by Penny Parkes
‘We could still be friends, though,’ she offered, mumbling into his shirt, stunned to find the fabric damp from tears she wasn’t even aware of shedding.
‘Friends?’ he said, his voice cracking. ‘Well, I suppose friends is something.’ He rubbed her back gently, the warm evening suddenly feeling chilly and uncertain.
And to think, Julia realised, she’d been worried it would be her mother who might put a damper on the evening’s proceedings. She couldn’t believe their loving, passionate relationship could end with such a pathetic fizzle. She wanted to fight for them, to fight to save them, or at least go out with a bang, but she couldn’t deny the truth of the matter: it didn’t matter how much they loved each other, it simply wasn’t enough. She untangled herself from Dan’s embrace, never once letting go of his hand. She gestured towards the doorway back into the party and all their nearest and dearest. She took a deep breath. ‘Shall we?’
Chapter 25
Holly yawned and stretched her arms up over her head until she felt a satisfying pop. Late nights, early starts and boisterous boys demanding breakfast were not a winning combination and she was having a little trouble getting started the next morning.
Holly had counted 27Wph (Why?s-per-hour) over breakfast alone, and her reserves were running low. At this rate, she thought tiredly, Taffy might end up being the better parent. True, he didn’t come to the party with four years of sleep deprivation and a wonky pelvic floor under his belt, but nevertheless his enthusiasm for Lego bricks and bacon sandwiches had scored him more points than was actually reasonable where the twins were concerned. Although, she reminded herself, he also had the built-in male advantage of tuning out anything that didn’t directly concern him.
She scrolled down the online coverage of last night’s launch party and was gratified to see the odd photograph of herself looking reasonably presentable and with her eyes open for a change. She smiled at the ‘team photo’ of the GPs, which Elsie had insisted on monopolising – lying horizontally across their arms, yet somehow still looking glamorous and dignified.
The launch had been a huge success and Dan and Taffy were riding on a fund-raising high – that is to say, they were pushing through their hangovers and plotting how to allocate all their new pledges of financial support. Whilst the altruistic part of Holly’s brain was delighted at the local backing they’d been promised, a little part of her couldn’t quite reconcile ‘Health – brought to you by Hartley’s Bakery!’ with their earlier vision.
Julia poked her head around the door and Holly had to force herself not to double take. Her usually immaculate chignon and tailoring had surrendered defeat and her make-up was virtually non-existent. ‘Might I ask a favour?’
‘Of course,’ said Holly, pushing back her chair and walking around the desk. ‘Are you – I mean, okay?’
Julia hesitated and Holly tried not to smile – Julia’s view of illness as a weakness was well known. Holly was half-convinced that, confronted with a broken leg, Julia would be telling herself to man-up and get over it.
‘There’s a few nasty bugs doing the rounds, so if you need to head home I can cover your patients?’ Holly suggested, thoughtfully giving Julia an out.
‘I’m not ill,’ Julia protested, before slumping back against the doorframe, ‘but I would love to swap shifts, if you felt you’d be okay? It’s a child-heavy list this morning . . . I just don’t think I have the emotional reserves!’
As Julia left the room, her usual poise and posture replaced by an exhausted shuffle, Holly wondered whether she should have given her a proper check-up before she left. She didn’t look exactly unwell, more as though someone had taken her batteries out and she was lurching along on basic power only. Still, if it was babies and toddlers a-go-go this morning, it was probably for the best either way. The kids themselves were often oblivious to Julia’s curt tone, but Holly knew how exacting the Larkford mummies could be.
And Larkford seemed to have its own sub-strata of parenting styles – all of which required tactful handling: The Helicopter Mums who hovered over their offspring constantly; The Snowplough Mums who barged through any opposition to their little cherubs achieving their goals; and of course, the local favourite – The Curling Mums, who always made sure that they were one step ahead of their darlings, frantically smoothing their way through life for the easiest ride.
