Follow Me Home

by Cathy Woodman

  ‘Your mum isn’t here today?’

  ‘I’ve come straight from work.’ Rosie smiles. ‘It’s nice to have a break from serving tea and cake. I work at Nettlebed Farm.’

  ‘I’ve never actually been there.’

  ‘It’s great if you’re a little kid who likes to stroke the animals.’

  ‘How many hours are you doing?’

  ‘Five days a week.’

  ‘How are you managing?’ I ask.

  ‘I do get very tired sometimes, but don’t tell me to stop. I need the money to buy things for the baby. Adam’s working too.’

  ‘I don’t like to sound as though I’m prying, Rosie, but where are you living at the moment?’

  ‘With my parents. Dad has kind of come to terms with the fact I’m having a baby. In fact, I think he’s quite excited about it. He took me out to test prams and buggies, which was really embarrassing because everyone thought he was the baby’s dad.’ She pauses. ‘It’s Mum who’s the one who’s most upset right now. She keeps saying she wishes she could have the baby for me, but I’ve told her I’m going to bring the baby up myself.’

  I hope she isn’t going to try to take over, I think. I’ve seen it before.

  ‘What about Adam? What part is he going to play after the baby is born?’

  Rosie’s eyes glisten with tears.

  ‘I’m sorry. You don’t have to talk about it. It’s just that you do have to think about who you want at the birth, because it’s going to come up on us quicker than you expect.’

  ‘Oh, he’ll be at the birth,’ Rosie says. I hand her a tissue. ‘He’s going to step up and be a dad. Adam has promised he’ll be there for the baby. He’ll be able to visit whenever he wants to and, when the baby’s old enough, he’s going to have him, or her, overnight at his mum’s house . . . He’s going to pay what he can, too, towards nappies and clothes.’ Rosie’s voice trails off. The subject is closed, but I feel very sorry for her because it’s clear she still has feelings for him.

  ‘Have you any worries, any questions you’d like to ask me? You know,’ I go on when Rosie remains silent, ‘it’s okay to ask for advice. Remember that. It doesn’t make you a bad mum. It’s far better to talk to someone – me, Dr Mackie or Dr Nicci – than to sit and worry on your own.’

  ‘Thanks, Zara. I do talk to Adam’s mum quite a. lot – she’s great. She’s given me some bits and pieces she had for her baby, Reuben.’

  ‘That’s good.’ I’m glad Rosie has some support. It’s going to be tough for her being a single mum. ‘Have you anything to ask about labour, how you’ll know when it starts, anything like that?’

  Rosie shakes her head.

  ‘You have my number and you know where to find me, anytime. Let’s go and see Janet to make you another appointment, unless you’d like me to visit you at home?’

  ‘I’d rather not. I don’t like talking in front of my parents. Mum’s always there, listening in and telling me what to do.’

  ‘You wait – you’ll soon find out that mums really do know best. You’ll be exactly the same when your baby has a baby.’ I frown. ‘If that makes sense . . .’

  As soon as Rosie has left the surgery, Janet catches me at reception.

  ‘There’s a call from one of your mums, Tessa. She wants to see you ASAR She doesn’t want to come to the surgery, though, and I didn’t push it – she sounded very upset.’

  ‘I’ll go and see her after my appointments this morning. Can you call her back and let her know?’

  ‘Of course.’

  I know what it’s about – I’ve been trying to get hold of her. Tessa had the anomaly, or twenty-week scan two days ago and saw the consultant yesterday.

  I meet her at the Sanctuary where she’s outside the kennel block, dressed in maternity leggings and an old sweatshirt, creating some construction of timber and chicken wire.

  ‘Hi,’ I say.

  ‘Hi,’ she says, looking up. Her fingers are raw and bleeding and her eyes are red-rimmed, as if she’s done a lot of crying. ‘A fox got hold of three of our rabbits last night and ripped them to shreds. I’m making repairs, but it isn’t going well.’

  I’m sorry for the rabbits, but the loss seems insignificant in the scheme of things, when I’m far more concerned for Tessa.

  ‘Would you like to come indoors?’ She drops her hammer and staples, abandoning them on the ground.

