by Liz Eeles
When you’re feeling low, there’s nothing like a bucket of fried chicken to boost those good endorphins. And after filling our faces, we’re ready to hit the high street in Penzance, which is where I find a perfectly nice knee-length dress that’ll do just fine. It’s made of cream satin and lace with a fitted bodice and full skirt – and it’s in the Monsoon sale which helps me like it even more.
‘It makes your boobs look perky,’ is Kayla’s opinion. Which has got to be a good thing.
And Emily gives me a thumbs up after she’s walked around me to inspect the dress from all angles. ‘It fits you well and you look nice,’ she says with a grin. ‘Really nice.’
Really nice rather than well lush but I buy it anyway.
* * *
‘Only a couple of shopping bags? It’s a miracle,’ laughs Josh, poking his head out of the sitting room when we trudge into the hallway. He’s been coating the shed with weather-proof paint all morning and there are flecks of green in his thick dark hair.
‘There was nothing to buy ’cos Cornwall’s full of rubbish shops,’ declares Storm, throwing her jacket in the vague direction of the coatstand and heading for the stairs.
‘Annie tried on a gorgeous wedding dress. It was oyster silk and’ – Emily stops and bites her lip – ‘is it all right to say ’cos you’re the groom? I wouldn’t want it to be bad luck or anything.’
‘It’s fine, Emily, because I didn’t buy it. I bought this one instead.’ I wave my Monsoon bag at Josh and hide it behind my back when he tries to look inside.
‘Yeah and you look great in that one too. I just meant you looked beautiful in the silk dress – like a proper princess. The one you bought is lovely, it’s just a bit less… wedding-y. Although you’ll still look amazing on the day and regal and…’
Kind, gentle Emily tails off, horrified that she might be saying the wrong thing. And she makes a dash for the kitchen after I reassure her that I know what she means.
‘Freya would approve of the silk dress seeing as she already thinks you’re a member of the royal family,’ says Josh, beckoning me into the sitting room.
It’s a standing joke in his family that Freya mistook me for a princess when we first met because of my unusually bright blue eyes. He puts his arms around my waist and pulls my hips against his. ‘Why didn’t you buy it, if it was just right?’
‘It was around £900, even with a discount.’
‘Wow, that’s steep. But you could have bought it and we’d have managed. I want this to be your special day.’
‘Josh, it would have cost just about every penny we’ve got to cover the whole wedding and we’re trying to put money away for the roof as well. So buying it would have been completely daft and totally unfair.’
‘Unfair to who?’ he asks, nuzzling his nose against my neck.
‘Unfair to everyone who’s relying on us to keep a roof over their head. And Emily’s exaggerating anyway ’cos the dress wasn’t that great whereas the one I bought makes me look the spitting image of Elizabeth Taylor circa the early 1960s.’
Josh laughs and crushes me against his chest. ‘I love you, Miss Trebarwith, but are you sure? I’d buy you an expensive engagement ring and a snazzy silk wedding dress if we didn’t live in this money pit.’
‘I don’t need those things,’ I tell him, looping my arms around his neck and standing on tiptoe so we’re almost nose to nose. ‘I’ve got more than I ever thought possible – a proper home, a family and you. I don’t need anything else.’
Yuk! I sound like the kind of schmaltzy greetings card I’d never send anyone in case they thought I’d lost it. But it’s true and I’ll do whatever’s best to keep my home and my family safe. If only I knew exactly what that was.
Josh kisses me and I sink into it, only slightly distracted by my inner voice whispering: Sell the money pit, Trebarwith, buy the dress and live happily ever after. In Trecaldwith.
Twenty-Three
There’s no sign of Jacques heading back to Paris over the next few days. He and Jennifer have rekindled their friendship and he spends most of his time on the stool in her shop, charming the women who call in. And there seem to be a lot of them all of a sudden. Maureen, Florence and even Fiona appear to have fallen for Jacques’ Gallic charm and go giddy in his presence. He doesn’t do it for me but maybe it’s more a menopausal thing.
His charisma is definitely not having the same effect on Roger, who stops short when he spots Jacques sitting at the back of the church before the weekly choir rehearsal.
‘What’s old matey boy doing here?’ he hisses.
‘I expect he’s come to listen to Jennifer sing.’
