Follow Me Home

by Cathy Woodman

  CATHY

  WOODMAN

  Follow

  me Home

  PEGASUS BOOKS

  NEW YORK LONDON

  To Charlotte and Millie

  Follow

  me Home

  Cathy Woodman was a small animal vet before turning to writing fiction. She won the Harry Bowling First Novel Award in 2002 and is a member of the Romantic Novelists' Association. She is also a lecturer in Animal Management at a local college. Follow Me Home is the eighth book set in the fictional market town of Talyton St George in East Devon, where Cathy lived as a child. Cathy now lives with her two children, three exuberant Border Terriers and a cat in a village near Winchester, Hampshire.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Special Delivery

  I’m not sure whether to be excited or scared when the call I’ve been waiting for comes at last, but I’m on my way. I leave the Village News, the newsagent’s, and drive through the empty streets of Talyton St George on a cold February afternoon with the sleet pelting against the windscreen and the antique streetlamps dancing reflections on the puddles. I pass King’s Head House, and Petals, with its colourful window display of flowers, before turning right at Mr Rock’s fish and chip shop and Lacey’s Fine Wines. Mrs Dyer, the butcher’s wife is walking, or – it would be more accurate to say – is being walked by her giant dog that reminds me of Scooby-Doo. I wave, but with two hands on the lead, she can only nod back as the dog tows her out of the churchyard towards home.

  I switch the heating up and continue out of town, following the signs for Talyford and beyond, where torrents of orange water rush down the sandy banks dotted with bushes and bare-rooted trees on both sides of the road, and flood across the lane on the way to Greenwood Farm.

  My mobile rings – I answer it on the hands-free.

  ‘Zara, when are you going to get here?’ Murray, the father-to-be, is panicking.

  ‘I won’t be long. Two minutes max,’ I say calmly, although my heart is beginning to beat faster. ‘How is she doing?’

  ‘I reckon she’s about to drop,’ Murray says in a broad Devon accent as his wife utters a high-pitched wail in the background.

  ‘Why didn’t you get in touch earlier?’ I ask him.

  ‘Emily didn’t want to bother you too soon.’

  ‘It’s my job. I’m supposed to be there.’ My fingers tighten on the steering wheel. ‘How often are the contractions coming now?’

  ‘Since her waters broke, every three or four minutes. I don’t know. I’ve lost count.’ Briefly, he recovers his sense of humour. ‘I never thought I’d hear myself say this, but I can’t wait for you to turn up.’

  I smile to myself. In Murray’s opinion, I spend far too much time with Emily.

  ‘Murray, calm down, will you? We always thought it would be quicker this time.’ I try to reassure him. I wouldn’t mind betting that Emily’s in transition at least, which means this baby will soon be here. I hope I’m not going to miss out. ‘I’ll be with you at any minute. Tell her to remember to breathe,’ I add lightly.

  ‘I heard that. I am bloody breathing,’ I hear Emily yell back before the mobile signal cuts out. Emily never swears. I put my foot down, speeding up along the lane before slowing and turning into the driveway just after the leaping deer that Murray created from brushwood last summer and placed by the gate to mark the farm entrance. I pull in off the muddy track into the yard and park between a tractor and a pick-up in front of the cob and thatch farmhouse where the door is open and the lights are on. I grab my bag and trolley from the back of the car and head inside, leaving my shoes on the mat in the hall and checking in the mirror above the table that I’ve remembered to tie my hair back. I straighten my uniform too, navy trousers and a royal blue top with our midwifery team logo, Topaz, embroidered onto it.

  ‘What kept you?’ Murray, Emily’s husband of five years, pops his head around the living-room door. He’s thirty-three, two years older than me and Emily, and six foot four tall with a freckled complexion, a mop of curly red hair and hazel eyes. ‘Seriously, I’ve never been so pleased to see you, Zara. Come on in.’

  I follow him into the room where the scent of lavender oil drifts through the air, displacing the smell of sheep and farmyard from my nostrils.

  ‘I thought you were all for delivering this baby yourself,’ I say, observing that he’s had time to change out of his outdoor clothes into clean jeans and a chunky-knit sweater.

