Chapter 8
Eight
Nash
Sleeping last night was a challenge.
After leaving Aidan’s house, I met my research partner for lunch.
We needed to tie up some data analysis on a new prototype medical device we’ve been developing.
As the medical doctor, I’ve contributed my findings from our clinical trials, and now, David, as the biomedical engineer, has several months of review and reprogramming to do.
The timing couldn’t be better, since I’m about to take parental leave when the adoption goes through, and my work on this particular project is now over until the latter part of next year.
This is what I do. I have a couple of MedTech devices already on the market, which provide me with a steady income stream that – thankfully – allowed me to step away from clinical practice in the NHS.
The politics and ethics of that decision are complex in nature and multiple in number.
Suffice it to say, I was burnt out and needed a change.
I have a modest clinic in my converted garage here at my house, where I maintain a small private clinical practice for a handful of patients – namely, the rich retirees who moved to Norfolk aged 50 following successful yet highly stressful careers in London.
Most of my patients have small children conceived later in life, and they don’t want to deal with the minor inconvenience of having to wait for a doctor’s appointment.
I also consult on complex paediatric cases in the surrounding counties, where a number of former colleagues call on my expertise when needed, and I manage research and product development with David, who owns a small, independent MedTech company.
I’m fortunate as it affords me a comfortable living, and the flexibility to work as much or as little as I need to around my commitments. When the adoption is finalised, I’ll be stopping altogether for several months as we settle into new routines at home.
A home I adore. It’s an old, red brick period property with a thatched roof, and flint pebbles covering the gable end wall that overlooks the village green in Fenside Common.
The garage housing my clinic stands on the opposite side of the large wooden gate that encloses my loose stone driveway.
At the back of the house, there’s a large garden set mainly to lawn but with plump flowerbeds that hum with insects and bees in the summer months.
The glorious multicoloured blooms attract all manner of creatures, and buried amongst the leaves are a couple of hedgehog houses and insect hotels.
Tucked behind a row of poplar trees shielding it from view, stands a squat building.
It’s an old orangery with low walls only a metre or so high, but topped with wooden-framed glass walls and a lantern roof.
It needs some work as it’s all a bit crumbly and dilapidated, but it’s something I’ve not had time to do.
I’m hoping this is something I can get sorted while I’m not working.
I want it to be a usable space, not that I know what to use it for just yet.
When I was a kid, I used to walk across the village green to feed the ducks and dream about living in this house one day. When I finally got the keys ten years ago, it was one of the best days of my life. Now, if all goes to plan, I’ll get to raise my own kid here. I can’t wait.
But no amount of daydreaming, planning, or frustrated press-ups on my bedroom floor could have helped me to sleep last night.
Conducting a medical examination requires a huge amount of trust. Trust Corey gave me without question. The problem I’ve been having is trusting myself.
Trusting myself not to rant and rave about the cruelty inflicted on a man who, on first impressions, is sweet, kind, and funny.
Trusting myself not to drive down to London and leave no stone unturned to inflict the same kind of cruelty on the cunt who hurt him.
Trusting myself not to grab Corey, wrap him up in cotton wool, and protect him from the world.
It’s not that he’s still injured; in fact, his less-than-ideal weight aside, he’s in perfect health, at least as far as I can tell without blood tests and scans.
He’s not in any immediate pain or discomfort.
But the sight of silver strands of agony littering the delicate skin of his back has affected me more than it should.
As a doctor, the thought of inflicting that kind of pain is anathema to me, but to see someone as seemingly kind and gentle as Corey bearing the evidence of such violence?
It fills me with an anger that burns deep in my gut.
He must be so strong. To get through all that and still be able to trust me so quickly on nothing more than the word of his best friend and blind faith.
Rain told us Corey is an eternal optimist, and in the face of all he has overcome, even just physically, my respect for him is immeasurable.
I think we can be good friends. Sometimes you meet people, and your personalities just align.
We seem to have a similar sense of humour, too, and if he’s going to be staying here for a while at least, he’s going to need more than just one friend in his corner.
