Big mistake, Helen. Big, dumb mistake. Trying to tough things out after the doctors had told her it was third time unlucky, and she had lost that baby, too . . . She was an idiot for thinking she could carry on as if nothing had happened.

  Leanne Carpenter, the local big-mouth, had come into the pub about half an hour after Helen had begun her shift. Across the room Leanne teetered, swerving in a zigzag, bumping into people as she went. Then she parked herself at the bar and ordered a large vodka tonic, slurring every word in the process.

  It was the worst possible situation for Helen right then. Leanne Carpenter was heavily pregnant with her fourth child – and steaming drunk as well. Helen had seen her locally with her children now and then, and she didn’t think Leanne was in any danger of winning a Mother of the Year award. She had noticed Leanne smacking her little boys in the Spar shop, when they tipped over a box of Freddos. Leanne smoked like a chimney too, without a care for the baby in the pram. And now here she was in Helen’s pub, ordering a double vodka, when by the look of things she had already drunk plenty. Not in my pub, you don’t, thought Helen, feeling a rush of anger. Not today, lady.

  ‘I’m not going to serve you that,’ she said primly. ‘You shouldn’t be drinking, in your condition.’

  Leanne scowled. ‘Who the hell are you to tell me what I can and can’t do?’ she said. ‘It’s up to me what I drink, and I’d like a large vodka tonic. Please.’

  Helen felt volcanic with rage. How dare this woman be so careless about her unborn baby? How dare she treat it with such casual disdain, when she herself was desperate to hold on to a baby for longer than fifteen weeks? Helen would have done anything to be in Leanne’s position then. Anything at all. In the meantime, she was not going to serve Leanne any alcohol – and that was that.

  ‘You can’t have one,’ Helen snapped, her voice trembling. ‘And I’d like you to leave.’

  ‘Leave? Why? What have I done? I’m not going anywhere, love.’

  ‘Yes, you are. I’ve asked you to leave, so you’re leaving.’ Helen came out from behind the bar. Small and slender, she was about half the size of Leanne Carpenter, but was so fired up with fury that she didn’t have any fear. She put her hand on Leanne’s shoulder, but Leanne pushed her away.

  ‘Oi, get off me! That’s assault, that is. Manhandling a pregnant woman!’

  ‘I did not . . .’

  ‘Shoving me around. Getting in my face. What’s your problem? I’ve a good mind to call the police about this.’

  ‘What’s going on?’ And there was Paul, just up from the cellar, looking startled to see his wife involved in a spat. ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘Your missus – that’s the problem,’ Leanne said angrily. She got down from the bar stool and pushed Helen away. ‘That’s the last time I come in this shit-hole!’

  Helen’s breath was knocked out of her as she stumbled backwards, clutching at the bar to keep her balance. ‘Good!’ she spluttered as Leanne staggered towards the door. ‘Because you are not welcome, do you hear me?’

  The pub fell silent as everyone stared. With her face hot, Helen pushed her way back through the bar and up to their flat, where she burst into floods of tears.

  That wasn’t even the worst of it. An hour later the police were round, saying they had been called about an assault on one of the customers. Could Mrs Helen Fraser please answer a few questions?

  Thankfully there were enough witnesses to back up Helen’s side of the story. She had not assaulted Leanne Carpenter. She had perhaps been a bit shrill and critical, but she had not caused any kind of criminal offence. All the same, word got out. The story became wilder as it travelled. People began giving Helen odd looks, as if they really believed that she and Leanne had had a fist-fight, scrapping on the pub floor like school kids.

  Ever since then, Helen had tried to keep herself away from pregnant women. It was just easier that way.

  Chapter Eight

  Evie

  By the end of July I was roughly the size of Wales, with knockers like twin airships and a belly that entered the room several minutes before the rest of me caught up. My stretch-marks were so awful they could probably be tracked by NASA. As if that wasn’t enough, the pregnancy hormones had turned my hair into an oil slick, and I became more short-tempered by the day. I felt a bit guilty for pulling rank with Helen over the incident with Fred, but I was sick of her trying to take over. Besides, I had never been one to turn away someone in need. ‘Sorry about last night,’ I had muttered the next time Helen came into work, but she merely pursed her lips and glared as if she hated me. So that was that.