  ‘That’s a good idea. I’ll make us some tea if you show me where everything is.’ I follow her to the bungalow and indoors to a tiny kitchen, where she flicks the switch on the kettle and rinses two mugs in the sink. I can smell a faint scent of dog and baby bird overlain by fresh paint.

  ‘How’s Frosty?’ Tessa always asks after her.

  ‘She’s fine, thanks.’

  ‘Still being naughty?’

  ‘She wouldn’t be Frosty if she wasn’t. She’s such a handful.’ Tessa smiles a small smile. ‘More importantly though,’ I continue, ‘how are you?’

  ‘I don’t know, to be honest. I had my scan . . .’

  ‘I know . . .’

  ‘It isn’t good news,’ she says, breaking down. ‘There’s something wrong with the baby’s heart. It hasn’t formed properly.’

  ‘Come and sit down.’ I guide her to the sitting room. ‘The tea can wait.’

  There are pictures on the walls: photos of Jack and Tessa’s wedding, her dad dressed as a pantomime dame, and an oil painting of a dog, a roan-coloured cocker spaniel with a sad, grey face. The name ‘Tia’ and a date in gold letters are etched on the frame.

  There’s a real dog, a live one, on the sofa.

  ‘Buster, get down,’ Tessa says wearily, and I can see, like Frosty, that Buster has no intention of taking any notice of his owner’s wishes. He wags his tail and smiles, his big jaws wide open.

  I hesitate. He’s one scary-looking dog, a bull-terrier type, all black apart from a splash of white on his chest. His teeth are enormous.

  ‘It’s all right. He won’t hurt you. I can lock him out if you’re worried, though.’

  ‘There’s no need. There was a time when I wouldn’t have been able to walk into the room, knowing a dog was in there, but Frosty’s helped me overcome the worst of my fears. I’ll be fine.’

  Tessa sits down beside Buster, who rests his head on her lap. I take the armchair opposite. There is a tank containing a patterned snake on the bookshelf, and paint pots and paintbrushes in coffee jars on a table in the corner of the room, evidence of a job half done.

  ‘Jack’s been doing some decorating before the baby comes . . .’ Tessa stops abruptly, lowers her eyes and strokes the dog before resuming. ‘Thanks for coming to see me, Zara. I could do with someone to talk to. I’ve tried to speak to Jack, but he was out late last night, walking the dog, and I haven’t seen him since early this morning. He’s avoiding the situation, whereas I tend to confront things head on.’

  ‘Give him time,’ I say. ‘It must have been a shock to him too.’

  ‘I understand that, but I don’t think I’ll ever forgive him for disappearing and leaving me to deal with this alone.’ Tessa’s fingers clench around Buster’s collar. ‘If he walked in through that door right now, I think I could kill him, and don’t go telling me that people react in different ways and all that. He’s my husband. He bloody well should be here at a time like this –otherwise, what’s the point of being married?’

  I can empathise with her. I nod and let her continue.

  ‘I feel as if Jack blames me. Could it be my fault, something I’ve done? I had a few drinks before I knew I was pregnant.’

  ‘Tessa, it’s nothing you’ve done or not done. It’s one of those things.’

  ‘Poor baby, it’s so unfair. We’ve seen the consultant, who’s gone through some of the options, but it was all so sudden, I couldn’t think straight and I didn’t ask all the questions I wanted to. I suppose I’ll have the chance to ask them when we see the specialist next week.’

  ‘A paediatric cardiolog
ist?’

  She nods. ‘They’re going to do a special scan of the baby’s heart to see what can be done, if anything, either before or after he’s born.’

  There are no words that can adequately express how sorry I am, and I know from experience there are many questions that will remain unanswered.

  ‘He – it’s a boy. Jack wants me to have an abortion.’

  ‘And?’

  I don’t. I can’t. What if I did get rid of him and the baby turned out to be . . . what’s the word?’

  ‘Viable,’ I contribute.

  ‘Thank you. I couldn’t have that on my conscience. And there is a chance he’ll be all right and able to live a full and normal life, play football on the Green with his dad and go to school and college.’ Tessa’s hands are shaking as she blows her nose into a crumpled tissue. ‘Oh, I can’t concentrate on anything at the moment. What if Jack’s right? What if the baby’s born dead or dies just after birth? What if he survives but he’s brain damaged and can’t ever walk and talk? Jack says it isn’t fair to bring a child into the world when you know it will be in pain, but I’d care for him and make sure he was comfortable. I’d do anything. But Jack is being so selfish, putting himself and our lifestyle first. He has no . . . feelings.’

