Christmas Day dawned clear and bright and cold as charity. She dressed up warmly for her calls, one of which was very sad. An elderly man had woken that morning to find his wife of sixty-two years dead in bed beside him. His grief was terrible to see, and Tricia stayed with him until the family arrived to comfort him.
As a result she was a little late to Rhys’s house, and she arrived expecting to find the kitchen in chaos and the food burnt.
Instead the house was immaculate, beautifully decorated, the dining-room table was laid with festive napkins and a fat red candle, and there wasn’t so much as a whiff of charred food in the air.
He greeted her with a chaste kiss on the cheek, in deference to the children.
‘Come and open your presents,’ they begged her, bouncing around her like the dog.
She laughingly let them tow her into the sitting room, and admired the tree in the corner.
‘It’s a bit wonky now ’cos Doodle knocked it over,’ Emma told her. Doodle, hearing his name, wagged his tail and grinned, clearly proud of himself.
‘Rascal,’ Tricia said affectionately. ‘Sit down before you knock something over.’
He sat, right on her feet, and she was handed a little pile of presents. The wrapping was a bit hit-and-miss, she noticed mistily. ‘All these?’ she said in amazement.
‘Open them.’
One was a calendar that Bibby had made with the child-minder, with paper flowers stuck on a piece of card and a little book calendar at the bottom. The paper flowers were a bit squashed now and rather crooked, but Tricia’s eyes filled anyway.
Mark had made her a leather bookmark with a patterned edge painstakingly cut out by hand, and Emma had embroidered a little mat, just like the little mats she had at home from her youngest sisters.
‘Thank you,’ she said to them all, her voice clogged with tears. ‘Thank you. I’ll treasure them.’
Mark shoved another parcel in her lap. ‘From Dad,’ he said.
It was small, and soft, and rather squashy. She opened the paper and found a pair of bedsocks.
‘I thought they’d keep you warm at night,’ Rhys said, and she thought his eyes looked suspiciously bright.
She gave a wobbly smile. ‘Thank you. I do get cold feet.’
‘I know.’
She looked away before she made a fool of herself. ‘Here—these are for you.’ She rummaged in her bag and dished out the presents.
The children squealed with delight at the comical wooden ornaments that she had bought in a craft shop. They were all different but yet the same, and she had wanted to be fair.
Then Rhys opened the book and flicked through it, a slow smile touching his eyes. ‘Thank you. It looks fun.’
‘I thought the children might enjoy it if you read it aloud.’
‘I expect so. Come on now; lunch is ready and we ought to eat before the phone rings.’
She managed to complete her meal, but only just. The phone rang just as they were clearing the table and talking about settling down in front of the fire with a box of chocolates.
‘I’ll have to go,’ she told Rhys regretfully.
‘Come back later.’
She shook her head. ‘No. It’s your Christmas. It was very kind of you to invite me for lunch. Anyway, I expect I’ll be too busy. Thank you for the presents.’
She kissed the children goodbye, horribly conscious that it would probably be the last time she saw them, and then, with a brief kiss on the cheek for Rhys, she left, hoping she would get away before the tears overcame her.
‘Are you packed?’ he said softly.
She nodded. ‘Yes. I was just about to load the car.’
‘I’ll help you.’
Rhys carried her things downstairs and somehow persuaded her little car to take the mass of possessions that she had accumulated over the past five months.
Then it was loaded and there was nothing left to do but say goodbye.
They went back up to the flat and with a muffled cry she went into his arms.
‘I’m going to miss you,’ she whispered raggedly.
He held her away, his eyes dark with pain. ‘Let me love you one last time,’ he said, and his voice was raw and aching, like her heart.
‘The bed’s stripped,’ she told him.
‘It doesn’t matter.’ He led her into the bedroom and made love to her in the dark, with just the sliver of light from the landing painting a gold stripe on the floor and up the wall.