I hope I can be that for him. Well, me and the rest of our rag-tag group of friends and family.
I finally managed to shake off my restlessness at around two o’clock in the morning, so as I pull up at the Foster family farm to collect Wren at nine, my eyes are scratchy and Mum’s coffee pot is calling.
Bev Foster, my mother, is the definition of a matriarch.
She rules the roost here in our family home, but my dad wouldn’t have it any other way.
With parents whose names are Bev and Mike, we Foster siblings have often wondered why our names sound as though we should be the next big thing in country music.
But that’s Bev for you. She liked the names, and so we got them.
She also loves ice hockey. In fact, it’s what she and Dad bonded over.
Even though she’s a Bruins fan, everyone else supports the Seattle Kraken.
How two farmers from East Anglia found themselves immersed in the NHL is a mystery I’m not sure we’ll ever solve, but we’ve all inherited the passion, and it makes for some lively family dinners at times.
Mum is pottering in the kitchen, as always, when I enter through the back door. With one look at me, she tuts and turns to the perpetually full coffee pot that has sat on this counter since I was a child.
“Drink this before you fall asleep at the wheel,” she chides, concern lacing her words.
“Thanks, Mum.”
“What kept you up last night? Worrying about the panel?” Relief is sweet.
“Y-yeah. I just want to get it sorted now, you know?”
“I know, darling. But it’ll all be settled before you know it. You won’t do yourself or my future grandchild any favours by exhausting yourself with worry before they even arrive.”
Mothers are truly magical beings. In my efforts to hide the truth of my sleepless night so I wouldn’t inadvertently share any of Corey’s private and personal information, I’ve somehow landed myself slap-bang in the middle of Mum’s psychic ability to read her children like books.
The adoption panel is an ever-present spectre in the back of my mind, but since it’s currently out of my control, I’ve compartmentalised it so I can continue to function.
I must admit, though, her words have landed with a warm glow in my chest.
“I really like hearing you call them your grandchild.” I smile at her over the brim of my cup.
“Well, that’s exactly what they are. There are many ways to become a parent, Nash, and creating a child yourself is only one of them.”
I get up and round the kitchen island, wrapping my arm around her petite shoulders and pressing a kiss to the top of her head. I swallow hard, trying to dislodge the lump in my throat. God, I love this woman.
The clatter of the iron latch on the back door and the sound of Dad and Wren chatting as they come in from feeding the animals are enough to distract us both from our emotional state.
Mum blusters away from me, wiping down the already clean countertops, but I see her wiping her eyes.
Dad spots it as well and immediately pulls her into a hug.
“Ready to go?” Wren asks, and I smile down at her, dark hair pulled into a knot on top of her head and cheeks rosy from the cold air outside.
“Born ready,” I reply.
“But are you ready now?”
“Come on, Pipsqueak,” I say, rubbing my knuckles on her head. “Let’s go and get me a new car.”
“I definitely think the Discovery was the best choice,” my sister says as she tucks into her lunch. “Those Defenders are ugly as sin.”
It took three hours, but we finally found me a new car more suitable for a child than my Ford Ranger pickup.
I love my truck, but after much research and several test drives, we were at an impasse between the Land Rover Discovery and the Defender.
But since, as Wren so eloquently put it, the new design Defenders are not very aesthetically pleasing, I went for the Discovery.
Plus, Aidan has a Defender, and I can’t have my little brother thinking I copied him. I’d never hear the end of it.
“Thanks for coming with me,” I say, as I pick up a California roll with my chopsticks.
“I’ll do anything for sushi, you know that.” She winks at me, and I shake my head. “Oh, and I missed you, I s’pose.”
“I missed you, too, Pips.”
Wren has been Pips, or Pipsqueak, to me since she was six years old.
I was twelve and had just joined the school rugby team, and I was deep into a pre-teen growth spurt.
Wren is short even now, so at six years old, I had basically towered over her.
None of our other brothers uses the name, though. It’s just our thing.
“How’re you feeling about the panel?”
“Oh, you know, mild terror and complete disbelief.” She laughs her bright, bell-like laugh.