  ‘I shouldn’t joke about that. I thought I was going to have to.’ He wipes his palms on his thighs. ‘Where’s Kelly? I thought she’d be here too.’

  ‘She will be.’ Kelly’s my partner in our close-knit team of community midwives, and we usually attend a birth together, at least when delivery is imminent. ‘She’s coming from Talymouth, but the road’s been blocked by a landslip. The last I heard she was stuck in traffic.’ I make my way to the sofa where Emily is on her knees in a long grey T-shirt with her blonde hair loose around her shoulders. She rests her arms on the seat, rocking back and forth and biting into a cushion.

  ‘Emily, how are you?’ I kneel down beside her and she answers with a low moan. Her brow is beaded with sweat and her expression is pained. The lights flicker as if they’re coming out in sympathy with her.

  ‘How are you doing?’ I repeat gently.

  ‘How do you think?’ She swears out loud and glares in my direction as if she blames me for putting her in this situation. I can see myself in her, in the deep blue of the eyes, the plumpness of the cheeks and the shape of the mouth. I can feel her pain as the contraction peaks and dies away once more, giving her a short respite during which time I make quick checks on her and the baby. Emily’s fully dilated and the baby’s heartbeat is strong and regular.

  ‘It won’t be long,’ I say, smiling despite my anxiety because, although all my babies are precious, this one is a particularly special delivery.

  Murray waits perched on the arm of the sofa while I stroke Emily’s back. There is a stack of logs burning in the grate behind the fireguard, plastic sheets and blankets thrown over the sofa and sponges strewn across the carpet. A cross-eyed teddy bear looks down from the mantelpiece in the direction of a wooden crate overflowing with toys, as if to say, put me away so I can have some peace and quiet, as Emily moans again with the onset of another contraction.

  I check my fob watch. Where the hell is Kelly? I thought she’d have found an alternative route and be here by now. At this rate, I’ll be catching Emily’s baby single-handed. The realisation of what I’ve agreed to do suddenly hits me.

  Emily had such a traumatic labour giving birth in hospital the first time around – I wasn’t her midwife on that occasion – that she wanted a home birth and a better experience for her and the baby. She was reluctant to ask me initially, but I would have felt hurt if she’d asked anyone else. Emily’s children are the closest I’ll ever come to having children of my own.

  ‘I want to push,’ She says through gritted teeth.

  ‘Go for it,’ I say.

  ‘I need something for the pain,’ she goes on. ‘I’d forgotten how bad it is. It hurts sooo much.’ She gasps as she starts to bear down. ‘I want the gas and air. Now!’

  I set up the Entonox and hand her the mouthpiece, but she can’t really concentrate any more.

  ‘Do you want the music on, my darling?’ Murray says.

  ‘No thanks,’ Emily says.

  ‘Are you sure? I spent ages putting those tracks together.’

  ‘I said no,’ Emily snaps, and I’m glad because although my sister’s taste in music under normal circumstances is similar to mine, I wouldn’t put it past her to have chosen something soothing like pan pipes. I have delivered so many babies to the sound of pan pipes, I never want to hear one a
gain.

  ‘Concentrate on your breathing,’ I say. ‘That way you’ll get the full effect of the gas and air.’

  There’s a strong gust of wind, which rattles the windows and the lights go out, leaving us in near-darkness.

  ‘Am I hallucinating, or has it just gone dark?’ Emily says.

  ‘It’s a power cut,’ Murray says. ‘I expect the overhead power lines are down.’

  ‘Have you got candles or torches?’ I’ve never had to deliver a baby in the dark, and I don’t want to start now.

  ‘I’ll get the candles,’ says Emily, attempting to stand up.

  ‘No, you won’t,’ I say firmly. ‘You aren’t going anywhere. Murray will get them.’

  ‘Lewis has a couple of storm lanterns in the barn.’

  ‘He’ll need them for the ewes,’ Emily says.

  ‘I think our baby is more important, don’t you?’ Murray walks towards the door.

  ‘Don’t leave me, not when you got me into this state,’ Emily shouts.

  ‘I’m here. Emily, calm down,’ I go on with sisterly impatience. ‘Everything’s going to be all right.’

  Murray returns within five minutes.