His eyes glittered in the darkness, and his touch was a slow. trembling homage. She understood that. Her hands travelled over his body, memorising every last beloved inch. The planes and hollows, the texture of his skin, the ripple of muscle beneath, the jut of bone at hip and shoulder, the line of every rib—all of it she committed to her memory for the long, lonely nights of the rest of her life.
They clung to each other, their loving fevered, almost desperate. He held her as if she was the most precious thing in the world to him, and at the end his cry was the haunting cry of grief.
She held him against her heart, helpless to stop the tears that fell like rain from her eyes, and he lifted his head and kissed them away.
‘Tricia, don’t.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered.
He levered himself away from her, flicking on the light and pulling on his clothes without looking at her.
‘Rhys?’
‘Don’t say it,’ he grated. ‘Don’t say anything. Just get dressed and go—please.’
She did, after one last, lingering look around the flat where the course of her life had been so irrevocably changed, then she picked up her handbag and went downstairs for the last time.
Her mother and father were waiting for her, hovering anxiously as she brought her things in from the car and put them down in the hall. ‘I’ll deal with them tomorrow,’ she said. ‘Where are the others?’
‘Gone for a walk. There’s a new calf.’
The bookmark, little mat and calendar were in a bag of their own with the shells that the children had given her in August, and she put them in her room, on the shelf with all her other treasures.
Then she went downstairs and smiled at her family. ‘Just like old times,’ she said brightly.
They were sitting in the kitchen, several of her brothers and sisters all gathered for the occasion and back from their look at the calf, and in the middle of the table was a pregnancy test.
‘I found this on the drive,’ said Sam, her oldest brother. ‘It must have fallen out of your luggage.’
They looked at her expectantly, and she swallowed.
‘Probably,’ she agreed.
More was clearly required.
‘It was positive,’ she told them. ‘It’s due the first week in May.’
There was a stunned silence, broken only by the church bell chiming midnight.
‘Happy New Year,’ she said expressionlessly, and then the dam burst.
Spring was early, like Easter, and her father was busy with the lambs. She found him in the barn and brandished the steaming mug of tea at him.
‘Lovely.’ He brushed his hands off on his overalls and took the mug, and she thought of Rhys’s hands—big and strong and capable of reducing her to jelly.
‘I’ve been offered a job,’ she told him. ‘It starts in July.’
‘At McDougall’s practice?’
She nodded. ‘I thought I might take it—only part-time, but it’ll help with the old coffers.’
Her father’s eyes were shrewd. ‘You don’t have to, you know.’
‘But I want to,’ she lied. ‘I don’t think it’s good to vegetate.’
He snorted. ‘You won’t have time to vegetate, Tricia. Not for eighteen years, at least.’
‘If not twenty-eight,’ she said with a smile.
‘I wish you weren’t so hell-bent on living in that wretched cottage,’ he grumbled. ‘I know you want to be independent, but what about when you’re on duty at night?’
�
�I won’t be. It’s a day job. Clinics only. And I’ll have a child-minder.’
He snorted again. ‘Your mother’s here—what’s the matter, don’t you trust her?’
Tricia laughed. ‘Of course I trust her. But she has a life of her own now, you know. Have you noticed how busy she is with the old folks in the village? She runs their weekly meetings and organises their trips out, and she helps with the WI and she’s on the village hall committee—’
‘Tell me about it,’ he said with a roll of his eyes. ‘I never see her.’
‘So,’ Tricia continued, her point made, ‘she doesn’t have time to babysit for me.’
Her father sighed. ‘Your mother didn’t go out to work.’
‘My mother didn’t have to support herself—and don’t say it!’ she threatened, holding up her hands and smiling. ‘Finished your tea?’
He handed her back the mug. ‘Tell your mother I’ll be in later. I’ve just got to go up to the top meadow and check the cows before I come in.’
Her mother was up to her elbows in flour. ‘Hello, darling. How’s he getting on?’
‘Gone up to the top meadow. He won’t be long. Can I help?’
‘Mmm. Stir the yeast up—it’s looking slow. I’m making currant bread. Then put your feet up—you’re doing far too much, and you’ve still got weeks to go.’
