Chapter Five
“Pregnant?” said Imogen. “Oh my God! How?”
Simon cleared his throat and shuffled some papers, tactfully declining to comment. “We can work out roughly how long by the
date of your last period, if you can remember,” he said instead. “To be certain, a scan will help,”
“To be certain of what? To be certain that I’m pregnant?”
“No.” He laughed. “There’s absolutely no doubt about that. All I mean is that we might need to do a scan to see roughly when
the baby’s due.”
“Oh my God... pregnant!” she said again, dazed. A tear welled up and spilled down her face.
Simon handed her a box of tissues from his desk.
“Obviously there’s a lot to think about,” he said gently. “These things take getting used to—especially if they are—um—unexpected,”
he continued. “You may want to...” He cleared his throat. “I mean, if you have a long think, and you decide that you are
not happy with the situation, then—depending on your due date—there are still maybe things—”
“God, no!” said Imogen, suddenly realizing what he was getting at. “It’s not that. I’m not unhappy about it at all, I just can’t believe it, that’s all. Sorry. I know I’m crying. I’m always crying nowadays,” she said, blowing her streaming nose with an unladylike honk. “She’s the best news I’ve had in months. Or ever, actually.”
“So, it’s going to be a girl, is it?” Simon said lightly.
“Yes, somehow I think it is,” said Imogen slowly, and then, remembering the letter from the mystery woman: “God forbid that
it should be a boy when there’s a distinct danger he might take after his bloody father.”
She looked up at Simon’s shocked face and blushed.
“Okay,” he said, “well, Morag will sort out dates with you and then, when you have your twenty-week scan, you can ask the
sonographer to tell you, if you decide you want to know. Now, you will need to start looking after yourself,” he continued
briskly. “As I am sure you can guess, those pills are out of the question now.” He reached for her notes and started to scribble
as he spoke.
“You’ll need to see Morag, our midwife. She’s fierce. We doctors are terrified of her, but the mothers seem to get on all
right with her. Also, you should probably start taking a good multivitamin for pregnant women plus a folic acid supplement.
Morag will give you the details.” He stood and handed her a referral note.
Picking up on the purposeful mood, Imogen thanked him and jumped to her feet. Swinging her scuffed black leather shoulder bag up from under her chair, the strap caught around the bottom and upended it, scattering the contents all over the floor. Blushing scarlet once again, Imogen scrambled around the surgery floor picking up keys, cards, mountains of loose change that spun off into all four corners of the room, tampons—won’t be needing those for a while—plus an embarrassingly large number of random bits of paper.
Simon got to his knees too, carefully rounding up all the debris efficiently and without fuss. Amazingly clean nails, Imogen
noted as she sat back on her heels and observed him. He really was very handsome. Goodness, first she was wanting to throw
herself into the arms of a stranger, and now she was lusting after her own doctor. It must be the hormones.
Blushing, Imogen reeled out of Simon’s office and went to the reception desk with instructions to organize a meeting with
the midwife. The briskly efficient receptionist gave her a warm, knowing smile and handed her an appointment card for the
next afternoon.
“Cooeeeee! Anybody there?” cried a voice faintly from the front garden.
“Oh, crap! I completely forgot,” exclaimed Imogen, leaping to her feet and causing Tango to slither resentfully from her lap
onto the floor.
“Where are you, darling? Oh, there you are at last,” said Imogen’s mother as she breezed into the kitchen, pushing her sunglasses
onto her head and waggling a set of car keys aimlessly.
“Really, sweetie, is it all right just to leave the front door open like that? I mean, I know it’s the country and everything,
but I could have been anyone, couldn’t I? A mad axe murderer or some ghastly salesman... Or don’t you get them out here?”
“Mad axe murderers?” said Imogen, deliberately obtuse. “I’m sure there must be the odd one knocking about the place. No salesmen, though, as far as I know.”
