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  Eric and Silas fuss over us, as they help us out of our wet coats and gloves. When we’re more or less settled, Eric makes a big jug of cocoa (at least the Aga is still working). I am still shivering, despite the rug around my shoulder and the hot water bottle on what’s left of my lap. Up until now, it’s all been a bit of an adventure, but now reality has set in and I’m beginning to feel seriously frightened.

  ‘It’ll be all right,’ Eric says. ‘The baby probably won’t be born for ages, and by then the phones will be back on.’

  ‘You think?’ I wish I shared his optimism.

  ‘Well, I certainly hope so. And anyway, people give birth all the time, don’t they? In many parts of the world, they just get on with it on their own.’

  ‘At the edges of paddy fields,’ I finish for him.

  Another bigger contraction tightens my stomach and makes me gasp. I have a feeling this is not going to be such a doddle after all.

  ‘Perhaps she should go to bed?’ Kent suggests (it seems that already I’m becoming a third person; a helpless victim, incapable of being spoken to directly).

  ‘No. She’s better up and about, as long as she feels like it.’ I can tell that Silas has his bible on his knees, and is referring to it surreptitiously under the table.

  ‘Don’t we need boiling water?’ Eric says. ‘I’m sure I’ve read somewhere that we need lots of boiling water.’

  ‘I always wonder what they want all that hot water for,’ Kent muses. ‘They never seem to use it; they just get it ready.’

  ‘The hot water’s a myth,’ says Silas. ‘But we’ll need sterile scissors — now, those will need to be boiled — and some kind of string or thread to tie the cord.’ He brings his book out of hiding and lays it on the table. ‘And of course a clean sheet or towel to wrap the baby in. But first we have to clear the baby’s airway. Well, that makes sense, doesn’t it?’

  I give Kaz a despairing glance. I don’t want my predicament medicalised by Silas and his book. I don’t like his plans for what “we” are going to do. What I need is sympathy, and cosseting, and someone who knows what they’re doing. I’m very much afraid that if someone doesn’t do something soon, I’m going to cry.

  ‘She will be all right, won’t she?’ Dad asks. He suddenly looks small and vulnerable, and even in my present parlous state, I feel oddly touched.

  ‘Of course she is.’ Kaz takes control. ‘Ruth, how about a nice hot bath? It’ll warm you up, and while you’re having it, I’ll put some clean sheets on your bed, and a fresh hot water bottle. It’s going to be pretty cold up there without the central heating. And then I think you should try and get some rest.’

  ‘I’ll give you a hand.’ Mum is obviously desperate to be of some help.

  ‘Oof!’ Another contraction. Everyone watches in awe, as I sit it out. I’ve forgotten my breathing exercises (puff? pant? a bit of both?) and for the first time, I wish I’d paid more attention.

  ‘A bath would be lovely. Thank you, Kaz,’ I say, when I can speak again.

  ‘Was that painful?’ Silas asks. ‘It shouldn’t hurt that much at the beginning. It should —’

  ‘Silas, I think you should shut up. And please put that bloody book away!’ Eric says.

  ‘I’m only —’

  ‘Trying to help? Well, you’re not helping at all. You take Ruth upstairs, Kaz. Shout if you need anything.’

  The bath is soothing — even the contractions are less painful in warm water — and it is with some reluctance that I get out.

  ‘How often are you having the pains?’ Kaz asks, bringing me clean pyjamas.

  ‘You sound like Silas,’ I tell her.

  ‘No, I think it’s important. If they’re really frequent, it means the baby’s well on the way.’

  ‘And what would we do about it?’ I ask her.

  ‘Good point.’

  ‘You arrived quite quickly,’ Mum tells me. ‘For a first baby.’

  We look at each other in the flickering candlelight, and I think it’s at this point that we all realise the awful truth. I am almost certainly going to give birth here, at Applegarth, with no medical help whatsoever.

  ‘We’ll manage,’ says Kaz, after a moment.

  ‘Course we will.’

  ‘And we’ll both stay with you.’

  ‘Yes. Please do.’ I hesitate. ‘Kaz?’

  ‘Mm?’

  ‘You’re not squeamish are you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Not ever?’

  ‘Not ever.’

