over for a dinner and the children don’t stay up that late. I can’t imagine either of us will be able to keep our eyes open much after eight either.’

  ‘That’s kind of them,’ I say, chuffed that they’ve invited me and Alex as a couple. It’s the first time.

  ‘I said we’d go. I hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘No, it sounds like fun,’ I say. ‘Shall I bring something?’

  ‘I’ve got a bottle of wine,’ Alex says. ‘I’ll see you later, then. I’ll pick you up just before six.’

  I end up consulting until just after, but I still have time to change into clean jeans and a floaty top, which has the opposite effect of what I intended, that of disguising the bump. I’m afraid it makes me look like the back of a bus.

  ‘It doesn’t at all,’ Alex says, smiling when I get into his four by four. He leans over and kisses me.

  ‘You’re late,’ I say. ‘What was it this time? Horse, sheep, pig or cow?’

  ‘Sheep. Three sudden deaths. Bloat.’ He grimaces. ‘A change of pasture – that’s all it took. It’s such a shame.’ He puts the vehicle into gear and we drive off, leaving Talyton behind, and make our way along the winding lanes filled with foliage and wildflowers: red campion, musk mallow and dandelion. ‘Have you finished your packing yet?’

  ‘Pretty much,’ I reply, not letting on that I’ve packed and unpacked three or four times so far already, on the off chance we might find time to move my things to the Barn.

  ‘I’ve arranged for my father to work this weekend, so you can move in then. If you still want to,’ he adds softly. ‘You are sure? I don’t want you to think I steamrollered you into it. It isn’t too late to change your mind.’

  ‘I have no intention of changing my mind,’ I say adamantly, as my heart beats the rhythm of me and you, and you and me. I love Alex and I want to be with him.

  ‘What about Ginge?’

  Ginge is the single sticking point. I don’t want to leave him behind, but I can’t see him settling at the Manor with Old Fox-Gifford’s dogs on the loose.

  ‘He’s going to stay at Otter House for now,’ I say. ‘It’s all right, I’ll see him most days.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad you chose me over the cat.’ Alex grins. ‘I’m very relieved.’

  When we reach Barton Farm, Alex parks in the yard and we join Lynsey, Stewart and their seven ruddy-faced children in the kitchen, a room that would feel positively cavernous if it wasn’t so untidy. Stewart clears a heap of unopened post, exercise books and pencils, and some kind of small motor which is in pieces on the long oak table, and dumps them on the dresser before the oldest boy, Sam, can put out the cutlery.

  Raffles, the family dog, is there too, scampering about picking up teddies and other soft toys as if he’s lived there all his life. We eat dinner, meat or vegetable stew and potatoes from the Aga, the children chattering all the time. Afterwards, Alex and Stewart and the older boys go outside to see the two new calves that were born today, leaving me at the table with Lynsey, the two youngest boys and her daughter, Frances, who must be almost a year old now. Frances has a cheeky smile and blonde curls that spill down the back of her neck.

  Lynsey sits her on her lap and bounces her up and down, ignoring the two boys, who are fighting over a toy car.

  ‘So, how are you getting on, Maz?’ she asks. ‘Alex said you’d had all your scans. When are you due?’

  ‘Sometime in September,’ I say.

  ‘I bet you can’t wait. I remember by the time I got to the end of the nine months, I couldn’t wait for the birth, and then I couldn’t wait to get pregnant again.’

  ‘I’m sure I won’t feel like that. I’ll never want to be pregnant again.’ My voice fades. ‘I didn’t want to be pregnant in the first place …’

  ‘Oh, Maz.’ Lynsey slips her watch off over her wrist and gives it to Frances to play with. ‘I assumed it was planned. Well, you and Alex being vets and that.’ She smiles. ‘I suppose accidents do happen.’ She pauses as if expecting me to say more, but one of the boys clunks the other one on the head, causing a brief interruption during which Lynsey separates them and gives them milk and biscuits. ‘It’s the distraction technique, works every time. Well, not every time.’ She chuckles. ‘They’re always at their worst when they’re in your surgery.’

  I smile at the memories. I know I didn’t smile at the time.

  ‘Have you booked antenatal classes?’ Lynsey goes on. ‘I found them invaluable when I had Sam. I didn’t bother when I had the others, but that’s because I had some idea of what I was doing by then. I made a couple of re
ally good friends too.’

  I start to wonder if Alex has set me up, arranging it so I’m left to chat with Lynsey, woman to woman. However, by the time Alex and Stewart return with the rest of the boys, bringing with them the faint smell of cow and fresh hay, I’m thankful for some of her hints and tips: raspberry leaf tea for strengthening the womb; spices for inducing labour; cabbage leaves for mastitis.