  Then, after another high blood-pressure rating, my midwife, Maria, laid down the law. Enough, she told me. I had to stop working now or put the baby at risk. And so, with these words of doom in my ears, I hung up my apron and began my maternity leave. Handing over control of my café was not easy, I can tell you. I had never been a jealous type of person, but I couldn’t help feel a pang whenever I heard Helen’s laugh floating up the stairs to the flat and I thought about her and Ed running the place together. Without me.

  I was probably over-reacting, I told myself. No, I was almost certainly over-reacting. Not only had the hormones left my hair a disaster area, but they were ramping up all my emotions to the level of Extremely Sensitive.

  I sobbed over a local news story about a brave dog that helped to rescue his pensioner owner after he fell into a river. I burst into tears of gratitude when my friend Annie gave me a patchwork blanket that she had made for the baby. I found myself dwelling far too much on how pretty Helen was compared to me. And on how Ed seemed to have a new spring in his step, now that he was going off to work with Helen every morning.

  I couldn’t help remembering how the two of us had fallen in love down in the café during that first heady summer together. What if history went and repeated itself in the worst possible way?

  When the café closed up that first night and I heard Helen, Tilly and Josh all calling goodbye, I went downstairs. Secretly I was hoping the place would be a tip, and that it had been all too much for Helen and the others to cope with, now that I wasn’t there. I’m ashamed to say I even felt a tiny bit disappointed when I saw that the café area was sparkling clean, the floor freshly mopped. Everything was in its place, with not a stray crumb to be seen.

  Any normal person would have been pleased that such good care was being taken of their business. Me? I felt more than ever as if I had been put out to pasture, as if I was no longer needed around there.

  ‘Hey,’ said Ed, strolling through from the kitchen just then. ‘How was your first day of maternity leave?’

  ‘Quiet,’ I replied. I had been for a swim and then lumbered into the village to see Annie for tea and cake. I had read the latest ‘inspiring’ texts from my sister Louise, and had packed up my hospital bag. And then I had had a two-hour nap on the sofa. I was pretty sure even a raging bull would have low blood pressure, after a day like that.

  It was a warm evening, the sun turning coppery, and the clouds streaked with gold and pink. I put on my flip-flops and we wandered to the sea for a walk – or, rather, a breathless waddle, in my case. The beach was slowly emptying, as parents brushed sand off reluctant children and deflated brightly coloured lilos. Seagulls lingered hopefully, a safe distance away, their beady eyes on sandwich crusts and fallen chips.

  I kicked off my flip-flops and paddled in the shallows at the sea’s edge, enjoying how the wet sand squidged between my toes. ‘This is nice,’ I said, feeling the tension ease. I let out a long, raggedy breath and then reached for Ed’s hand. ‘Sorry if I’ve been sort of uptight lately.’

  He squeezed my fingers. ‘Sort of uptight? I hadn’t noticed,’ he said. This was such a terrible lie that we both started laughing. ‘Two weeks to go, eh? I can’t wait. It feels a bit like one long Christmas Eve, doesn’t it, all the waiting and wondering?’

  ‘If only Father Christmas could just deliver the baby in a nice stocking at the end of the bed, so I didn’t have to go through labour,’ I said, only half-joking. I had avoided thinking too much about how the baby was actually going to get out of me. My mum had already warned that I would likely be in for a long labour – ‘First ones are always slow. I was thirty-six hours with your sisters!’ – which did not make me feel any better. Thirty-six hours was like a whole day-and-a-half of pain. How could anyone bear it?

  ‘You’ll be fine,’ he told me. ‘Nothing to it, I reckon. It can’t be worse than man-flu, anyway.’

  I swiped at Ed, but he dodged away, laughing. ‘How did it go with Helen today then?’ I asked, trying – and failing – to keep the edge out of my voice. Yes, I was jealous. And yes, it was completely pathetic.

  ‘Yeah, good,’ he said. Then he caught sight of my face, and the way my lip was sliding out crossly. ‘I mean – terrible,’ he said, as he caught on. ‘Verging on disastrous for most of the day. Just not the same without you.’

  ‘Right,’ I said glumly.