  ‘Have you ever — fainted?’

  ‘Certainly not.’

  ‘And you, Mum? Will you be okay with all this?’

  ‘Of course I will,’ says Mum, smiling bravely.

  ‘Good.’

  ‘I’ll move my mattress into your room and sleep here,’ Kaz says. ‘We’ll leave the candle alight, just in case.’

  ‘Shouldn’t I be the one to stay with her?’ Mum asks.

  ‘You’ve not been feeling too good, have you, and we’re going to need you later,’ Kaz says. ‘We’ll call you if anything happens. And Ruth, you should get some sleep if you can. I think it’s going to be a long night.’

  Strangely, I do get some sleep. The contractions ease up a bit, and I’m able to doze in between. Towards dawn, the wind drops, to be replaced by an eerie stillness. In the white glow reflected from the snow outside, I can see the outlines of furniture, and Kaz curled neat as a kitten under her duvet on the floor beside my bed. I wonder whether it’s worth going downstairs to see if the phones are working yet, but decide against it. Having got nicely warm, I’m reluctant to leave my bed. Besides, since no-one can get to us through the snow, there’s not much point in making phone calls. It’s not as though anyone can deliver my baby over the phone.

  I feel another contraction, and manage to breathe my way through it quite satisfactorily. Kaz turns on her back and begins to snore gently. Once more, I drift off to sleep.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  The baby means business.

  I have been awake now for nearly an hour, and the contractions are getting stronger and a good deal more painful. There is none of the stop-start nonsense of last night. This is for real.

  The news on my bedside radio (mercifully battery-operated) tells of storms and drifts all over the country. As usual, the British weather has been met with total astonishment by the British people, and everything has ground to a halt. There are people stranded in cars and trains, and sheep marooned in fields. All over the country, schools will be closed, and in Nottinghamshire, a woman has given birth in a village hall.

  ‘At least this isn’t a village hall,’ says Kaz, returning from the kitchen with a tray of tea.

  ‘There might be a doctor in a village hall.’

  ‘And there might be an audience of several hundred. You wouldn’t want that.’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘How’s it going?’ Kaz wraps herself in her duvet, and sits on the edge of my bed.

  ‘Painful.’

  ‘How painful?’

  ‘Pretty painful. Bearable, though.’ I lever myself further up the bed.

  ‘Should we fetch your mum?’

  ‘No. Let her sleep for the moment, and I’ll see how it goes.’ I shiver. ‘Gosh, it’s perishing in here. The poor baby will freeze to death before it’s even taken its first breath.’

  ‘No it won’t. Kent’s lit a fire in the sitting-room, and you can lie on the sofa.’

  ‘Where’s Silas?’

  ‘Doing the animals with Eric. But he’s been looking things up in his book and he’s dying to come and interfere.’

  ‘Please don’t let him!’

  ‘What do you take me for?’ Kaz grins. ‘He wants to know how often your contractions are coming.’

  ‘What did you tell him?’

  ‘I said I’d no idea.’

  ‘Good girl.’ I wrap my hands round my mug of tea. ‘And Dad? Is he okay?’

  ‘I think he’s praying. He s
aid it was the only thing her could do. He’s awfully worried, Ruth.’

  ‘Poor Dad.’ I could do with his prayers right now. ‘I had this awful dream that the baby died and Silas insisted on stuffing it.’

  ‘I wouldn’t put it past him.’

  ‘Neither would I. Are the phones back on?’

  ‘No chance.’

  ‘Bugger.’

  ‘Bugger indeed.’

  Another big contraction begins, and I almost spill my tea. I pant my way through it.

  ‘Wow,’ says Kaz, impressed. ‘That was serious, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Just a bit.’

  ‘You know, I thought I wanted children, but now I’m not so sure.’

  ‘Thanks, Kaz.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’ She puts down her mug. ‘Let’s get you downstairs before the next one.’

  She helps me into my dressing gown, and down the creaking staircase. There seem to be a lot more stairs than there used to be, and I have to stop half-way for a breather.

  In the sitting-room, a fire is blazing. Kent has pulled up the sofa and made it up with blankets and pillows. It looks quite cosy.

