After the Honeymoon (53 page)

There were murmurs of ‘I’ll help too’ from some of the parents who’d stayed with the children. ‘Come on,’ Mum was saying brightly. ‘How about Grandmother’s Footsteps?’

Amidst the excitement, she heard the screaming siren from the ambulance outside. Was that for her? It didn’t feel real. ‘I don’t want to be on my own!’ she called out.

‘You won’t be.’ Tom took her hand. ‘I’m coming too.’

Maybe they’d be able to give her something to stop it.

‘It will be all right,’ said Tom, holding her hand in the back of the ambulance.

‘Your first, is it?’ asked the kindly paramedic.

Emma, in between contractions, was about to answer ‘Our third’ but then stopped. How did she know it was an ‘our’?

Tom, she noticed, remained silent.

When they got to the hospital, it was a blur of white coats, green coats, trolleys, machines plugged into her body and faces peering down at her, assuring Emma that they were all doing everything that was humanly possible.

‘Why can’t you stop it?’ she called out as the contractions grew faster and stronger.

Tom’s voice floated above her. ‘It’s not possible, love. Just hang on in there.’

Love? He’d called her love! Gratefully she reached out for his hand. ‘How’s Dad doing?’ chirped one of the nurses.

Don’t, Emma wanted to say. But instead, she gasped as an overwhelming urge to push took hold. ‘It’s all right. You can do it now,’ said someone else. ‘This one’s in a hurry to get out, isn’t it? Here it comes!’

There was a silence. A silence which seemed to last for ever. Then a cry. A thin cry that pierced the air. ‘SCBU,’ said a voice. ‘Quick.’

From the bed, Emma tried to see what was happening. ‘I want to hold it,’ she called out, realising as she did so that she didn’t even know if it was a boy or a girl.

‘I’m sorry, love,’ said one of the kindly older nurses. ‘Your little one needs special care. You’ll be able to see it shortly.’

‘What is it?’ she asked hoarsely.

‘A boy, love. With bright red hair.’ She glanced at Tom, who was still stroking Emma’s hand. ‘Just like Dad.’

That had been a month ago. Since then, both she and Tom had virtually lived at the hospital, taking it in turns to sit by little Scott, named after Sir Walter, whose books Emma had always loved.

It was incredible how you got used to being in a place like this. It was another world, full of kind, clever people who saved others’ lives while the rest of life went on outside. Emma was staggered by how nice everyone was, from the team caring for Scott to the cheery tea lady and the young girl at the hospital shop.

Mum too had been amazing about looking after Gawain and Willow, bringing them in when allowed, to peer at their new brother through the window of the SCBU unit.

‘Why can’t they just wrap him up and bring him home?’ Gawain had demanded, as if Scott was a parcel.

‘Because he needs lots of looking after,’ Mum said. ‘When he gets home, you can help everyone if you start being a big boy again.’

Amazingly, it had worked! Almost overnight, Gawain stopped sucking his thumb and trying to steal his sister’s dummy. He even stopped referring to himself in the third person.

But the best thing – if something good could come out of this – was that she and Tom had grown closer, partly through the uncertainty over whether Scott would be all right and then, as he grew stronger, over whether there was any mental or physical damage.

There was no doubt he was Tom’s. Everyone commented on the mass of red hair. Yet, as if in silent agreement, neither she nor Tom felt able to raise the subject. When people congratulated Tom on his third child, he smiled and said yes, it was amazing, but they weren’t out of the woods yet.

Nor was she, Emma thought. Scott might be Tom’s but that didn’t mean her husband had forgiven her.

Finally the day came when they were allowed to actually hold him in their arms. ‘You first,’ offered Tom as the nurse gently lifted Scott out of the incubator, wires still attached.

Every inch of Emma’s body was yearning to take him. ‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘You.’

She’d done the right thing. Emma could see that as her husband gazed tenderly down at the tiny mite in his arms. ‘He’s squeezing my finger!’ Tom looked across to her. ‘He’s got guts, this one. A real fighter.’

Emma waited as the nurse slipped out to give them some privacy. ‘What about us?’ she said quietly. ‘Are we going to be all right, Tom?’ Her eyes misted as her husband handed her son over to her. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, looking down at Scott and then at Tom. ‘It didn’t mean anything. It was just the once.’

He winced.

‘Once too many,’ she added quickly. ‘I know that. But I love you, Tom. I really do.’