‘Well, it’s not right, stalking her like that,’ harrumphs Roger, scratching his belly. ‘And she’s following him round like a lovesick puppy.’
‘That’s a bit harsh,’ I say, but Jennifer spoils things by giving Jacques a girly wave from the soprano section.
‘See. She’s lost her mind,’ mutters Roger, slouching off to find his seat before the rehearsal begins.
Emily and Storm are already in their seats and nudge one another when Jacques leaps to his feet and kisses Florence on both cheeks when she walks up the aisle. She giggles and blushes to the roots of her grey perm while Roger slowly shakes his head. Poor old soul. The village is suddenly awash with oestrogen and he can’t understand it.
After everyone’s arrived and settled down, Josh stands on a crate so we can all see him while he’s conducting and we start to sing. Wow, Salt Bay Choral Society are in good voice as we practise pieces for Josie Pardew’s sixtieth birthday party at the end of September. And Jacques looks enthralled – his elbows are on the pew in front, his chin is resting on his hands and he’s giving us his full attention.
Our reputation and confidence have grown since we won the Kernow Choral Crown competition last Christmas and now we’re booked to sing at events in the villages nearby. We even get paid – only a few pounds admittedly but enough to cover transport costs and chocolate biscuits in the break when hungry tourists have scoffed all Maureen’s cakes.
We’re halfway through singing ‘Any Dream Will Do’ – Josie’s favourite song, apparently – when my attention strays to Pippa, who’s wincing. At first I think it’s because she’s standing near Ollie, whose determination to reach the top notes is enough to make anyone cringe. But she carries on wincing even when the singing stops.
‘Are you OK, Pippa?’ calls Josh.
‘I’m fine,’ she puffs. ‘It’s just a spot of indigestion.’
‘Are you sure, dear? We don’t want any babies arriving mid-song,’ says Florence, patting Pippa’s swollen belly like it’s public property.
‘I’ve been getting a lot of indigestion recently but it’s nothing to bother about. There’s no need to worry, Charlie.’
She glances at her sweet husband, who’s a stalwart of our tenor section and gives him a reassuring smile but he frowns. ‘Are you sure, Pips?’
‘Absolutely and anyway it’s stopped now. Please carry on with the rehearsal ’cos the baby loves the music and starts dancing – it’s probably its Gangnam moves that are making me so uncomfortable.’ She lovingly caresses her bump. ‘Anyway, the baby always settles down when Jennifer does her solo.’
‘Did you hear that, Jennifer?’ calls Roger. ‘Even the unborn think your lovely singing voice is soporific.’
Which is Roger’s cack-handed attempt at a compliment, but it doesn’t go down too well with our star singer, who shoots him a filthy look.
Pippa seems fine now but, all the same, we make her sit out the rest of the rehearsal. We’ve almost finished anyway – all that’s left to practise is the solo that Jennifer will be performing at the party.
Since arriving in Salt Bay, I’ve heard Jennifer sing loads of times and she’s always the first to put up her hand when a solo’s needed. But when she runs through her piece with accompaniment from Michaela, her voice has never sounded more glorious. Crystal-clear soprano notes soar to t
he apex of the arch above the altar and her extra-welly vibrato bouncing off the ancient stone makes me shiver.
Jacques closes his eyes as she hits a perfect top A and I wonder if he’s pondering on the fallout from their affair and feeling guilty that Jennifer’s talent has been wasted. Maybe, because he applauds loudly when her final note dies away and shouts ‘bravo’ while she blushes and gives a tiny curtsy. Roger’s face twists into an ugly scowl.
* * *
After the rehearsal, we all head for the pub as usual and I sit next to Pippa while Josh and Charlie are getting our drinks at the bar.
‘Are you looking forward to the baby?’ I ask her, wondering how it feels to have a real, live human growing inside you.
‘Not the birth. I’m nervous about that but we can’t wait to meet him. Oops’ – she face-palms – ‘I’m not supposed to let on we’re having a boy but my head’s full of cotton wool today. I think I’ve got nappy brain. Please don’t tell anyone.’
‘Of course I won’t. There’s no way I’d spoil the surprise but congratulations on the imminent arrival of your son. I can’t wait to meet him.’