‘Daddy, please! We have to give her an Easter egg!’ Mark pleaded.
‘What if nobody else does? She might not have one at all!’ Emma was, as usual, going for emotional blackmail, Rhys thought wearily.
‘That one!’ Bibby cried. ‘With the bow and the yellow chicks.’
‘That’s soppy!’ Mark said scornfully.
‘So? She’s a girl too!’ Bibby said in defence of her choice.
‘Kids, I don’t suppose she wants an Easter egg.’
Three pairs of incredulous eyes turned on him. ‘Don’t be silly, Daddy,’ Emma said patiently. ‘Of course she wants an Easter egg.’
‘Yes—and we haven’t seen her for ages.’
‘I expect she’ll be busy tomorrow,’ Rhys flannelled.
‘So we can go today!’ Mark said logically. ‘Grannie and Gramps are out anyway till tonight, so they won’t miss us.’
Lord, he was tempted. There was an ache in his chest that had been there since Christmas, and the thought of seeing her brought a lump to his throat. ‘OK.’ He crumbled. ‘But perhaps just a small one—’
‘No!’ the children said in unison.
‘The yellow one.’
‘The bunny.’
They turned to him. ‘You choose.’
And because he was a sentimental fool he chose the big red one with satin roses on the bow which the children universally declared yucky.
‘Come on,’ he said, in a hurry now to get this over with and get away to lick his wounds. ‘Let’s go if we’re going to.’
‘Gosh, that smells good!’
Mrs Page slapped her husband’s hand. ‘Don’t you dare pull the corner off that currant bread! You wait till it’s cool.’
He kissed her smile. ‘You’re a bully,’ he said fondly. ‘Hello, who’s this coming up the drive?’
Tricia sat up straighter and looked out of the window, then her hand flew up to her mouth. ‘Oh, dear God, it’s Rhys and the children.’
‘I’ll tell him you’re out,’ her father said, his mouth set in a grim line.
‘No. Wait.’ She closed her eyes, the ache in her chest increasing tenfold at the thought of him going again. She let her breath out on a gust. ‘He ought to know.’
‘I’ve said that all along,’ her mother told her.
‘It’s because of Judy—’
‘Humph! If you ask me this whole mess is because of Judy—cruel, wicked woman that she is.’
‘Mum, not everybody can cope with children—’
‘Then she should have stopped after the first. David, let him in. Here, Tricia, let me tidy your hair. Oh, darling, you look as if you’ve been dragged through a hedge—’
‘Mother, stop it. He won’t even notice my face. I think he’ll have other things on his mind.’
She looked up to see Rhys filling the doorway, the children clustered in front of him.
‘Hello, all,’ she said with a tiny smile.
Bibby was clearly the spokesperson. She held out a huge red and gold box. ‘We brought you an Easter egg. Daddy chose it. I wanted you to have the one with the yellow bow and the chicks,’ she told Tricia in a rush, ‘but Mark thought it was soppy. Daddy had to choose because we was having a fight about it in the shop.’
Tricia bit her lip to trap the smile, and met Rhys’s eyes. He was staring at her as if he was starving for her, and the lump in her throat grew even bigger.
There was another, rather more visible lump that needed dealing with, too. Her heart in her mouth, she stood up and went over to them, taking the proffered egg.
‘Thank you,’ she murmured. ‘That’s very kind.’
Their eyes widened. ‘Are you having a baby?’ Emma said breathlessly.
Tricia looked up and met Rhys’s stunned eyes. ‘Yes. Yes, I am.’
Mark frowned. ‘Has it got a daddy?’ he asked.
‘Not living with me,’ she told him honestly.
‘You ought to marry our daddy,’ Emma said. ‘Then we could have a new brother or sister, and we’d have a mummy and your baby would have a daddy.’
‘And maybe then,’ Bibby said ingenuously, ‘Daddy would stop crying.’
Rhys coloured and looked down at his hands, his jaw working.
‘Crying?’ Tricia said softly.
‘He said it was the onions, but he wasn’t cooking onions,’ Mark said with the air of Sherlock Holmes.
