‘I’m going to come any second if you do that,’ he said through gritted teeth, and she gave a sexy little chuckle.
‘I thought that was the general idea,’ she said, and reached for the pot…
‘Kate? It’s Jan, at the fertility clinic. We’ve got a lot of results here from some patients of yours, Francesca and Michael Trevellyan. I think they were probably for you and
‘Of course,’ Kate said, surprised to feel a little kick of apprehension. ‘I was going to chase them up, it’s been over a week now. OK, fire away. I’ve got a pen.’ She listened, frowned, raised her eyebrows and jotted down all the information. ‘Really? Thanks, Jan. I’ll pass all that on,’ she said. Cutting the connection, she dialled the Trevellyans’ number.
‘Fran? It’s Kate. Are you both in? I’ve got your results, and I was just about to leave the surgery. I thought I might drop by on my way to collect Jem from my mother and have a chat about what happens next.’
‘Oh. Um…yes, sure,’ Fran said, sounding instantly worried. ‘We’ll be here. Mike’s in the office. I’ll get him.’
‘I’ll be with you in ten minutes,’ Kate said, and replaced the phone in its cradle.
‘Mike?’
He glanced up at Fran and got straight to his feet, one look enough to know something was going on. ‘What is it?’ he asked, his chest tight with dread.
‘I don’t know. Kate’s coming to see us. She’s got our results.’
He felt his heart lurch and went over to her, gathering her in his arms and hugging her tight.
‘We can handle this, Frankie,’ he said softly. ‘Whatever it is. Come on, let’s go into the house and wait for her. I take it she’s coming here now?’
‘Yes. She said she’d be ten minutes. Mike, I feel sick.’
‘Me, too,’ he said. ‘Come on.’
* * *
She would have fallen down without his support. They left the door open, standing there in the kitchen facing it, him behind her, his hands on her shoulders, steadying her, and so when Kate came in they couldn’t see her face because the light was behind her.
‘Well, I’ll get straight to the point,’ Kate said. ‘It wasn’t the news I was expecting to give you, but we aren’t going to be referring you for the IVF programme.’
‘No!’ Fran wailed, her knees threatening to buckle, and she felt Mike’s arms tighten round her.
‘Fran, no,’ Kate said hurriedly, and Fran couldn’t work out why on earth she was smiling. ‘It’s not bad news! You can’t have the IVF because you don’t need it. You’re pregnant, Fran,’ she said, and her smile widened. ‘Congratulations, both of you. You’re going to have a baby.’
Fran stared at her for an age, numb with shock, and then with a fractured little sob she turned and fell into Mike’s waiting arms…
They talked for hours.
Once Fran had stopped crying, of course, and they realised that Kate had left.
She was sitting on Mike’s lap, one arm round his neck and his hand resting lightly over their baby, and she said softly, ‘It’s going to be OK this time, Mike. I feel so different. Much sicker. I thought it was just fright, but of course it isn’t. My period is two days overdue, and I feel really different. And tired, but I thought that was just you keeping me awake half the night.’
He chuckled and tilted his head back, smiling up at her tenderly. ‘You’re to take care of yourself,’ he said. ‘Nothing
‘I’m sure she will.’ His hair had flopped forwards, and she lifted it back with her fingers and smoothed it out of the way so she could see his eyes. ‘I don’t want to tell Sophie yet, though,’ she said, not wanting to acknowledge the possibility of failure but all too aware that it might lurk round the corner for them. After all it had before, twice.
‘It’ll be fine. Third time lucky, Fran,’ he murmured. ‘But I agree, we won’t tell her yet. We won’t tell anyone. Not till you’re past the three-month mark.’
‘I lost both the others at eight weeks,’ she reminded him sadly.
His arm tightened. ‘I know.’
‘Three weeks and five days to go.’
‘We’ll make it,’ he assured her, his voice quietly confident. ‘And even if we don’t, we’ve still got each other. As far as I’m concerned, that makes me the luckiest man alive. The rest is just the icing on the cake.’