Holly needn’t have worried though, as her first patients of the day were guaranteed to make her smile. As Hattie and Lance from The Deli manhandled a vast pram that made Holly’s Beast look like a pretender, their ten-month-old twins slept on oblivious. Of course it had been a shock for everyone, seeing that sneaky second heartbeat on a later scan and it had certainly thrown all their careful planning into disarray, but Hattie and Lance had taken everything in their stride and Holly had never seen them looking happier. In fact, as she took in their ecstatic smiles and tightly clasped hands the penny dropped.
Holly leapt to her feet, all other thoughts driven from her head. She’d quietly logged away that Lance’s review with Oncology was sometime this month, but to be honest, with all the other stuff going on in her life, it had slightly slipped off the radar.
‘And?’ she said, her hand over her mouth in anticipation, even though the sheer delight on their faces said it all.
Hattie rushed forward, her words tumbling over each other in her rush to share their news, ‘He did it! His scan was officially clear. Isn’t that the best news you’ve ever heard?’
Despite herself, Holly felt her eyes fill with tears. Even the sight of Lance beside the pram had been more than they had ever dared hope for. Every test and every scan had suggested that he might never live to see his children arrive into the world – and yet here they were now. ‘That’s bloody brilliant,’ she exclaimed, her professional demeanour flying out the window, as two of her loveliest neighbours got the happy ending they so truly deserved.
Yes, they were going to be a bit strapped for cash for a while and yes, their business had taken a hit as Hattie had juggled new-born twins and a husband with testicular cancer, but it was a small price to pay really. The bags from Poundland hanging on the back of the pram spoke volumes, as did the bags under their eyes, but in light of today’s news – totally worth it.
‘We must celebrate,’ she said. ‘Have you told Dan yet?’
Hattie shook her head. ‘We wanted to tell you first. Honestly Holly, you’ve all been so amazing. I reckon Taffy’s motivational rugby bollocks helped Lance more than any of the counselling he got at the hospital.’
Lance leaned against the wall with a grin. ‘And obviously the odd bonkers tip about raising twins was kind of useful too . . .’ He laughed at Hattie’s aghast expression.
‘Lance! Shut up and be nice, or Holly will stop being my Yoda. If it wasn’t for the fact that I know you’ve done twin babies and survived, I swear I’d have lost the plot at times.’
Lance was about to chip in with his two-pence worth when Hattie glared at him. ‘Anyone around here implying otherwise will not be getting a lie-in tomorrow.’ He immediately closed his mouth and looked adorably innocent.
‘Make the most of your lie-ins now,’ said Holly. ‘As Taffy will tell you, once they can work the remote and climb into your bed, you may never sleep again.’
Hattie kissed him adoringly on the cheek. ‘Well, it seems to be working out so far. Let’s review in a decade or so, when they’re talking back and being rebellious.’
Holly frowned. ‘You won’t have to wait a decade for that, I’m afraid. I seem to spend most of my spare time on teeny-tiny chairs getting told off at Pinetrees.’
Hattie looked surprised. ‘But your boys are always so lovely and angelic.’
‘At home, yes. But not at nursery, apparently.’ She shook her head. ‘It’s astounding that they seem to have developed completely different personas at pre-school. Some of the things they’ve apparently done . . .’ She sighed. ‘But enough of that – today is for celebrating. Do you fancy a scru
ffy supper at ours?’
Hattie flushed pink. ‘It’s a lovely thought, Holly, and we’d love to come another time, but we have plans for this evening.’ She looked as though she might burst with excitement. ‘We have a babysitter! We’re actually going out. For a meal. And maybe a movie too.’ Each little announcement came in a staccato burst of anticipation that showed what a rare and special treat this simple evening would be.
‘Good for you,’ said Holly, secretly thinking that their evening sounded rather fun. She crouched down in front of the pram and gazed at the twins as they slept. Their long dark eyelashes brushed against the plump pinkness of their cheeks. No longer tiny and fragile from their premature arrival into the world, they were pictures of miniature perfection – petite in a way that her sturdy little boys never had been. ‘I can’t get over how much they’ve grown. Let me have a look when I get home – there’s bound to be some clobber that the boys have grown out of. Even if it’s just wellies and raincoats for later.’ She stood back up, but her eyes were still focused on the tiny little fists clutching at beloved teddy bears.