  ‘Lynsey’s quite the home apothecary as well as a good cook,’ I say when Alex and I are on our way back to Otter House. ‘What took you so long with the calves? You were out there for ages.’

  ‘Stewart usually leaves the calves with their mothers for a few days before separating them off for bottle-feeding. One of the cows decided she didn’t want anything to do with her calf – we had to separate them and persuade the other cow to adopt it as her own.’

  ‘And did she?’ I ask.

  ‘She seemed to. Stewart’s going to check on her later tonight. Luckily, it doesn’t happen very often. It’s just the odd rogue cow.’ Alex falls silent for a while, not speaking again until he’s pulled into the car park at the side of Otter House. ‘Are you all right, Maz? You’ve gone quiet.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say, but I’m thinking of that poor little calf, rejected by its mother. A rogue cow. That’s what I’ll be. A rogue mother, unable to bond with her child. I glance towards Alex, his features masked by the dusk, and push my fears aside. They are ridiculous, irrational. I resolve to concentrate on the here and now, making the most of the time before the baby arrives.

  It’s the middle of June and the hottest day of the year so far when I finally get around to moving in with Alex. I’m standing with him outside the Barn, my new home, in the glare of the sun, with the last of the boxes on the ground behind us. (I don’t have much in the way of possessions, just clothes, laptop, camera and a few personal bits and pieces.)

  Alex picks up the last box and drops it inside the front door.

  ‘What next?’ he says, returning to my side, his cheeks flushed and beads of sweat trickling down to the tip of his gorgeous nose. He wipes his palms on his jeans. ‘Don’t I have to carry you across the threshold?’

  ‘We’re not married,’ I say quickly, then when he smiles, I add, ‘I don’t see what’s funny about that.’

  ‘In my opinion, being the mother of my child qualifies you to be my wife, Ms Harwood, but that isn’t a proposal because I know if I asked, you’d run a mile.’ Alex sweeps me into his arms and off my feet, and carries me inside.

  He’s right. I gaze at his profile, my arms around his neck. If he’d asked, I’d have turned him down. Look at me and Emma: I thought we’d known each other long enough to commit to the partnership in Otter House without fear of falling out. Look at Chris and Izzy: all the fuss and hassle about the wedding. Look at Stewart and Lynsey: sometimes happy, often rowing. No, moving in with Alex and having a child with him – that’s more than enough commitment for me.

  Alex lowers me onto the sofa and sits down beside me, rubbing the small of his back.

  ‘It must be your age,’ I observe.

  ‘Don’t,’ he chuckles. ‘You’ll give me a complex. I’ll start worrying about you running off with a younger man.’

  ‘As if.’ I pull him towards me, drawing his lips to mine. Something moves, not the earth this time, and I take his hand and press it against my stomach. ‘Can you feel that?’

  ‘The baby.’ Alex lifts my tunic and stares at the bump. ‘Hello, Bean. This is your daddy speaking,’ he says, as if he’s an astronaut beaming his message down from space. ‘I’m going to take care of you and your mummy from now on.’

  ‘Alex …’ He has a knack of making me feel inadequate, slipping easily into the role of besotted father-to-be. I suppose I should be grateful that Alex at least is looking forward to the baby’s birth. For me, it’s one step closer to … to what? It would be trite to say it’s the loss of freedom, the burden of another responsibility, which bothers me. It’s more to do with the thought of coping with a helpless human being. What if I can’t cope? What if I can’t love it?

  At least with a puppy you can rehome it. Rehoming a child would be pretty frowned upon, especially in a small town like Talyton St George.

  ‘Maz, are you all right? You seem a bit quiet again.’ Alex tugs my tunic back over the bump.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say. ‘It’s the heat, that’s all.’

  Alex rests his arm around my shoulder.

  ‘This thing about you not wanting to get married, Maz.’

  ‘I didn’t think you’d want to get married again. You’ve always given the impression it was the last thing you’d ever do.’

  ‘It’s true that after the mess I made of the last one, I vowed I’d never marry again, but I am allowed to change my mind.’ He smiles. ‘It isn’t just a woman’s prerogative, you know. Maz, I want to know if it’s worth me making the effort to get off this sofa and go down on bended knee …’ He hesitates. ‘I thought being pregnant might have changed things.’

  ‘I should stay where you are,’ I say lightly. ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t want to end up like my parents.’

  ‘I thought they weren’t married.’