  ‘You don’t believe that. Jack’s a caring person. He’s scared too, and grieving, and it must be killing him to see you like this. I can speak to him if you think it would help.’

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t. I don’t want him to know I’ve talked to you. He doesn’t know you’re here, but I had to call you because I need to get my head straight.’

  ‘There are organisations, people who can help you talk things through.’

  ‘What would you do if it was your baby, Zara? You have to help me here.’

  ‘You know that’s an impossible question to answer. I can run through the facts, the best- and worst-case scenarios, but I can’t decide for you. All I can do is support you and Jack.’

  I’d feel so guilty if I decided not to keep going with the pregnancy.’

  ‘If you did it for the right reasons, the right reasons for you personally, no one will judge you for that.’

  ‘My dad would. He’s an old softie, like me,’ Tessa says bluntly. ‘Please can you check the baby’s heart’s still beating? I haven’t felt him move yet today.’

  I set up the Doppler, wanting to reassure Tessa that her baby is okay for now and that she has plenty of time to make her decision.

  ‘There we go,’ I say, smiling as I find the heart with the probe, bumping along happily between 130 and 140 beats per minute.

  ‘He likes music,’ Tessa says. ‘He always squirms when Rihanna comes on the radio and falls asleep to Ellie Goulding, so he must be able to hear or feel something, mustn’t he?’

  I’ve learned to trust a mum’s instincts. They are almost always right.

  ‘Let’s see what the specialist says next week,’ I suggest. ‘In the meantime, if you have any concerns or you just want to talk, you know where I am. You’re welcome to contact me day or night.’ I reach out and touch her shoulder. ‘Take care of yourself, won’t you?’

  ‘I’ll try,’ she says wanly.

  ‘Don’t get up. I’ll see myself out.’ I leave Tessa sitting with her arms around Buster’s neck and her chin resting on the top of his head. How I wish things could be different.

  The sheepdog trial isn’t quite as Gran described it. There are a few whiskery old farmers in their tweeds and flat caps, but there are also plenty of younger competitors and spectators, and dogs. I’ve never seen so many collie-types in one place.

  Lewis parks the pick-up and lets Mick and Miley out of the back while I survey the scene, the bowed trees and the sweep of gorse and heather falling towards the glittering sea. There’s a burger van, ice-cream vendor and several caravans with awnings where families are drinking tea and coffee.

  ‘What do you think?’ Lewis asks, as he opens the door for me.

  I gaze at him, hoping the answer is in my eyes. All I want to do is kiss him, but it isn’t exactly private. He’s wearing blue jeans, a T-shirt and a red cap turned back to front. A silver whistle hangs from his neck. He holds his crook in one hand and a rolled-up blanket under his arm. The dogs are at his heels, whining and trembling with excitement.

  ‘They love it.’ Lewis grins. ‘Oh god, Zara. I hope I haven’t made a mistake, dragging you out here and expecting you to enjoy hanging around in a field all day.’ He touches my arm.

  ‘Don’t be silly. I can’t wait to see what it’s all about. And –’ I lean up and whisper in his ear – ‘I want to spend time with you, which is difficult when we’re both so busy.’

  ‘Perhaps I should have cancelled my entry and taken you out somewhere else.’

  ‘I don’t care where we go, as long as we have some fun together.’

  ‘And what kind of fun might that be?’

  ‘You know very well.’

  ‘I hope Mick behaves himself. Sometimes he can get distracted.’ Lewis pauses, a twinkle in his eye as he looks me up and down. ‘A bit like me, really. Are you going to give me a good luck kiss?’ he adds as I slide out of the passenger seat onto the peaty ground.

  ‘Oh yes. Most definitely,’ I say, kissing him on the lips.

  In spite of Claire’s gloomy prediction that it will rain, the sun comes out from behind the clouds and Lewis and I sit on a blanket on the wiry grass to watch the first few competitors, so that he can explain the intricacies of working with a pair of dogs before his turn comes. I get the gist of a couple of technical terms, but can’t get to grips with the scoring.