  ‘Let there be light.’ He places a lantern on the side table before striking a match and lighting several candles and tea-lights around the room, his presence seeming to enable Emily to regain her focus on the imminent birth of her baby.

  ‘Let me check the baby’s heartbeat again before the next contraction.’

  ‘It feels like it’s got hiccups,’ Emily says, frowning, and I check with the Doppler. The baby’s heart rate is slower than before.

  ‘Something’s wrong,’ Emily goes on. ‘I know it.’

  ‘Baby’s heart rate has dipped,’ I say, as the lights flicker on and off again. ‘It’s getting a little stressed, that’s all. It’s perfectly normal.’

  ‘It isn’t. I can tell from your voice. Zara, you can’t hide anything from me.’

  ‘I’m not hiding anything.’

  ‘You would tell me, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Of course I would,’ I say, lying through my teeth. ‘Everything will be fine. All you have to do now is concentrate on pushing as hard as you can – between as well as during contractions.’

  ‘Should I call somebody, Kelly or an ambulance?’ Murray asks.

  ‘I need you to help,’ I say, knowing that by the time an ambulance reaches us, it will be too late. I have to help Emily get this baby out as soon as possible. I look towards Murray for help to get her into a better position so I can use suction to assist the delivery if necessary. Five minutes later, although it feels like much longer, the baby’s heart rate comes back up, but then it begins to dip again. I’m more worried than (I hope) I am letting on.

  ‘Come on, Emily. Push,’ I urge her. ‘Push as hard as you can.’

  ‘Come on, love,’ Murray joins in.

  ‘I am pushing,’ she says through gritted teeth as she bears down. ‘I can’t push any harder.’

  Come on, baby, I say inwardly, wishing Kelly was here with me to make the decisions, because I’m wondering if I can trust myself, if – as my supervisor suggested – I’m too close to my sister to make rational decisions over her care. I thought I could do it. I really thought I could, but I’m beginning to have doubts and this is really the wrong time . . .

  ‘I can’t push any more . . . Emily moans as her body begins to relax, the contraction fading. ‘I’m finished. I can’t do this any more.’

  ‘Don’t waste your energy on talking.’ Murray looks down at the marks on his arm where Emily has loosened her grip with her fingers. ‘Come on, love, squeeze my hand, take another breath and push. You can do it.’

  Emily grimaces and closes her eyes and pushes and I can see the top of the baby’s head.

  ‘Pant,’ I tell her as I attach the ventouse and apply suction, explaining what I’m doing as I go along. The baby’s head is swollen and ominously blue rather than purple. Birth can be – and usually is – a wonderful, positive experience for all concerned, but this one might be one of those occasions when it isn’t. I ignore Murray’s white face and focus on getting the baby out.

  ‘Now push again. Harder than last time,’ I urge her.

  ‘I can’t.’ Emily seems exhausted, shattered by the effort and shock of what has proved to be a rapid labour.

  ‘You have to,’ I say a little curtly, knowing what Emily doesn’t, that the cord is loose around the baby’s neck, but getting pinched as its shoulders pass along the birth canal, causing the baby’s distress. ‘Push as if your life depends on it. Emily, please, listen to me.’

  ‘Oh no,’ she wails. ‘It’s all going wrong like the last time.’

  ‘Emily, just shut up! Trust me. One more push should do it.’

  Emily succumbs to the next contraction and pushes and I’m waiting with bated breath when out comes the baby’s head, then the shoulders, followed by the rest of its body and a gush of fluid. I catch her – it’s a girl – in a towel and, watching her the whole time and praying for some sign of life, I place her on the mat on the side table in the fractured light of the storm lantern.

  I rub her mottled skin, trying to stimulate her to breathe, while checking for a heartbeat – there is one bumping faintly beneath my fingertips – and fumbling for the Ambu bag on my trolley, as well as keeping an eye on the seconds that are ticking away all too quickly.

  Just as I open my mouth to tell Murray to call an ambulance, the baby screws up her face and opens her mouth to take her first gulping breath, and a second and a third, before expanding her lungs to their full extent and letting out a pitiful cry, at which Emily cries with relief and exhaustion, and Murray cries, and I want to cry too, but I can’t because I’m supposed to be the professional here.