  ‘They weren’t, but bound by lack of money and prospects, they behaved as if they were. They were like a lion and tigress stuck in the same enclosure in a zoo, always misunderstanding each other, always fighting. I’m sorry, but I don’t want to end up like them – not that I’m saying you’re anything like my father, or, I hope, that I’m anything like my mother. All I want is for us and our baby to be happy, and as far as I’m concerned marriage and happiness are mutually exclusive.’

  ‘You cynic,’ Alex says. ‘Never mind.’ He changes the subject. ‘You know we won’t be able to keep calling it Bean after it’s born. It won’t go down too well with the Pony Club. Have you had any thoughts about names? You can’t put everything off until the last minute,’ Alex goes on when I don’t respond. ‘I’ve got a book somewhere.’

  ‘I like Bean,’ I say.

  ‘Bean Fox-Gifford? I don’t think so.’

  ‘Bean Harwood, you mean.’ I don’t see why not – I took my mother’s name.

  ‘What about me?’ Alex looks hurt. ‘You can put my name on the birth certificate. We don’t have to be married.’ He pauses. ‘I don’t think the baby will forgive us if we go triple-barrelled.’

  ‘Harwood-Fox-Gifford? Poor child.’

  ‘It’s like a horse: you put the stallion first. It has to be Fox-Gifford-Harwood, FGH.’ Alex’s fingers brush my neck. ‘Let’s concentrate on a Christian name first. We can start at the As and work through.’

  ‘Oh no, I’m not going to give it your father’s name if it’s a boy.’

  ‘Abelard’s already taken: it’s Sebastian’s middle name.’

  ‘What about following the Beckhams’ example? Why not give him or her the name of the place he or she was conceived?’

  ‘What, Talyton? Or Barney – we were in the Barn, after all.’ Alex laughs. ‘What about Julian? Or Frederick – we can shorten that to Freddie.’

  ‘Who says it’s a boy?’

  ‘What about Julia or Frederica, then?’ Alex says.

  I try them out in my head. I’m not sure about either of Alex’s suggestions.

  ‘What about Chardonnay for a girl?’

  Alex looks at me for moment, then realises I’m pulling his leg.

  ‘Daddy! There you are, Daddy.’ The patter of smallish feet disturbs us, and I smile ruefully at the thought that being with Alex means being with quite a few other Fox-Giffords.

  It’s Lucie. She comes and stands over us, all businesslike in denim dungarees, a brown bantam under one arm and holding a basket of eggs out to Alex.

  ‘Humpy says to give you those for Maz to say welcome to the Manor.’

  ‘What about the chicken?’ Alex asks, raising one eyebrow.

  ‘This is Hetty.’ The bantam squawks as Lucie gives her a squeeze. ‘She’s been in the dust and she needs a ba
th.’

  Alex jumps up when Lucie heads off towards the kitchen.

  ‘Hey, where are you taking her?’

  ‘Humpy said to do it in the kitchen sink.’

  ‘Oh, she did, did she? What’s wrong with her kitchen sink?’

  ‘She says she doesn’t want any mess.’

  ‘Neither do Maz and I.’

  ‘Humpy says you won’t mind because your house is in a mess already.’

  ‘Thanks a lot,’ Alex says, but he can’t argue that one because for once, Sophia is right. His house – our house – is in a bit of a state.

  I get up from the sofa, inspired to put things straight before I unpack my boxes. Ever the indulgent father, Alex lifts a stack of dirty plates out of the sink and clears the draining board so Lucie can bathe her hen.

  ‘Alex, when did you last tidy up?’ I draw a love-heart in the dust on the mantelpiece over the fire.

  ‘Oh, last week maybe. The woman who used to do isn’t up to it any more. I don’t like to keep asking her.’ He stares at me. ‘I didn’t think you were that precious about housework.’

  ‘No, but’ – I look around at the mess – ‘isn’t this just a little excessive?’

  ‘You must be nesting.’ Alex grins.

  I reflect for a moment. He’s right. I’ve never felt this way about dust before.

  ‘I expect you’ll want to make a few changes,’ he goes on.

  ‘Maz, I hope you’re not going to sleep in my room.’ Lucie dunks her hen into a bowl of warm water.

  I promise her I’m not, but avoid mentioning I’m going to share with her dad in case she embarrasses me by mentioning the ‘sex’ word again.

  ‘Have you got a hairdryer I can borrow?’ she continues. ‘I need to dry Hetty now.’

  ‘I have a hairdryer, but you can’t borrow it, not for a hen,’ I say, and Lucie pouts mutinously, forcing a tear to her eye, so I add, ‘It blows too hot for a hen’s feathers. If you dry Hetty with it, she’ll end up roasted.’

  ‘Oh?’ She looks at me, unsure.

  ‘Go and ask Humpy if you can use hers,’ Alex says.