  ‘All you need to know is that you drop points for running the sheep too fast so they panic and miss the gates on the way back down the hill, for losing sheep en route, for failing to shed them properly . . .’ Lewis waves his hand ‘Don’t worry about that one. It’s a technical term.’

  ‘I can’t believe everyone’s taking it so seriously.’

  ‘It’s very competitive, much like shearing.’

  ‘I didn’t realise you could have so much fun with sheep.’

  Lewis chuckles and asks me again what I think.

  ‘It’s better than watching cricket,’ I say, as I observe two dogs circling the sheep at the top of the hill and sending them down the course, backing off and coming in again to the sound of their master’s whistle.

  ‘I should hope so. Cricket’s really dull.’

  ‘I quite like watching cricket.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ Lewis hesitates. ‘I thought you were winding me up.’

  His comment reminds me that it’s very early days for our relationship, even though we’ve been intimate, and I really don’t know him very well.

  ‘I’m going for a quick warm-up to remind Mick to listen to me,’ he goes on, making to stand up.

  ‘Just a mo,’ I say as he’s on his hands and knees. ‘Don’t you want another kiss for luck?’

  ‘Let’s try it and see if it works,’ he says, kissing me before he gets up.

  ‘Good luck, Lewis.’

  He reaches for his crook, checks he has his whistle and calls Mick and Miley to attention before walking away down towards the start of the course, where he introduces himself to the judges, one of the whiskery gentlemen and a woman of about my age, dressed in leather boots, jeans and a waistcoat. She smiles and tips her head and I wonder if she’s flirting with him, but I don’t worry because I’m with him now. Lewis’s hair gleams in the sunshine, reminding me of the dark days when everything triggered memories of Paul and I didn’t think I’d ever be happy again.

  The sheep are penned at the top of the hill where they are released to graze in readiness for Lewis to send the two dogs on the outrun (I have learned something). Mick runs up to the left and Miley to the right to meet and pick up the sheep. Miley gets there first and Lewis has to whistle to drop her to let Mick catch up before the dogs work together sending the sheep steadily down the slope between the first set of gates to the s
hedding ring, a circle of mown grass, where Lewis keeps Mick standing still while using Miley to separate the sheep into two groups. Mick is impatient, sneaking forwards, but Lewis spots him and gestures to him to keep back.

  ‘Lie down!’ he growls at him. ‘Mick, lie down!’

  He drops just in time to avoid heading the sheep –which are back together as a small flock – off in the wrong direction. Lewis whistles and the dogs move the sheep on down the hill through the next set of gates and towards the pen. No mistakes as far as I can tell. I touch my chest, my heart hammering against my fingertips, as the dogs drop to their bellies once more and Lewis, holding the rope on the gate and tapping the ground with the end of his crook, guides the last sheep into the pen and closes the gate behind it, slipping the rope over the post. He’s done it. I clap my hands and the dogs leap up at their master, competing with each other for the most praise.

  Lewis strolls back with the dogs at his heels, their ears pricked and their tongues almost touching the ground.

  I stand up. ‘How good was that!’ I say, hedging my bets because I really haven’t a clue.

  ‘It wasn’t bad,’ Lewis says. ‘At least Mick didn’t send the sheep off to the other side of the county like he did in the last one we entered, and Miley didn’t go on strike like she did in the one before that.’

  ‘You’re making Frosty sound like the paragon of canine virtue. I was under the impression your dogs were perfectly trained.’

  ‘Sometimes the training flies out of the window when they’re out and about – the excitement of the competition goes to their heads – Mick’s, anyway. I fancy a burger. How about you?’

  It’s one of the best dates I’ve ever been on. We eat greasy burgers with onions and ketchup, drink hot tea and cuddle up to admire the skills and teamwork of the shepherds and their dogs. Lewis comes second in his class and we take Mick and Miley back to the farm before going on to the pub. On the way back home, we hang out for a long while, talking and kissing in the pick-up before Lewis drops me off outside the shop.

  ‘I’d like to see you again,’ Lewis says quietly. ‘Soon . . .’