met Fran four years ago when she’d come back to the village; they’d fallen in love on sight and were blissfully happy.
Or they had been.
If only they could crack this baby thing …
He put their plates in the dishwasher, bent and kissed Fran on the forehead and ushered Sophie towards the door. ‘We’ve got to pick up eggs and take some cheese to the shop. Want to join us?’
Fran shook her head and smiled. ‘I’ve got things to do. You go and have fun,’ she told him, but the smile didn’t go all the way to her eyes, and in their depths was something he couldn’t bear.
He loved his present.
Sophie came creeping into their bedroom with the first rays of the sun, Brodie on her heels, and they ended up with her in the bed between them, with Brodie lying on Mike’s legs and Sophie snuggled under his arm, watching in a dreadful mixture of excitement and trepidation as he slowly, carefully peeled the wrapping paper off and opened the box.
A frown creased his brow, and then a smile, and then a great big laugh as he hugged Sophie hard against his side and kissed her. ‘It’s me and Amber, isn’t it?’ he said, and Sophie turned to Fran with a huge grin before bouncing up and taking the models from Mike’s hands and showing him the intricacies of her design.
‘Look—see the cluster.’ She showed him, turning Amber over. ‘And you’ve got your hat on. It was meant to be red but I’d used up all the red making Amber and there wasn’t enough, so you had to have pink.’
‘Close enough,’ he said, but Fran could see his mouth twitching and she had to bite her lip to keep the bubble of laughter inside.
‘Do you like it?’ Sophie asked, bouncing on the spot, and he reached out and hugged her again, his eyes suspiciously bright.
‘I love it. Thank you, darling. It’s really nice.’
‘I was going to make Brodie too but Mrs Pearce said I couldn’t have any more clay, so you’ll have to have her for Christmas.’
His lips twitched again. ‘I’m sure she won’t mind waiting.’
Sophie sat back on her heels. ‘So can I help you milk the cows today?’
‘I’m not doing it. My brother’s doing it so I can have a lie-in,’ he said, and Fran, glancing at the clock, stifled a sigh.
It was only five-thirty. So much for his lie-in! And Sophie was looking crestfallen. ‘Does that mean I have to go back to bed?’ she asked. ‘Because I’m wide awake now.’
Mike wasn’t. He looked exhausted, and without his usual alarm he might well have slept another couple of hours.
‘I tell you what,’ Fran said quickly. ‘Why don’t you and I go downstairs for a little while and see if we can find something to do while your daddy has a birthday lie-in, and then, when he’s up, maybe we can go to the beach?’
‘Brilliant! We can make sandcastles!’ Sophie shrieked, leaping up and down on the bed until his present nearly fell off the edge. He made a grab for it, and Fran threw back the bedclothes and got up, holding out her hand to Sophie.
‘Come on, you, I’ve got something I want us to do together.’
Sophie slid over the bed, bouncing on her bottom until her skinny little legs hung off the side. ‘What?’ she asked.
Fran bent over and whispered in her ear, ‘We’ve got to make his birthday cake.’
Sophie’s eyes sparkled. ‘Can I help?’
‘Of course. I’ll need your help—lots of it.’
She spun round, kissed Mike and pulled the bedclothes back up round his chin. ‘You go back to sleep, Daddy, for a nice long time,’ she ordered. ‘And don’t come in the kitchen without knocking. We’re going to be busy making a secret.’
He winked at her, and Fran ushered her away, throwing him a smile over her head as she closed the door.
‘Dog!’ he yelled, and she opened the door again, called Brodie and they went down to the kitchen and left him in peace.
‘How many eggs?’ Sophie asked, kneeling up on a chair at the table to help.
‘Three.’
‘Can I break them into the bowl?’
‘No—break them into this cup, and we can check they’re all right before we add them to the mixture, just in case.’
‘Just in case what?’
Just in case she mashed the shell, Fran thought, but couldn’t dent her pride. ‘In case one’s a bit funny,’ she flannelled.
‘Funny?’ Sophie said, wrinkling her nose.
‘Sometimes they smell a bit fishy or they have bits in.’
‘And we don’t want a fishy, bitty cake,’ she said sagely, and Fran suppressed her smile.
‘We certainly don’t.’
‘Can I measure the flour and the sugar and the butter?’
‘Sure.’
It took longer—much longer—and they didn’t use the mixer but a wooden spoon in a bowl, the way Fran’s grandmother had always done it, because that way Sophie could be more involved and Mike got a longer lie-in. They grated the rind of an orange, and squeezed in some juice, and then, when it was all mixed together they spooned it into the tin, put it in the top oven of the Aga and set the timer.
‘An hour? Really? That’s ages! Can we make Daddy breakfast in bed?’
‘We can make him breakfast in bed if you like, but not yet. He’s tired, Sophie. He works very hard.’
Too hard, for too long, and the strain was beginning to tell. And no matter how badly she wanted to crawl back into bed beside him and go back to sleep herself, for now she had to entertain his daughter and keep her out of his way so he could rest.
‘Want to help me make some things for the project I’m doing with my class?’ she suggested, and Sophie, bless her, responded with her usual boundless enthusiasm.
If only Fran could say the same for herself …
‘Bye-bye, sweetheart. Love you.’
‘Don’t forget I’m coming next Sunday for tea ’cos I’m going on holiday the next week!’
‘I haven’t forgotten. You take care.’
Fran watched as Mike kissed his little sprite of a daughter goodbye and closed the car door, lifting his hand to wave farewell. Sophie waved back, her hand just visible through the water streaming down the car window, and Fran waved too, her feelings mixed.
She adored Sophie; she was a lovely girl, sweet