“Yes, well, I suppose it’s all right, then,” said her mother, vaguely. “I must say you’ve chosen terribly well. What an absolutely
charming house! I think you will need to do something about this, though,” she said, looking doubtfully at the cast-iron range.
“It looks ancient,” she continued. “Do you think it’s safe? I’d be awfully worried about carbon dioxide poisoning.”
“Monoxide,” said Imogen automatically.
“What, dear?” said her mother.
“Nothing. Would you like some tea? The traffic coming out of London must have been awful.”
They made and drank a pot of tea while Imogen’s mother gave her the essential briefing.
Halfway through her acerbic opinions of Uncle Glen’s two-week Caribbean cruise with his new third wife, “who can’t be more
than a couple of years older than you, darling,” her mother gave Imogen a sharp look. “You,” she said, “look more exhausted
now than you did at the funeral. Why don’t you go and have a nice lie down.”
“Because it’s two in the afternoon, and I’m not ninety years old,” said Imogen defensively, feeling like she had I am pregnant tattooed on her forehead for all to see.
“Still,” her mother said persuasively, now rummaging in Imogen’s larder and speaking over her shoulder, “you could just take
your shoes off and lie on the bed. While you’re gone, I’ll just pop down to the village with the car and get us something
for supper. You’ve got absolutely nothing in.”
Despite herself, Imogen gratefully trailed upstairs. Closing her eyes “just for a minute,” she told herself, and then fell fast asleep.
By the time Imogen woke up, the light outside was fading to dusk.
“Damn!” she muttered. “Eight o’clock. That’s far too long to leave my mother to her own devices.”
She found her mother in the kitchen, mashing potatoes.
“Darling, you’re awake!” she exclaimed. “Good. Now, sit down and have a nice G&T while I finish cooking the supper. We’re
having cottage pie with peas, and I’ve got some cookie dough ice cream for pudding. I know it’s your favorite.”
She decided not to bother reminding her mother that cookie dough had been her favorite about twenty years ago.
“I didn’t manage to find any ice in your freezer,” her mother continued, “but there’s a lemon here already sliced, and thank
heavens the village shop stocks gin and even Fever Tree tonic water. Really quite civilized for ‘the country,’ isn’t it? Pour
me one too, would you, darling?”
Imogen braced herself to break the news. “Actually, Mummy, I think I had better pass on the booze for a while.”
“It’s not your liver, is it, darling?” said her mother, shocked. “You really aren’t looking well, but I thought if it was
liver trouble, you turned yellow. I wouldn’t have said you actually look yellow, more sort of pale green, if I’m honest—”
“Bit harsh,” Imogen interjected. “No, listen. I’m trying to tell you. I’m pregnant.” She swallowed hard, staring at her mother
beseechingly.
Immediately, her mother’s mildly eccentric fa?ade disappeared.
“Darling, that’s wonderful,” she said softly.
“Is it?” said Imogen, choked, not trusting herself to say more.
“Of course, it is,” she said. “When Nigel died, I’m afraid the first thing I thought was, ‘Will I ever have grandchildren?’
This is an absolute miracle,” her mother continued.
I wouldn’t go that far, thought Imogen. It was hardly the immaculate conception.
“I couldn’t be more delighted,” said her mother, clapping her hands together. “But the point is, how do you feel about it?”
“I only found out a few days ago. It’s just such a shock, I’m not sure if I even believe it yet,” said Imogen. “We talked
about it—me and Nigel—but not this soon, and now, with him gone...” Somehow, she couldn’t think about the baby without
remembering, with a wrench, the letter from the mystery woman. She couldn’t bear to tell her mother about that.
“The last thing you should be doing is worrying, darling,” said her mother briskly. “You’ll be fine. I mean, here you are,
you’ve got this wonderful house, and I expect you’ll meet somebody fabulous. After all, you’re barely into your thirties.”
“Mother!” said Imogen, not sure if she was more shocked about her mother suggesting a new lover so soon after Nigel’s death,
or the wildly prefeminist idea that the only solution was to find a man prepared to keep her.