She rested her head against his and sighed. ‘I’m so lucky to have you,’ she said softly. ‘Have I told you recently how much I love you?’
He chuckled. ‘Only about ten times today, but feel free to do it again.’
The phone rang, and she hung on to his neck and reached over, grabbing it from the charger without leaving Mike’s lap. ‘Hello? Oh, hi, Ben. Yes, he’s here. I’ll hand you over.’
‘And?’
‘If we’d ended up having to go the IVF route, we’d have had more than enough, but Joe and Sarah can do their kitchen, and Mum and Dad can change the car. And we can put the money on one side and spend it on something later. We’re going to make it this time, Fran,’ he said with conviction. ‘I know we will.’
‘We can spend it on the nursery,’ she said, allowing a little bloom of hope. ‘The house could do with a bit of decorating, and the heating’s not great.’
He laughed. ‘Don’t get too carried away,’ he said, and then kissed her. ‘Time for bed?’
‘Sounds good,’ she said.
He lay watching her sleep, a little knot of fear in his chest. They had to make it. If she lost this baby…
Then he’d cope, he told himself firmly. If Fran had the courage to do this, then he had to find the courage to support her if it all went wrong. And they’d have the money put on one side for the IVF, should they need it. Please, God, it wouldn’t be necessary…
Fran thought The Day would never come.
That was how she’d started thinking about it—with capital letters, because it seemed so huge, so important, so very far away that somehow nothing else would do.
Her pregnancy was a nightmare. Not because anything went wrong, because it didn’t. She got through it, day by day, hour by hour, focusing on the end, planning for the
The eight-week deadline passed.
Safely.
She gave a shaky sigh of relief when she reached nine weeks and realised she was probably over that hurdle. The next danger point was twelve weeks, and she got through that, too.
Then she had a scan—an image of her baby, just a tiny curl of a thing, but with an unwavering heartbeat.
‘Oh, Mike,’ she said, clinging to him and staring mesmerised at the screen, not knowing whether to laugh or cry. So she did both, and so did Mike, and they were given a photo to keep.
Their first, in the album she started with a trembling hope.
Then at twenty weeks she had her second scan, and another photo for the album.
‘Do you want to know what sex it is?’
She looked at Mike for guidance, and he shrugged, passing the ball back to her.
‘I don’t care, so long as everything’s all right,’ he said, and she smiled.
‘No, then,’ she said. ‘We’ll wait and see.’
And then she kicked herself, because they started decorating the nursery, the little room off their bedroom that had always been the nursery, where Mike and Joe had slept for the first year of their lives, where their father, Russell, had slept, and so on back for generations. And because they didn’t know the sex of the baby, they didn’t know what colour to paint it.
‘Yellow?’ Mike offered. ‘That’s sunny and sort of neutral.’
‘Not daffodil yellow. Something softer. A pale creamy primrose?’
So that was how it ended up, a lovely soft colour, and when she was thirty-six weeks, they bought a cot. They didn’t assemble it, though. It was as if, by tacit agreement, they didn’t want to push their luck. So it stayed in the room, propped up behind the door, and for the next three weeks they didn’t look at it.
It was as if they were holdin
g their breath, but every night Mike would hold her in his arms, cuddled together like spoons in a drawer, with his big, strong hand splayed tenderly over the baby, soothing it with gentle strokes when it kicked and squirmed.
It had hiccups, too, which made them chuckle once they realised it was nothing to worry about.
And then Fran woke one morning tired and grumpy, and the house was a tip. So she cleaned it, furiously, from end to end, which frankly would have been stupidly ambitious when she hadn’t been pregnant, she thought in a rare pause when she’d changed their sheets and vacuumed the bedroom floor, but she just had to do it, because the baby was coming soon and it couldn’t be brought back to a place hanging with cobwebs.
Well, one cobweb, and it wasn’t exactly hanging, but it was soon banished with a flick of the feather duster, and after another half-hour the dining table was gleaming, the old mahogany nourished within an inch of its life.
And she ached. Lord, how she ached! She straightened
Time to sit down for a while.