‘And he looks at the pictures he took at Christmas, and then he goes all quiet and his eyes go red.’
‘And once I woke up in the night and I heard him crying, and I went in, but he said he had a cold, but I know he didn’t,’ Bibby confided.
He looked up and met her eyes, his own desperate. ‘Can we talk somewhere?’
‘Of course. Mum?’
‘Children, are you hungry? I’ve just made some fresh currant bread and it’s still warm from the oven. Would you like to try it? Now, sit down and tell me your names. You must be Mark, of course—’
Tricia led him into the drawing room and closed the door firmly, then turned to him.
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ he said, his voice anguished.
‘Because you’ve got enough problems.’
He gestured at her swollen body. ‘This isn’t a problem, Tricia, this is a child. My child—or, at least, I assume it’s my child.’
‘Of course it’s yours—and it’s them, actually. We’re having twins.’
His face contorted, and then hesitantly, almost as if he was afraid, he reached out and touched the smooth curve. ‘Oh, dear God—’ His eyes filled and he closed them, his lips pressed hard together. One of the babies shifted a little, and with a muffled groan he dragged her into his arms and crushed her against his chest. ‘Oh, Tricia, I’ve missed you,’ he whispered brokenly. ‘I didn’t know I could feel so empty. You filled my life with sunshine, and when you were gone there was nothing.’
‘Did you cry?’ she asked, still unable to believe it.
‘Only every day. Oh, God—’
His chest heaved, and she eased away and looked up at his tear-drenched eyes. ‘Why didn’t you ask me to come back to you? You only had to pick up the phone and I would have been there.’
‘I didn’t think you’d want me—not with the kids. You’d said so.’
‘When?’
‘The first time we made love, when I was worried you might be pregnant. I said I couldn’t marry you just because you were pregnant, and you said what made me think you’d marry me and end up with four kids when you could slip away with only one.’
‘Except there are two, and you were right to be worried. I must have been pregnant right from that very firs
t night.’
‘You said it was impossible.’
She smiled ruefully. ‘Obviously I was wrong. You must have determined sperm.’
‘Very. Apparently doubly determined.’
They shared a shaky smile, and he laid his hand against the swell of their babies. His eyes clouded again, his face sad. ‘So. That would make five.’
‘Mmm. Can you bear it?’
He looked at her incredulously. ‘Can I bear it?’ he echoed. ‘Tricia, I love children.’
‘You’d need to. Five is an awful lot.’
‘Too many?’ he asked hesitantly, his voice rusty.
‘Not for me. I love children too—you know that.’
‘But you said—’
‘Oh, Rhys!’ She reached up and kissed him. ‘I was trying to deal with your feelings about Judy and I didn’t want you to feel threatened by me. I thought if I made a joke out of it you might stop being so uptight.’
He closed his eyes and gave a hollow laugh. ‘Oh, God, if only I’d known that. I was so afraid I’d weaken and ask you to stay, and you’d get sick of the kids and leave us all in tatters.’
‘Me leave you? Oh, Rhys, never. I couldn’t leave you again—you or the children. I’ve cried for you every day too.’
‘Oh, darling—’
He drew her into his arms again and buried his face in her hair. ‘I’ve missed you so much,’ he said shakily. ‘Come back with us on Monday.’
She shook her head and eased away. ‘Oh, no. You’ll have to marry me this time—and I want that house cleared up before I move in. Then I can’t be accused of taking over if I wash up my own mess.’
He laughed and hugged her. ‘It’s a deal. When can we get married?’
‘Next week?’ she asked. ‘You’ll have to see the registrar on Tuesday and get the licence, then take whatever slot they can offer. Easter’s always busy.’
He brushed her cheek with his knuckles. ‘What will your parents think about their nicely brought-up Catholic daughter marrying a divorcee in a register office?’
‘Pregnant too,’ she said with a smile. ‘Let’s just say it’s not ideal, but once they know you I know they’ll love you.’
‘Your father gave me an old-fashioned look.’
The Ideal Choice Page 16