‘Me too. Ooh, ow-ow-ow.’ Pippa grabs her huge stomach, pretty face pinched and pale against her blonde hair.
‘Indigestion again?’
‘Yeah, I’ve been getting it on and off over the last few weeks and the midwife said it was nothing to worry about, but today it keeps coming and going and I can’t get rid of it. It’s my own fault for bolting down my tea so I could get to choir on time.’
‘When you say coming and going?’
‘It grumbles about a bit and then disappears.’ Pippa shifts uncomfortably in her chair. ‘But it feels like indigestion and backache and Henry moving about… Oh no, I’ve told you his name now.’
Pippa’s latest slip hardly registers because alarm bells are ringing in my head. I’ve never had children, but my mum enjoyed giving me a contraction by contraction account of the painful hours she spent having me, in a dingy Ealing flat.
‘Perhaps you should go to hospital, Pippa, to be checked out. It’s best to be on the safe side though I’m sure it’s just trapped wind. My pregnant friend Maura suffers with that. Do you, um…?’
Nope, there’s no good way of asking someone if they fart a lot so I leave the question unasked.
Panic has stirred in Pippa’s pale eyes. ‘Maybe I should go to hospital. I’ll get Charlie.’ She hauls herself to her feet but sits down again straight away. Now she looks terrified.
‘I – I think’ – her teeth are chattering and she can hardly get the words out – ‘my waters just broke. Either that or I’ve wet myself which is totally embarrassing.’
‘Charlie!’ I yell across the pub, heart pounding. Jeez, I’d be useless in a crisis because I’m already panicking big-time. Josh’s head snaps up at the tone of my voice and he hurries across with his pint.
‘What’s up?’
‘We need Charlie. Now.’ I gesture at Pippa, who’s groaning as a sudden wave of pain washes over her. Josh blanches and slams his drink onto the table. ‘He’s gone to the loo. Hold on and I’ll get him.’
We have to get Pippa to hospital. That’s the best place for her. But when I try to help her to her feet so we can get to the car, she groans and sinks back onto the chair.
‘Exactly how long have you had this indigestion, Pippa?’
‘All day, on and off,’ she says through gritted teeth.
‘And how often is the pain coming now, dear?’ asks Florence, who’s wandered over and is staring at Pippa with her hands on her hips.
‘All the bloody time,’ shouts Pippa, pushing herself up onto her feet and giving a loud scream that silences everyone in the pub. ‘Gosh, I do apologise,’ she pants, clasping the table with her head bent so a long curtain of blonde hair swishes across her face. ‘I don’t usually swear but it’s suddenly got very painful and, ooh… it’s happening again!’
She sinks towards the floor, her face twisted in agony, and I put my arms under her elbows to support her. But it turns out that a heavily pregnant woman in free-fall weighs a ton and we both end up sitting on the floor, with my legs spread around her hips and her back against me.
‘Oh. My. God. What’s happening?’ yells Charlie, hurdling over a stool as he hurtles across the pub. He crouches down beside his wife.
‘I think you’re having a baby, mate. Though preferably not on my floor.’ Roger cracks his knuckles. ‘Kayla, get my car ready outside with the engine running. Looks like I need to make another mercy dash to hospital.’
Poor Pippa will never stand the strain of Roger’s Formula One driving. She’ll end up giving birth in the backseat while Roger’s screeching the wrong way round roundabouts on two wheels.
‘Josh can drive,’ I yell, trying to avoid being head-butted by Pippa, who’s jerking backwards and forwards in pain. Charlie tries to stroke her hair but she pushes him away with a snarl.
‘No way,’ huffs Roger. ‘I reckon I can shave a couple of minutes off my Alice time if I don’t stop at any junctions or traffic lights. Observing the highway code was where I went wrong last time.’
‘It really is best if I drive, Roger,’ insists Josh, pulling the keys to his Mini from his jeans pocket. But Florence shakes her head.
‘Whoever drives, you’ll never get her to hospital in time. Not when everywhere’s clogged with emmets and there’s still temporary traffic lights on the top road. Not that you ever see anyone doing any road repairs. Those lights have been there for ages and I’ve never seen a single workman.’
