Page 9 of Christmas for the Village Midwife
‘Only a couple of weeks more. Are you struggling on it?’
‘Constipated like you wouldn’t believe. I’m pooing out bullets! I’m surprised they don’t crack the toilet bowl when they hit. That’s another thing that seems to be worse than it was the first time I was pregnant. I don’t remember it being this bad with Rhys. Can’t I come off it early? I’m desperate.’
‘I know, but it would be better if you could hang on. Two more weeks can’t be that bad?’
‘You’re not the one sitting there for hours on end praying for a nugget to come out. I could have written a novel in the time I sit on that toilet every morning. I suppose I’ve come this far, so…’
‘Is there anything else?’
‘Mainly the folic acid, actually. I was hoping you’d say I could stop taking it.’
‘Sorry to disappoint you, but I think it’s better if you can stick with it. Have you tried putting something in your diet that might help ease things? Prune juice or something?’
‘Not really. I know all about apricots and prunes and whatever, but I can’t stand all that stuff.’
Zoe set about taking measurements to add to Lara’s notes. They chatted as she got on with her checks, and the conversation turned to Lara’s older son so often Zoe realised quickly that the issue there was far bigger than folic acid or anything else Lara had mentioned. There was no help for that, at least none that came from a clinical setting. Zoe only hoped that her offer to be on the end of the phone whenever Lara wanted to talk was some kind of help. As for the rest, Lara and her family would have to work it out, like so many before them.
The next appointment was a no-show, and when Zoe tried to phone, she discovered she had an incorrect number on her files. So she went through to reception to talk to Lavender about finding an alternative way of contacting them.
As she walked in, she was distracted by the sight of Simon, who was now their head GP, shaking hands with a woman at the doors of the surgery. There were a few warm words, then she left before Zoe could get a proper look. Even so, there was something familiar about her. From the brief glance Zoe had, she’d have said the woman was around her late thirties, early forties, attractive in a controlled way, very much giving the impression of someone who took a long time to choose her outfits in the mornings. There wasn’t a hair out of place or an item of clothing that didn’t perfectly coordinate, and the contrast between her and their retiring GP, Fliss, was almost comical. Fliss often looked as if she’d got up with two minutes to spare for workto discover someone had burned all her hairbrushes during the night.
‘Is that one of the potential new doctors?’ she asked Lavender as Simon strode back to his office.
‘Yeah, she seems nice enough. He’s got one more coming in before he decides. She’s originally from Manchester, you know. Funny that, isn’t it? With you and Ottilie moving here from Manchester. There’ll be nobody left there soon – they’ll all be in Thimblebury.’
‘I feel as if I might know her from somewhere,’ Zoe said. ‘What’s her name?’
‘Emilia Dickens.’
Zoe paused and then shook her head. ‘Don’t think I know the name, but there’s definitely something familiar about her. Maybe I’ve run into her working at the hospital in Manchester.’
‘That’s probably it,’ Lavender said.
The surgery doors opened, and a heavily pregnant woman came in with a red-cheeked toddler.
Zoe smiled. ‘Hello, Sam.’
‘I’m a bit early,’ the woman huffed. ‘Wanted to give myself plenty of time to get here – don’t move so fast these days, and it’s slippery on the pavements with all that snow.’
‘That’s all right – seems sensible enough. And you’re in luck: I’m free early if you want to come through.’
Corrine, as she often did, flung open the back door of Daffodil Farm to welcome Zoe before she’d even made it down the garden path.
‘I saw Old Banger,’ she said, ushering Zoe inside. ‘Or rather, I heard it. Loud enough to wake the dead that engine is. Has Victor gone to put it away?’
‘I think so,’ Zoe said. ‘I hopped out so I wouldn’t get too wet in the snow. Shall I take my boots off?’
‘No, no, don’t bother. I’ve got to mop the kitchen floor anyway. Sit down. Tea?’
Zoe nodded, recognising a fragrant sweetness on the air. ‘You’ve been baking? Or is that a silly question? Is that ginger I can smell?’
She decided immediately that it was a silly question because barely a day went by where Corrine didn’t bake. And then Zoe noticed a structure of rare beauty out on the kitchen worktop, so intricate it was hard to believe someone had made it from food. Zoe got up to take a closer look.
It had steep eaves, with a tower and detailed tiles dusted with icing sugar, and high windows in the walls made from solid sugar slabs, and even delicate trails of ivy climbing the sides. A garden area was littered with tiny headstones and shrubs made from something that might have been edible paper but must have taken hours to fashion.
‘This is your entry for the gingerbread contest? This is amazing!’
‘Oh, it’s just a trial run,’ Corrine excused. ‘I was trying out something new.’