He went very quiet. Then he put his arm around her. ‘I pushed you into marriage, even though I knew you didn’t want it.’

‘I do now.’ All those things which had irritated her about Tom had faded. The last few weeks had proved how well they worked as a team.

‘Me too.’ Tom’s voice was low and gruff. ‘This little chap has a lot to look forward to. A brother and a sister – and two parents. All under one roof.’

It was going to be all right! Emma could have cried with joy. And then they heard it. A bleep from one of the machines attached to Scott. Scared, they looked at each other.

‘Maybe one of the wires has just slipped off,’ said Tom nervously. But a nurse was rushing in, taking Scott from them. There was a bluish tinge to his upper lip which hadn’t been there before.

‘Everyone out, please,’ said one of the doctors, rushing in. ‘Sorry. That includes the parents.’

They’d been waiting in the side room for ages when the door finally opened. Emma’s heart leaped and then sank again.

Dad.

He’d been visiting right from the beginning, staring at his grandson through the glass window. Usually he texted to see if it was ‘convenient’ which, Emma knew, was code for ‘Will your mother be there?’

Today, he had just turned up, unannounced. ‘My poor girl,’ he said when he found her in floods of tears. ‘Come here and let me give you a hug.’

Emma might be a mother of three, she told herself, but there was still something very comforting about being hugged by your dad.

‘So what’s going on?’

They explained what they’d been told, or rather, as much as they understood. Something about little Scott’s lungs still being too immature to cope on their own. The bleep had warned the staff, luckily before it was too late.

But his breathing still wasn’t as good as it had been before and a specialist had been called in.

‘You know,’ said Dad, holding her hand, ‘when you were little, you had double pneumonia and were in hospital for three weeks.’

Really? Mum had never mentioned that.

‘In those days, visiting hours were very strict.’ His eyes took on a distant look. ‘Your mother and I were only allowed to see you for an hour a day. It almost broke my heart.’

But she had gone for years not seeing him; all because Mum had lied about what had really happened. If it wasn’t for the fact that she was here and Mum was holding the fort at home, Emma would have had a right old go at her.

‘When you got better, we treated you like a precious china doll! We were both terrified that you might get ill again. But one of the nurses at the chest clinic where you were checked up gave us a good piece of advice. She said, “Kids are stronger than they look.”’

He patted her hand just as the door tore open. Gawain and Willow! And Mum with an elderly man, supported by a walking stick. ‘I got your text, love,’ she began and then stopped.

Emma waited with bated breath.

‘Hi Ted,’ said Mum casually.

Emma stared. She’d expected Mum to lash out, make a scene like she had at the birthday party.

‘Nice to see you, Shirley.’ Her dad nodded at the man with the walking stick. ‘How are you doing, Derek?’

‘Fine, Ted. You? How’s Trish?’

What on earth was going on? Emma looked from one to the other. They all seemed so civil, and they knew each other’s names!

‘Are we going to the swings again, Grandad?’ piped up Gawain, tugging at his sleeve.

‘Swings, swings,’ chanted Willow.

Emma’s mother gave her an embarrassed look. ‘Your father has been helping out with the children every now and then while you’ve been in here,’ she shrugged.

‘Only when she came down to visit me,’ added her companion. ‘I’m Rosie’s dad, by the way.’ His handshake was firm. ‘Derek. Nice to meet you.’

Then the door opened again. This time, a different doctor walked in. ‘Mr and Mrs Walker? We have some news now.’

‘So let me get this right,’ said Bernie, helping herself to one of the chocolates in the children’s ward. ‘Sorry. I can’t resist. Your mum and dad have made it up?’

‘Kind of.’

Bernie was now rearranging the Get Well cards. There had even been one from Winston, which the nurses, who were all glued to his new programme, had oohed and aahed over.

‘And you and Tom are OK?’

‘Seem to be.’

‘Good. So that book of mine worked, did it?’

‘What book?’

‘Just something I found in the library about how to revitalise your marriage. Had quite a juicy self-help section on kissing properly, actually.’

So that explained it! Trust Bernie to put her nose in it again!

‘But most important, little Scott here – who gave us all such a shock – is actually going home soon?’

Emma, who was giving Scott a bottle of expressed milk, nodded happily. They’d been lucky, the consultant said. He was doing remarkably well, given that he’d been premature. But not as premature as she’d thought.