  ‘Welcome to the delivery suite.’ Kaz helps me on to the sofa and covers me with several blankets. ‘I’ll go and fetch some towels. We’ll need towels. Breakfast?’

  I shake my head as another wave begins. ‘Please — keep — everyone — out. Ouf! And I think — it’s time — to call Mum.’

  Minutes later, Mum comes hurrying down, full of apologies. ‘I was awake half the night, and then I must have dropped off. How’s it going, love?’

  ‘A bit — painful. But — I’m — managing.’

  She sits down beside me. ‘I won’t talk. I’ll just sit here quietly. But you tell me if I can do anything.’

  The morning progresses slowly. Kent has set off on foot to see if he can tunnel his way out of Applegarth and find some kind of help, and Eric and Silas are busy seeing to the animals while Dad makes seemingly endless cups of tea for everybody. Meanwhile, Kaz, Mum and I are left to our own devices, with Mum rubbing my back and giving me sips of water, and Kaz timing my contractions.

  ‘Every five minutes, regular as clockwork,’ says Kaz, after what seems several days rather than a mere morning.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Didn’t you listen to anything they told you?’ Kaz says in exasperation. ‘If I were having a baby, I’d want to find out everything I could.’

  ‘Bully for you.’

  ‘I don’t understand you, Ruth.’

  ‘I never asked you to.’

  ‘Ruth dear — Kaz is only trying to be helpful,’ Mum says.

  ‘Well, it’s not helping.’

  Somewhere at the back of my mind there stirs a memory of being told about a stage in labour where women tend to lose their tempers and swear. Is this it?

  Perhaps not.

  ‘Sorry, Kaz,’ I squeeze her hand.

  ‘Me too.’ She rearranges my pillows. ‘This baby thing is exhausting isn’t it, and I’m not even the one having the baby.’

  Silas pops his head round the door, his face barely visible above a brightly-coloured muffler.

  ‘Silas, you’re supposed to knock,’ says Kaz sternly.

  ‘I’m so sorry, I just wanted to know —’

  ‘Every five minutes,’ Kaz tells him.

  ‘Ah. That means —’

  ‘Silas, we know what that means —’ we don’t — ‘so please leave us to get on with it. Everything’s fine.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Quite sure.’

  ‘Is Kent back?’ Mum asks him.

  ‘No. I think he’ll be some time,’ Silas says. ‘The drifts are about eight feet deep in places.’

  I spare a thought for Kent, who certainly isn’t anything like eight feet deep, and hope he’ll be all right. It would be awful if he were to give his life for me and my unborn child.

  The time and the contractions tick by. The pain gets worse and more frequent, but I do my best not to make any noise, for I am uncomfortably aware that Silas is waiting somewhere nearby for an excuse to come and help.

  ‘Mum, I need to push,’ I gasp.

  ‘Aren’t you supposed to hang on a bit?’

  ‘I — can’t — hang — on!’

  ‘Then perhaps you’d better you go ahead, dear. I’m sure your body knows what it’s doing.’

  I push. It feels as though my whole body’s trying to turn itself inside out, but nothing happens.

  ‘Do you think I ought to — have a look?’ Mum asks me, after several more fruitless and exhausting pushes.

  ‘Please.’

  Mum has a look.

  ‘Oh, my goodness! I can see its head!’

  ‘What, all of it?’

  Kaz joins her, and they both peer under the blanket. ‘Just the top,’ she says.

  ‘Hair?’

  ‘Possibly. Gosh this is so exciting!’

  ‘I’m — glad — you — think — so.’ Another big push. I feel utterly drained. Whatever happens, this baby is going to be an only child.

  ‘I think it helps if you put your chin on your chest,’ Kaz says. ‘And then push. I’ve seen it on the telly.’

  ‘Fuck off!’ The pain is overwhelming. All this pushing is going to kill me. ‘Fucking, fucking baby!’

  Mum makes a tutting noise, and despite the pain, I experience a wave of irritation, but Kaz wisely shuts up, and we all wait for the next contraction.

  ‘Aaaaaaah!’ This is a big one, accompanied by a searing pain.

  ‘Oh, Ruth! Its head’s out,’ Mum tells me.

  ‘Wow! This is amazing!’ Kaz says.

  ‘What — happens — now?’ I lie back on my pillows, panting.