  He put an arm around me and hugged me. ‘Come on. Don’t be like that. I know it’s weird, but . . .’

  ‘But she is quite attractive,’ I mumbled. ‘Whereas I am . . . ’ I waved my hand in front of my vast watermelon belly, thick ankles and puffy, worried face. ‘Not.’

  ‘Oh, Evie, stop! Stop right there.’ He swung me round – not an easy feat without haulage equipment – and put his hands on my shoulders. ‘Look at me, you crazy hormonal woman, you. Helen works for us. She’s just doing a job for a short space of time, so that you can rest and look after our child. That’s all there is to it. Okay? And everything will go back to normal in the end. I promise.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said to Ed, biting my lip. ‘Sorry. Again. Your wife is an idiot. Sorry to you too, Walnut,’ I added, for the benefit of my bump. ‘Or Andy, Laura, Novak, Martina, Roger.’

  ‘Engelbert,’ Ed added, unhelpfully.

  ‘Germaine, Simone, Maya, Oprah . . .’ I tried.

  ‘Harry, Ron, Hermione,’ he mused. ‘Maybe not Voldemort.’

  ‘Good call,’ I said, and sighed. ‘It’s a nightmare. How are we ever going to decide?’

  ‘The right name will come to us,’ he said. ‘Jim-Bob?’

  I smiled, feeling much better as we started walking again. ‘By the way,’ I went on. ‘Latest advice update from Louise. We’re to go out every night before the baby comes, she says. Have dinner, go to the pub, go to the cinema and have lots of wild sex.’

  ‘What, all at once?’ he asked, raising an eyebrow in a very suggestive manner. ‘That could be arranged. The question is: which first?’

  He slid his arm around my waist – or what was left of it – and began kissing my neck in a soft, seductive sort of way. ‘There’s only one answer in my mind,’ I said, glancing over towards the high street. The shutters were being rolled up at Frying Tonight and I could almost smell the salt and vinegar. All of a sudden I was starving again. ‘Haddock and chips,’ I said. ‘And mushy peas. What do you reckon?’

  Chapter Nine

  Evie

  There was just a week to go now before my due date and I had already felt a few contractions, where my belly became so hard it took my breath away. ‘They’re called Braxton Hicks contractions,’ my midwife, Maria, said when I phoned in a panic the first time. ‘It’s perfectly normal. Just your body having a practice, that’s all.’

  I raised my eyebrows, astonished that anyone would feel the need to practise extreme pain. ‘Err . . . right. Does that mean Walnut – I mean, the baby – will be here soon?’

  ‘It means your body is getting ready for the birth. You could still be waiting a good few weeks yet, though. First babies are often late.’

  A few days passed and then it was Saturday. I was starting to lose track of time, now that I no longer had a regular routine. Saturday was ‘Change-Over Day’, though – the day lots of people left Carrawen Bay at the end of their holidays, swiftly followed by a huge influx of new arrivals in their place. A quietness fell on the village after ten o’clock in the morning, as most people had to be out of their holiday cottages by then. Across Carrawen, beds would be remade and carpets hoovered in the guest houses, while here in the café we would write menus, check stock and plan for the next busy week ahead.

  On Saturday afternoon lots of customers would pour in, and the café always became very busy. We also ran a popular evening dinner service on Friday and Saturday nights, which booked up very quickly.

  Saturday, in other words, was about the worst day of the week that Walnut could pick to be born. And so, when I felt a few strange twinges around midday on this Saturday, I chose to ignore them. Probably just more Braxton Hicks contractions, I told myself. Yet another practice session before the big day. There was no way I was going to get Ed flapping, when he had so much to do already, not least with a fully booked restaurant that evening. ‘Just hang on until tomorrow, will you, Walnut?’ I said, typing up the menu for that evening.

  In reply came that strange gripping, squeezing sensation again and my attempt to type ‘Cornish ale-battered haddock’ became Ccornnnishaaaa, before my hands fell off the keyboard.

  ‘Right,’ I said, taking a few deep breaths. ‘Like that, is it? Hmm.’