  At five minutes, the baby’s Apgar score is up to seven from five and I’m happy to hand her still damp and covered in the vernix that looks like shea butter, over to Emily to meet her new daughter.

  ‘Congratulations, you and Murray have the most beautiful baby girl.’ It’s what I say every time – some babies are more beautiful than others and this one is absolutely gorgeous. I can’t wait to have a proper cuddle.

  Emily sinks gingerly onto the sofa as she holds the baby to her breast.

  ‘What’s that lump on her head?’ Murray asks.

  ‘The chignon? It’s from the suction cap I used to assist the delivery. Don’t worry – it will go down within a couple of days.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Murray says.

  ‘It will be fine.’

  ‘Only Lily had a mark on her head . . .’ I notice how Murray swallows hard, keeping his eyes fixed on his new daughter. Emily reaches out and touches his arm.

  ‘Oh, Murray, I’m so sorry,’ she murmurs. ‘I wish . . .’

  ‘I know, love. Seeing this baby brings it all back, somehow.’

  I stand back, a lump in my throat, as they recall the baby they lost.

  ‘It was my fault,’ Emily says.

  ‘We’ve been through this over and over.’ Murray’s tone is rough with renewed grief. ‘It was a risk we took for the farm, for our family. We’ll never forget her, never stop loving her, but we have a new baby and Poppy to concentrate on now.’

  ‘I know,’ Emily sighs.

  My heart goes out to them. Not only did Emily dismiss my advice, she trained as a nurse before she married Murray, so she should have known better than to work with the sheep while she was pregnant. She lost the baby through an infection caught from delivering lambs. This time, she’s been ultra-careful.

  She kisses her daughter before looking up at her husband. ‘Thank you, darling. I’m sorry I yelled at you.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ he says ruefully. ‘You bit me the last time. This time, you cut off the circulation to my hand. I can still feel the pins and needles.’

  ‘That’s good, then – that means your hand isn’t going to fall off.’ Emily turns to me. ‘Thanks, sis. I couldn’t have got throug
h it without you.’

  ‘Thank you for asking me to be here,’ I say in return, my eyes burning with tears of relief and happiness. ‘I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.’

  ‘Baby, say hello to your Auntie Zara.’

  ‘Hello, niece.’ I reach out and touch the baby’s cheek. With Murray’s hair and Emily’s nose, she’s a real cutie. Silently, in the flickering candlelight, I wish her a long and happy life. ‘I wonder what Poppy is going to make of her new baby sister,’ I begin, after I’ve taken photos of the three of them together.

  ‘I dread to think,’ Emily says with a small smile. ‘I hope Mum’s convinced her to give the baby a chance. I’m afraid she’s going to be really jealous. She’s been an only child for four years. It’s going to be hard for her to adjust.’

  ‘I’ll get the phone,’ Murray says. ‘We’d better not keep your mum and grandmother in suspense any longer. As soon as you’ve let them know, I’ll call my side of the family and give them the news.’

  ‘Gran’s been calling all day. If you look at my phone, you’ll find hundreds of voicemail messages.’ Emily smiles. ‘Zara, can you put her out of her misery? I’m not sure I have the energy left to speak to her right now.’

  ‘One of us will bring her to see you,’ I say, sympathetic to my sister’s opinion, ‘but we won’t let her stay too long.’ I know very well what she’s like. There are times when she can’t stop talking. I contact Kelly to let her know she isn’t needed this time.

  ‘I could have done with you here,’ I tell her, explaining out of my sister’s earshot what happened. ‘I so nearly misjudged it . . . I’d never have forgiven myself—’

  ‘It was a successful outcome, though,’ Kelly points out. ‘You should be proud of yourself. I wish I’d been there.’

  ‘Have there been any other calls?’ I ask. ‘I haven’t been answering my phone.’

  ‘Just one, Celine, and I’ve sent her off to see the emergency doctor for antibiotics for a possible UTI.’ I know Celine well – her pregnancies are never straightforward. ‘Tell Emily I’ll pop in for a cuddle when I’m passing. I’ll see you at work tomorrow, Zara.’