“I’m not surprised; it’s fucking scary. But also,” she reaches across the table to grab my hand, “fucking amazing. I can’t wait to be Auntie Wren.”
I can’t wait for that either. We make good headway on our lunch, but I know I can’t ignore the elephant in the room.
“How’s Sam?”
She chews like she’s in an eating competition, resolutely staring down at the table, her long chestnut hair pulled into a plait that snakes over her left shoulder, wisps of hair escaping to frame her heart-shaped face.
“Pips?”
“He’s good. But…” She takes a sip of her water, and a frown forms on her brow.
Wren is a very practical person. She’s hardened by her work in some ways, being responsible for the animals on our farm as well as the operations, but she is soft and bubbly and never lets things get her down.
If she’s frowning over something, it’s not good.
“But what?” I press.
“I don’t know,” she sighs. “We finally had a proper date a few weeks ago, but when I woke up, he’d gone. I was in his bed, Nash. How fucking bad is it when you get ghosted from their bed?”
“He did what?” Sam hadn’t mentioned anything when we were out on the river. I think back to see if I can pinpoint anything that might have suggested what his issue is, but we were all distracted by Aidan and his concerns over Rain. “Do I need to have a word?”
“Don’t you dare,” she hisses. “You may be my big brother, but I’m a big girl. I can deal.”
We eat the rest of our food in silence, and I see Wren trying to figure things out in her mind the whole time.
I won’t interfere since their concerns over us Foster brothers getting involved were partially why they never really dated when we were a lot younger, despite both being interested.
But I will be keeping an eye on Pips and Sam, and if he hurts her, he’d better be prepared for me.
I drop Wren off at the farm with a promise of a coffee date later in the week, then drive home.
As I climb out of the truck for one of the last times before I collect the Land Rover, I glance over at Poppy’s Café across the green.
Deciding to pop in for a coffee rather than making one when I get inside, I trudge across the slightly soggy grass surrounding the duck pond.
Poppy grins at me as I enter and immediately starts on my Americano.
I order the same thing every time I come in, so I don’t even have to ask for it at this point.
We chat as she waits for the espresso to pour, and the warmth of the café combined with the Christmas decorations she has already put up makes me feel positively festive.
So festive in fact, that I add ‘buy a Christmas tree’ to my mental to-do list.
Coffee in hand, I pay and look around before I exit. Rain and Corey are just getting up from their table, empty dishes suggesting they too have enjoyed lunch out today. Rain gives me a hug, but very quickly gets drawn into conversation with Poppy.
“Hi, Doc,” Corey says, his beanie hat pulled down low over his ears.
“Hi. How’re you settling in?”
“Good. I was just about to go and feed the ducks.” He pulls a cellophane cone filled with a mixture of oats and seeds from his pocket. “Want to join me?”
I haven’t fed the ducks in years, even though the pond is literally directly outside my living room window.
“I’d love to. Can I get you a coffee to keep warm? It’s nippy outside.”
He smiles at me before replying.
“I-I’d love one. Thank you,” he says, looking down at the floor.
“What can I get you, sweetheart?” Poppy asks from behind the counter, her voice full of ‘service’, and a wide smile on her face. Rain is grinning at me from his position behind Corey.
“Hi, Nash. Did you find a car?” he asks with genuine interest, moving over to me as Corey orders his coffee.
“I did.”
He scoffs a laugh. “Gonna tell me what it is?”
“Nope,” I reply, then laugh at his scandalised expression. “Can’t have you tattling to Aidan, can we?” I tease. Rain’s laugh is bold and full of delight.
“You got a bloody Land Rover, didn’t you?”
“I couldn’t possibly comment. Oh, look, we’re ready to go. Shall we?” I gesture for Corey to lead the way outside, leaving Rain and Poppy giggling together over the counter.
Quite what they’re giggling about, I have no idea. No doubt Aidan is about to find out I’ve ‘copied’ his choice of car. Little do they know how wrong they are.
That must be what the giggles are about. What else could it be?
I sigh in resignation. I’m never going to hear the end of this.