‘Me neither,’ huffs Arthur, who’s watching what’s going on with his pint nursed against his chest. ‘I’m going to report them to the highways agency for—’
‘For fuck’s sake!’ hollers Pippa, gripping my thighs and digging her nails in. ‘Stop blathering on about bloody workmen and do something useful ’cos this baby is coming fast. Ooh, I want to sodding push now.’
‘OK, dear.’ Florence winces and pats Pippa’s head. ’For someone who doesn’t usually swear, you’re certainly making up for lost time. Roger, you’d better call an ambulance and get her upstairs pronto.’
‘Ambo’s on its way already,’ shouts Kayla from behind the bar while Charlie helps Josh pull Pippa to her feet and half-drag, half-carry her towards the back of the bar.
‘What if the baby comes before the ambulance?’ calls Charlie over his shoulder, his face rigid with fear.
Farmer’s wife Florence rolls up her sleeves. ‘That won’t be a problem ’cos I’ve overseen lambing season enough times and I’ve pulled plenty of lambs out by their legs so I can cope if your baby’s breech. How different can it be?’
‘Do you need towels and hot water?’ asks Kayla, skidding in Pippa’s amniotic fluid when she races over. ‘I can put the kettle on and grab a load of towels from the airing cupboard. I have no idea what you do with them but that’s what they always shout for when someone’s sprogging on TV.’
‘Yes, towels and hot water. Ooh, and tongs,’ Florence shouts at Kayla, who’s already heading for the kitchen. ‘My Andrew was a forceps delivery so it’s best to be prepared.’
‘I’m scared,’ wails Pippa, who’s being hauled up the backstairs towards Roger’s bedroom.
Scared? I’d be terrified at the thought of Florence approaching my nether regions with barbecue tongs. And as no one else is leaping forward and offering to deliver Pippa’s baby, I’m going to have to step in and lend a hand. I can hardly leave Charlie and Josh up there alone while Florence channels Countryfile meets Call the Midwife. If only I wasn’t such a wuss when it comes to childbirth. At school, they made us watch a film of some poor woman going through it, but I kept my eyes firmly shut.
‘Perhaps I can be of assistance.’ Jacques has appeared at my side with Jennifer just behind him. He’s a beacon of calm compared to the panicked huddle of choir members around me. ‘I don’t like to intrude but I assisted the obstetrician in delivering my two daughters.’
‘
Of course you did,’ says Roger glumly. ‘You’d better follow me then, Jack.’
* * *
As it turns out, no towels or tongs are needed because an ambulance is diverted from a sprained ankle in Trecaldwith and turns up quickly. Two paramedics decide they can blue-light Pippa to hospital before the baby arrives and she’s carried out on a stretcher, gulping down gas and air as if her life depends on it.
‘Good grief, that was intense. Has it put you off having kids?’ asks Josh. He sighs with relief when the ambulance pulls away from the pub with an ashen-faced Charlie inside.
‘Maybe a bit,’ I say, crossing my legs and watching the lights disappear into the distance. And when I glance along the line of women waving the ambulance off, we’re all doing the same. All except Florence, who’s standing legs astride and tongs in hand, looking disappointed.
‘It’s typical,’ moans Roger ten minutes later. Josh and I are propping up the bar and I’ve just ordered a double G&T after all the excitement. If only I could share it with Pippa, who could probably do with mainlining alcohol right now.
‘What’s typical? What are you talking about?’ Kayla’s taking advantage of a lull in customers and is leaning against the bar with her arms folded.
‘That Jack bloke not only owns a string of businesses and speaks with a romantic French accent, he can also deliver babies. Jennifer will definitely go back with him to Paris.’
‘They’re just good friends catching up on old times,’ I assure him, but he shakes his head.
‘Arthur reckons he saw them holding hands yesterday on the coast path near Perrigan Bay. Her head’s been turned and it’s not surprising. I’ve been thinking about what you said, Kayla, and I don’t suppose Salt Bay has much to offer compared to the capital of a foreign country. I don’t suppose I have either.’
‘Nah, don’t put yourself down. You Brits do it all the time and it’s not good. True, you’re packing a few pounds of extra weight.’ Kayla eyes Roger’s belly, which looks a lot like Pippa’s. ‘But you’ve still got a bit of hair and you’ve got nice eyes.’