Except she couldn’t sit down, because it was so horrendously uncomfortable suddenly, and then she had one of those lightbulb moments and couldn’t believe she’d been so stupid. She’d watched Brodie do just the same thing only two weeks ago, dragging her bedding round and round to get it comfortable, before finally settling down and giving birth to three puppies.
And she hadn’t even realised she was doing the same thing!
She phoned Mike on his mobile. ‘Um, can you come?’
‘Sure—is supper ready?’
‘Not exactly.’
He must have picked up on the tone of her voice, because he swore softly and she could hear him running. ‘I’m on my way,’ he said, and five minutes later he burst into the kitchen and found her standing leaning over the sink, a pool at her feet, panting.
‘Fran?’
‘Mind the floor,’ she warned, worried he’d slip.
‘What have you spilt?’
‘I haven’t. My waters have broken.’
‘Oh, God.’ He went pale, then lifted her out of the way and scrubbed his hands. ‘I’d better take you to hospital now. Are you having contractions?’
‘Um, sort of—Ah-h-h!’
It poleaxed her. It was the first time she’d felt anything other than a horrendous ache, but this was different. This
‘Fran?’
‘Bed,’ she said through gritted teeth. ‘Now.’
And Mike peered down at her, stopped flapping and turned into the father, stockman and one-time-maybe vet that he was, scooped her up and carried her up the stairs.
He dumped her on the edge of the bed, grabbed the plastic sheet they’d had for Sophie out of the airing cupboard, spread it over the mattress, covered it in thick, soft towels and lifted her into the middle of it.
She couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything to help him, but she didn’t need to. He was doing fine, his smile reassuring, his hands slow and steady and confident as he stripped off her wet underwear.
‘In a bit of a hurry, I think,’ he said, rubbing her back gently and smiling at her.
She suddenly realised why the livestock trusted him so much, why his cows were so content and relaxed around him.
‘I’ve called an ambulance,’ he told her, but they both knew she wasn’t going anywhere till she’d had the baby, and she felt a great peace steal over her. Generations of his family had been born here, in this room, and their baby would be the next in line.
‘Help me out of my clothes,’ she said, struggling to get out of them. She didn’t know why, she just wanted to get rid of them, get rid of anything that wasn’t natural, anything tight, anything constricting that would come between her and nature, because nature was taking her over and she was following her instincts blindly.
Mike eased the dress over her head, pulled off her
‘I need to push,’ she said a minute later, shoving him out of the way and struggling to her knees. ‘Now!’
She couldn’t have done it without him. She locked her hands around the back of his neck and hung on him, whimpering, and he knelt there in front of her and cradled her, then turned her so she was lying over the pillows, hanging on to the headboard for dear life while he concentrated at the business end, and as the baby let out a lusty howl, she turned and sagged back onto the bed, her empty arms outstretched.
Mike lifted their son, slippery and shuddering with rage, and put him into her waiting arms. ‘It’s a boy,’ he said, his voice unsteady, and his hand came out, trembling, and he brushed the back of his knuckles gently over the soft, soft skin. ‘We’ve got a boy, Fran. A son.’ And his tears welled over and splashed onto her hand.
She stared down at them, the tears he’d shed, and the child they’d made together, the child they’d feared they’d never have, and she looked up at him, her own eyes flooded with tears.
‘Come here,’ she said, and he covered them both with the quilt, lay down beside them and drew them into his arms. The baby was nuzzling now, and she looked up at Mike helplessly. ‘I don’t know how to do this,’ she confessed.
‘Yes, you do. Remember the classes?’
And wrapping his big hand round his son’s tiny head, he steered him in the right direction, brushed his cheek
‘Oh! It’s so strong!’ she whispered, and stared down at him in wonder. ‘Oh, Mike. He’s beautiful.’
‘He is. Incredible. Amazing. Our little miracle.’
His tiny fingers were splayed over Fran’s breast, the transparent nails so small she could barely see them, but he was strong, a real fighter. He was suckling hard, his tiny rosebud mouth making little sucking noises, and she looked up at Mike and laughed softly.