“Well, dear, I’m sure Nigel wouldn’t ever have intended you to keep his memory sacred, forever eschewing any chance of future happiness,” she said dramatically. “Daddy and I were always quite clear that once one of us went, the other was to feel perfectly free to find another.”
“Yes, but you didn’t exactly go out and find a string of lovers,” said Imogen, although, granted, she seemed to be getting
very close to her current boyfriend, Gerald.
“How do you know, dear?” she replied simply. “I didn’t say we agreed to get married again, just to feel all right about having a little
fling or two.”
“Whoa! Don’t tell me, for heaven’s sake. I don’t want to know,” gabbled Imogen.
“Talking of sex,” continued her mother.
“We weren’t!” insisted Imogen with a hint of desperation.
“I met one of your new friends in the village shop earlier. A lovely young man he was, and very handsome too.”
Imogen was filled with dread. She couldn’t really think of anyone she would consider a friend, except possibly the doctor,
Simon. She blushed. He must already think she was a complete imbecile, crying whenever she saw him. Now he had met her mother,
there was no hope he would ever take her seriously.
“You mean Simon?” she said at last.
“Is that his name, dear? I’m sure he told me, but my memory is so execrable nowadays. Anyway, I invited him to join us for
lunch on Sunday, and he said he would be delighted. Isn’t that wonderful?”
Embarrassed though she was at her mother’s machinations, Imogen was not completely averse to seeing Simon in a more relaxed context than his surgery. She was prepared to admit, the courage to issue an invitation herself would have been a long time coming. Maybe her mother had her uses.
Next morning, Imogen found her mother marching around the garden, purposefully brandishing a trowel in one hand and a garden
fork in the other.
“Morning, darling! This is a gorgeous garden, you know. At least it would be if it weren’t quite so forlornly neglected.”
“I know,” Imogen agreed guiltily. “You can tell the previous owner looked after it beautifully. As you know, I have no clue
about gardening. I think I’ll go and get some gardening books out of the library. There’s even a tiny one in the telephone
box by the pond. I could try there first. Failing that, there’s Portneath, but I haven’t explored buses yet.”
“Good lord, did I completely forget to mention it?” exclaimed her mother. “The car I came down in yesterday. It’s for you.”
“What? But I can’t even drive,” said Imogen, but then added curiously, “What sort of car is it?”
“Well, it’s, um... It’s a red one,” said her mother finally. “You know what I’m like with cars, darling. The man said it’s
a perfect little run-around—you’ll need it when you have the baby, living out here.”
“Mummy, it’s a perfect idea,” said Imogen, cautiously thrilled, “but what about a driving license? I feel an idiot, getting
to my age and not being able to drive,”
“Not silly at all. I didn’t learn until my twenties. Actually, I took the test when I was vastly pregnant with you. I could hardly get behind the wheel. I think the examiner was too scared to fail me for fear the upset would bring on labor,” she reminisced. “Anyway, lots of people in London don’t drive, do they? Not when you’ve got the Tube, and there’s never anywhere to park a car anyway.”
“True,” said Imogen. “And I must say, I would have hated to learn in London. Much better out here with fewer things to bump
into.”
“Not much more than the occasional sheep,” agreed her mother.
“Can’t imagine what Old Grumpy Features would say if I bumped into one of his sheep,” said Imogen to herself.
“Who, darling?” said her mother.
“Oh, nobody, just the neighborhood’s resident Heathcliff character, only without the charm,” said Imogen. “He’s a caretaker
or something, up at Middlemass Hall. It’s a conference center now, apparently. But there’s farmland around it. I suppose he
must be employed to look after that.”
“Heathcliff, eh? Sounds rather intriguing. You know, the talent around here really isn’t bad if you’ve got your very own wild
romantic hero as well as that nice man I met at the shop—Simon—or whatever you said his name was...”