She put the all-consuming wave of emotion down to sheer relief at Lance’s results; she pushed the image of those plump little fists from her mind. She had enough trouble dealing with the two she had at home, the mere notion of adding to the set was sheer folly. Nevertheless, Holly stood in the doorway, waving them off with a lump in her throat and an almost visceral pull in her stomach.
As she worked her way down Julia’s morning clinic list, Holly could only be grateful that she’d stepped in – it was like an A–Z of childhood ailments this morning and it was certainly enough to quell any notions of broodiness that Hattie’s twins might have provoked. Signing a prescription for antibiotic ointment for some ‘wet eczema’, Holly settled herself back at her desk and opened the next patient file on her computer. It was hard to say who would be more mortified at the scheduling change, Holly or Mrs Harlow from Pinetrees Nursery. Holly scowled. Seeping rashes she could cope with; her children’s controlling headmistress was another prospect altogether.
The last time they had seen one another was when Holly had been perched on the tiny, demoralising chairs being roundly chastised for her sons’ behaviour. Mrs Harlow’s well-known distaste for ‘professional mothers’ hopefully didn’t extend as far as her healthcare professionals.
Never one to let her personal opinion cloud her working demeanour, Holly was determined to take the higher path and be the best damn doctor she could possibly manage on four hours’ sleep and with indelible doodles on her lower leg from Tom’s impromptu tattoo session at breakfast time.
‘What can I do for you this morning, Mrs Harlow?’ Holly asked brightly a few minutes later, as she quickly scanned the file and crossed her ankles covertly under her desk. ‘I gather you normally like to see Dr Channing?’
‘I do, actually,’ said Mrs Harlow. ‘But your Practice Manager called me and said that when it came to—’ she stumbled and flushed bright pink, ‘reproductive issues, you were the person I needed to speak to.’
‘Okay then,’ said Holly, squashing the voice in her head that suggested finding a brave and willing participant was not something she could offer on the NHS. ‘Why don’t you fill me in on the history a little bit – I see you have a double appointment – and we can make a plan from there?’
Mrs Harlow continued to stare at a point several inches above Holly’s head as she reeled off the blood tests and scans that she’d already undergone. ‘I think my husband and I both feel that unexplained infertility isn’t a very helpful label . . .’
‘You’re married?’ blurted out Holly, the judgemental surprise evident in her voice. Way to be professional Holly, she thought crossly.
‘Well, y-es,’ said Mrs Harlow slowly, as though speaking to a three-year-old. ‘Hence the Mrs?’
‘Of course, of course,’ Holly blustered, ‘I just thought that was something they always did with headmistresses, you know?’
There was an awkward silence, during which time Mrs Harlow shifted uncomfortably in her seat, clearly loathing every moment of this conversation. Sharing her private concerns was one thing; sharing them with someone she clearly resented and disliked was a step too far.
Holly returned to the notes on screen and began to run through her usual questions: How long had they been trying? Had they managed to stick to the advice about diet, lifestyle and baggy pants? Were they having effective sex?
‘I’m sorry? What do you mean by effective sex?’
‘Well, chiefly, at the right time of your cycle, frequently enough, orgasms can be helpful, likewise lying down rather than standing up . . .’ Holly reeled off matter-of-factly. ‘Sounds a bit old-wives’ tales some of it, but to be honest, if things aren’t happening naturally then every little helps, doesn’t it?’
Now she was back in her medical comfort zone, Holly felt much more in control. None of this biological stuff fazed her in the slightest and she often found that when her patients heard her being so matter of fact, they tended to relax a bit and follow suit.
For all her hoity-toity ways, Mrs Harlow was no exception. She went from mortified and avoiding eye contact to engaged and interested. By the time Holly had pulled up a list of fertility specialists, their waiting times and her options, Mrs Harlow was in danger of behaving like a human being.
She stood up and scooped her handbag over one shoulder, fixing Holly with an indecipherable look. ‘Now, Dr Graham, I presume I can count on you for complete doctor/patient confidentiality? I don’t want to hear all the details of my private life being bandied around at the school gates.’
Aw, Mrs Harlow, and you were doing so well, thought Holly to herself, her hackles rising again. Did she have any idea how offensive her suggestion of Holly’s indiscretion was?