‘He’s got his father’s appetite,’ she said, and Mike chuckled and hugged her closer.
‘We haven’t talked about names,’ she said, remembering their reluctance to take that much for granted.
‘Sophie has,’ he confessed with a groan. ‘She’s been nagging me. She’s had hundreds of ideas, but her favourite seems to be Thomas.’
‘Thomas. I like that. Thomas Trevellyan. Sounds good.’
‘I think so.’
She stroked his tiny cheek. ‘I think we ought to let your sister name you, little man, don’t you? She’ll be so excited. You have to tell her, Mike.’
‘Not until we’ve got you sorted out,’ he said, easing away from her. ‘The ambulance is here. I’ll talk to her later.’
‘Daddy!’
‘Hello, pickle!’ Mike scooped Sophie up into his arms and hugged her. ‘How’s my favourite girl?’
‘I’m fine—Daddy, where’s Fran? I’ve got something really special to show her. Fran! Look!’ she yelled,
‘It’s a model—I made it at school!’ she said. ‘Look, it’s Brodie and her puppies!’
‘So it is,’ Fran said, smiling down at the little model nestling in its bed of cotton wool. ‘It’s lovely. Give it to your daddy, then.’
‘It’s not for him, it’s for the baby. Can I see him? I’m dying to see him. I can’t believe Mummy made me wait two whole days!’
She was beside herself with excitement and, taking her by the hand, Fran looked up at Kirsten, still in the car. ‘Coming in?’
She shook her head and smiled. ‘I’ll see him when I pick her up on Sunday,’ she said, and drove away, leaving them with Sophie.
Fran led her through the kitchen, past Brodie and her three little puppies all snuggled up together in her basket, into the sitting room to where Sophie’s brand-new little brother was lying sleeping in his crib.
‘Oh, he’s tiny!’ she said in a stage whisper. ‘Much smaller than Millie. Daddy, he’s just like you! All that black hair—and he’s got your nose!’
‘Poor kid,’ Mike said with a proud grin, wrapping his arms round Fran and hugging her close.
‘There’s nothing wrong with your nose,’ Fran told him, turning and kissing the tip of it with a smile. ‘Nothing at all. And there won’t be anything wrong with Thomas
’s either. It’s just a bit squashed, but I’m sure he’ll grow into it.’
‘I’m sure he will,’ Mike said, staring down at his son
‘Can I hold him?’
‘Of course. Sit down.’
Sophie sat on the sofa, with Fran next to her just in case, and Mike slipped his big hands gently under his son’s small body and lifted him, resting him carefully on Sophie’s lap.
‘Hello, Thomas,’ she whispered, and kissed her little brother gently on his forehead. His eyes fluttered open and he stared at her, and they were both transfixed.
It was magical, Fran thought as Mike sat down beyond Sophie and put his arm around them all. Perfect.
Then Sophie looked up, her eyes shining and her smile as bright as the sun, and said, ‘We’re a proper family now.’
And Brodie, wandering in to see what was going on, rested her head on Sophie’s knee and thumped her tail in agreement…
MAKING MEMORIES
CHAPTER ONE
THE little shop was busy. It was good, Max thought, to see such support for a tiny rural supermarket. It implied a thriving community—not that he would be part of it for long. He wasn’t part of anything for long these days.
Stifling a pang of regret, he went in, grabbed a basket and threw in a few basic essentials. Bread, butter, milk, cheese, tomatoes, a local paper, marmalade for breakfast, and biscuits for late-night snacking. Chocolate biscuits, for a change, a housewarming present to himself.
He gave a wry snort, went round the corner of the aisle and tripped over something small and soft and indignant.
His basket went flying, he crashed into the magazine stand and scattered the contents wildly. Muttering a quiet oath, he bent and scooped up an armful of machine knitting patterns and gardening periodicals, then lifted his eyes to see what he’d fallen over and met the worried gaze of a small boy.
Good grief, he was so like his nephew! All eyes, lurking with mischief and now distinctly worried—because he had been playing with a toy car in the middle of the aisle when Max had fallen over him.
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