‘Turned out that I was three weeks pregnant when Tom and I got married. I just didn’t know.’

Bernie let out a slow whistle. ‘Bloody hell, Em. That was winging it.’

She didn’t need reminding, thank you very much. And she was grateful for the door opening at this point. Probably one of the nurses with …

‘Surprise! Surprise!’

It was Gemma from school with – goodness! – a tiny pink bundle in her arms. ‘I heard you were still here so thought I’d pop in to say hello.’ Her eyes rested on baby Scott. ‘I’m so relieved everything went all right for you.’

Emma found her manners. ‘Thank you for the lovely flowers. And congratulations!’

Gemma beamed. ‘I was beginning to think Lucy would never come along! She was two weeks late, you know. We’re being discharged tonight and the boys can’t wait! I only hope she’s prepared for all those little fingers that are just dying to prod her.’

Emma, wishing she could be as laid-back as Gemma, knew exactly what she meant. She only hoped Gawain and Willow would be gentle with their new baby brother.

‘Did you hear about Rosie?’

She’d sent a card too.

‘No. What’s happened?’

‘She and Greco are getting married!’ Gemma was beaming again. ‘Isn’t that lovely? We’re going to the wedding in the summer and later, when the season has finished, she’s coming over here for the christening.’

Gemma laid her cheek against her baby’s. ‘Rosie’s going to be Lucy’s godmother, along with my other great friend from uni. Isn’t that nice?’

‘Mummy, Mummy! Why is God putting water on Scott’s head?’

Emma tried not to giggle as her son’s words echoed round the church. They weren’t a particularly religious family, but Gemma’s reference to Lucy’s christening had made her think. Luckily Tom agreed. The vicar did it as part of the main service. Mum was there with Rosie’s dad. So too was Dad with Trisha. The two women had nodded at each other and she only hoped they’d remain civil. Bernie and her husband were godparents. She and Tom had asked one of the SCBU nurses too.

‘And why is Scott wearing a dress?’ demanded Gawain hotly. ‘He’s not a girl.’

Somehow they got through the service and back home, where Bernie had helped her prepare a buffet (and scoff half of it too). Mum and Trisha were on opposite sides of the room. Fair enough.

‘Is Charlie all right?’ demanded Gawain.

‘Who’s Charlie?’

Mum’s boyfriend looked across from the table where he was piling a plate high with sliced ham. He patted his trousers. ‘That’s my catheter bag. I nicknamed it Charlie and it seems to have stuck.’

There was a throaty laugh from Mum’s direction. ‘In more ways than one, eh, Derek?’

‘Go quite well together, don’t they?’ observed Bernie wryly, helping herself to another spoonful of cranberry sauce. ‘Surprising really, isn’t it? Your mum’s happier than I’ve ever known her.’

So was Dad. It was so good after all these years to have everyone in one room, putting their disagreements to one side for one special day. They were blessed, Emma told herself, as Tom gave her a wink from the kitchen door. Truly blessed.

‘Going to a wedding, are you?’ Bernie, who didn’t miss a trick, picked up the silver-and-white invitation from the mantelpiece. ‘Rosie and Greco? Siphalonia? Isn’t that the place where we sent you on honeymoon?’

Emma had meant to put that away. The last thing she needed was for Bernie to bring up a reference to Yannis.

‘Yes, but we’re not going.’

Bernie’s eyes opened. ‘Because of …’

‘Because of Scott,’ said Tom smoothly. He took his son from Emma’s arms and held him, while reaching out for her hand.

‘Mum’s going,’ added Emma, flushing. ‘Derek asked her. You did know, didn’t you, that he’s Rosie’s father?’

Bernie, wide-eyed, was taking it all in, no doubt to distribute it around Corrywood later on. ‘Actually,’ she said, nudging Emma in the hips, ‘Phil and I were thinking of going to a holiday camp in Dorset this summer. You know – a traditional bucket-and-spade place. They do great fish and chips. Fancy coming too?’

‘After the honeymoon, my new husband got made redundant. So I handed in my notice and we blew our savings on a backpacking trip round South-East Asia.’

Marion, now settled in Surrey

ROSIE

Weddings were big affairs in Greece. Rosie had been to more than she cared to count, during her years in Siphalonia. They were always raucous, joyous celebrations, involving great quantities of food and drink from the minute that an engagement was announced, right through to the end of the wedding reception, where the couple would be showered with rose petals and money.