Holly smiled sweetly. ‘Well, Mrs Harlow, you have no worries at all on that score. We take doctor/patient confidentiality very seriously here at The Practice. We are professionals, after all, and it is so much more enforceable than say teacher/parent confidentiality might be.’
Mrs Harlow’s face flooded scarlet – she knew when she’d been caught out. It may not have been a high point of her career, having half her class with military haircuts, but that didn’t mean it was appropriate to be overheard in The Kingsley Arms slagging off both Holly and her, what was it now, ‘pestilential offspring’, did it? Holly smiled graciously and held open the door.
‘Still, hopefully one day soon you’ll be able to experience the joys of parenthood first hand,’ she said as she waved Mrs Harlow on her way, clutching a repeat prescription for prenatal vitamins and a referral to the fertility assessment unit.
Holly felt a squirm of unease. It was all very well picking one’s battles, but being feisty at work still didn’t come naturally. Holly was prepared to let a lot of things slide, but when it came to her boys, she felt like a lioness protecting her cubs. But then maybe, that was actually no bad thing?
By the time Taffy got home after Evening Surgery, the sitting room of their tiny cottage was a scene of devastation. Tom and Ben were surrounded by heaps of tiny t-shirts, miniature jumpers and more pairs of shoes than the stock room at Clarks. Holly had always bemoaned the fact that the twins’ feet seemed to grow exponentially and never in the same direction twice. Two sets of shoes, on a bimonthly basis – nobody dared do the maths.
Looking at the body of evidence laid out before him, Taffy had to swallow pretty hard before he spoke. ‘It probably wasn’t the best idea to organise a nice bottle of fizz at the restaurant for Hattie and Lance then – since we’re clearly clothing and shoeing a Third World country here. Whatever happened to hand-me-downs?’
Holly emerged from sorting through a box of trousers, many of which seemed to no longer have any knees, or backsides, or both. The twins had gone through (were actually still in) a phase where they didn’t so much grow out of their clothes as wear them into oblivion. She sat back on her heels and grinned. ‘Oh God, you’re sweet – they�
��ll love that,’ she said, folding a pair of jeans that had somehow survived unscathed and adding them to a heap on the sofa. ‘Was it, you know, Very Nice Fizz?’ she asked tentatively, knowing in the back of her mind that the boys needed new trainers, new wellies and two new sets of pyjamas. Each.
Taffy ran a hand over his head, where the downy fuzz was now covering his scalp and making it incredibly tactile. ‘Nope.’
He plonked himself down on the floor and surrendered to the excitable hugs of two little boys in shrunken PJs. ‘I just got Prosecco in the end. Partly because I didn’t want to embarrass Lance by being too flash but mainly because, every time I open my wallet, there’s a photo of these two little monkeys where my money used to be.’ He flashed his eyes at Tom and tickled his tummy until he squealed. Ben got a gentler squeeze that still had his little legs kicking with glee and the noise levels seemingly exceeding that of a Heathrow flyby.
Holly was overcome by an unfamiliar sensation. This. Now. Watching Taffy mucking about with the boys as she folded tiny little socks into pairs and the odd little onesie that brought their baby years flooding back. The thought was in her mind before her rational brain could begin to edit.
I want another baby, she thought. I want to have a baby with Taffy and this time round, it will be different.
He already did so much for her boys, not even blinking at mucking in with bath-time or school-runs or even the Midnight Monster Mission to seek out and destroy any monsters foolish enough to hide under Ben’s bed. He would be a wonderful father, she thought, before promptly correcting herself: he is being a wonderful father. But the word ‘figure’ hung unacknowledged on the end of her thought.
‘Oi, Graham,’ Taffy called, and clearly not for the first time. ‘Earth to Holly! Do you want a glass of wine or will that just make you more broody and emotional?’ His tone was teasing, but his gaze missed nothing.
‘Would that be the end of the world?’ she ventured quietly as the twins hurtled around the sofa and collapsed boisterously into the cushions together, playing sweetly (if loudly and energetically) like the cherubic angels that had been notably missing at nursery. Again.