  I busied myself typing the menus and printing them off, then began ironing the tablecloths and napkins for that evening. Friday and Saturday nights were the only times we dressed up the café in restaurant finery – tablecloths and nice cutlery and tealights on the tables. We allowed dinner guests to bring their own alcohol and served a simple menu, and there was always a lively, relaxed air.

  It made me feel really proud, seeing the place full of so many people enjoying their evening, especially when the Carrawen locals came to dine here. Tonight, for instance, I knew that Ruby Woodward’s family had booked a table for ten to celebrate her eighteenth birthday. Betty from the grocer’s shop was having her anniversary dinner with us, too. It felt like a stamp of approval from the village, confirming that we belonged.

  I took the tablecloths, napkins and menus downstairs just as Helen was arriving to start her shift. ‘Hi,’ we said to each other politely, but she bustled into the tiny cloakroom before I could say anything else. Still like that, then. Whatever.

  I was just putting everything in the kitchen when I felt another contraction and froze stock-still for a second, clutching the worktop. Ed glanced over at me. ‘Everything all right?’

  I breathed out in relief as the feeling faded. ‘Fine,’ I said.

  He was peeling a mountain of potatoes and had his frowny face on. It was not the right time to tell him I was having a few contractions, I thought. Anyway, it was almost certainly a false alarm. There was still a whole week before I was due, after all. And hadn’t Maria said just the other day that first babies tended to be late?

  I was not exactly known for my own timekeeping skills, it had to be said. If the baby was anything like me, he or she was sure to rock up way later than planned. Its first words would be, ‘Sorry I’m late! You wouldn’t believe what happened!’ I could be a whole month away from any childbirth action, if the baby chose.

  As the afternoon wore on, though, the ‘practice’ contractions showed no sign of letting up. Either this was a really intense boot-camp-style practice session or something major was actually starting to happen inside me. I paced around the flat, trying to stay calm. It was four-thirty now and the contractions were coming regularly, every fifteen or twenty minutes. Maria had told me not to bother going to the hospital or calling her until they came much closer together – more like five minutes apart.

  ‘We’ll just ride it out together,’ I said to Walnut (Jacob / Mia / Nathan) as I paced. ‘There’s no hurry, right? If you could hold out until at least eleven tonight, when dinner is over, that would be great. Please.’

  I sucked in a breath and held tight to my silver Christmas-tree charm as another contraction rolled through me. It wasn’t painful yet – more a heavy dragging feeling, but it made me fear for what was to come. Sweat trickled between my shoulder blades and I opened all the windows of the flat, gulping in fresh air.

  Perhaps Walnut was in a hurry to get going, after all. Perhaps he or she would be an impatient sort of person, fidgety and restless, who couldn’t bear to hang around. Perhaps this was just the start of our child surprising me and Ed at every turn. So, you thought I would be late, did you? Wrong! Here I come, ready or not!

  At last I cracked and phoned my mum. ‘You know the first time you went into labour,’ I began.

  I heard a great gasp of excitement down the line. ‘Oh! Has it started, love? Is this it?’

  ‘I think so,’ I said in a small voice. I was scared, now that I had got to this point. Scared and excited and aware of just how life-changing the hours to come would be. Mostly scared, though. Trying not to worry about anything tearing. ‘My waters haven’t broken, but I think I’m having contractions.’

  I heard doubt creep into her voice. ‘Ahh. You think they’re contractions? Sounds like you’re a way off yet then,’ she told me. ‘I would sit tight for a bit longer, darling. Walk around. Have a nice bath. Keep calm and wait it out. Once the proper contractions start, you’ll know about it.’

  Chapter Ten

  Evie

  The pain came and went. At around six o’clock the contractions seemed to stop and I fell onto the sofa, worn out. False alarm, I told myself, shutting my eyes. Have a breather, Walnut (Raphael / Leonardo / Frida / Tracey). Let’s do this some other time, yeah?

  Forty minutes or so later I felt the now-familiar clenching sensation stronger than ever. We were back in business. I slid from the sofa and knelt on the floor, my chest and head resting on the coffee table, bum sticking up in the air. I must have looked very odd, but somehow it made me feel better. I tried to think back to what my yoga teacher had said – something about breathing through the pain. Yeah, like that would make any difference, I thought darkly, huffing and puffing and noticing a strange sort of growling noise under my breath.

 

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