  ‘Another push?’

  ‘Here goes.’

  The next push is a bit easier, and the one after that is accompanied by another sharp pain and a rather satisfying slither. There’s a brief silence followed by a yell of protest.

  The seahorse/rabbit has arrived.

  ‘He’s here. Your baby’s here! Oh, Ruth! He’s beautiful!’ Tears are running down Mum’s cheeks as she very carefully lifts up something slippery and howling, wraps it in a towel and hands it to me.

  I look down into the face of my son. After a few moments, he stops crying, opening navy blue eyes beneath a slick of wet dark hair and gazes at me critically.

  ‘Will I do?’ I ask him softly.

  ‘Oh, Ruth! Of course you’ll do!’ Kaz gives me a big hug. ‘This is the most exciting day of my life. Congratulations!’

  ‘Darling, you were amazing,’ Mum says. ‘Just amazing.’

  I unwrap him and we all count his fingers and toes, wonder at his tiny fingernails, his neatly-drawn eyebrow and feathery lashes and his ‘dear little knees’ (Kaz’s words). It is amazing that a year ago he didn’t exist at all, and yet here he is, absolutely perfect in every way. A home-made human being.

  ‘Could you — could you ask Dad to come in?’ I ask Mum, after a few moments.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes. I’m sure.’ Because now I want both my parents with me to share in this miracle.

  Dad tiptoes into the room in his socks and approaches the sofa carefully (‘like the shepherds in the stable,’ as I afterwards say to Kaz).

  ‘Oh, Ruth,’ he says, very gently laying a finger on the baby’s head. ‘Ruth!’ And to my astonishment, I see that there are tears in his eyes.

  An hour later, I am sitting up with my baby in my arms and we are drinking his health in elderflower champagne. The placenta (which had been completely forgotten in all the excitement) has been delivered, and in a moment of post-natal magnanimity, I even let Silas cut the cord with his newly-boiled scissors. Altogether, it’s been something of a joint effort, and everyone seems inordinately proud, both of themselves and of me.

  You read about childbirth (at least, most women do); you read about the different stages and what happens when and what you’re supposed to do; y
ou even read about the pain. Nobody, however, tells you about the afterglow.

  I think now of all my favourite moments — performing a concerto with an orchestra; getting my diploma; the best possible sex; being in love (not necessarily the same thing) — but none can compare with this. At this moment, there is no-one and nothing in the world but me; me and this perfect little human being (how could I ever have thought of him as a seahorse/rabbit?). I never expected to feel like this; I didn’t even know it was possible. But I believe that now — this moment — is the nearest I have ever been to perfect happiness.

  ‘Hey!’ I cry, to no-one in particular. ‘I did it! I did it!’

  As though in response, there are muffled footsteps outside and we hear the front door opening. There’s the sound of raised voices, and a kind of scuffle, and a few moments later, Amos bursts into the room followed by Kent. They both look very cold and very wet, and Kent at least looks very cross.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Ruth. I couldn’t stop him. He wouldn’t let me explain,’ Kent says. ‘I met him outside. He said he’d had an urgent message and needed to see you at once.’

  ‘So you do live here!’ Amos beams at me. ‘When I came before, that weasily little woman said she’d never heard of you, and told me to go away. I only just got your message, and tried to phone, but I couldn’t get through. What’s the matter? Has something happened? Are you ill? It’s taken me hours to get here. I had to abandon the car and —’ he stops short. ‘Whatever have you got there?’

  ‘It’s a baby.’

  ‘A baby?’

  ‘A baby.’

  ‘Whose baby?’

  ‘Your baby.’

  ‘My baby?’

  ‘Our baby.’ I hold out our son to show him. ‘Amos, meet Malachi.’

  EPILOGUE

  Six months later

  I love September; still summer, but with a hint and promise of autumn, and (today at least) warm sunshine.

  Malachi is sitting on a rug on the grass chewing at a biscuit with his one tooth. He catches my eye and smiles (Amos’s smile), biscuity soup leaking down his front. Indoors, Amos is practising with all the windows closed (the neighbours are not fans of the trombone) and keeping an eye on his vat of home-brew (he has been picking up tips from Eric and Silas).