had been in despair three days ago when she’d walked into Suzie Walker’s tiny agency, close to the ruined castle precincts in the county town of Lewes in East Sussex, and plonked herself down in a chair.
The agent had leaned conspiratorially across her desk, raised a finger to her lips and said there was a property, a quite wonderful property, not yet officially on the market, but she would like to take Naomi to view it anyway, she had a feeling it would be ideal. A bargain price for a quick let – at the top end of Naomi’s price range, perhaps – but anyone who saw this place was going to fall in love with it.
Dene Farm Barn was at the end of a half-mile metalled drive that threaded through wheat fields into the Downs from a quiet country lane, five miles east of Lewes. The property consisted of a wooden barn that had been converted into a four-bedroom house, and a separate flint granary that had been converted into a double garage. Perched on a ridge of a hill, there were views across miles of open farmland in all directions. The nearest community was a small village, two miles away.
The isolation was the one negative. But in trying to weigh this place up, there was a positive to that as well. The downside was that the nearest house, a farm cottage, was a good half mile away. Would she be nervous here on her own? How would it be at night? On the plus, they would be tucked away, no neighbours to ask awkward questions about the babies if and when the newspaper piece about them, or follow-ups to it, resurfaced. And it would be a total haven for children.
And on the double plus, it was simply, awesomely beautiful. Naomi could see herself and John living here, raising their family here, making a life here. There was an acre and a half of garden, mostly lawn and shrubs, with a young orchard of apple, pear, plum and cherry trees. She imagined barbecues with friends on the flagstone terrace. She imagined the wood-burning stove alight in the huge, open-plan living area. She imagined snow falling, watching a white landscape stretching away for miles in all directions.
It felt so incredibly peaceful here.
Safe.
John was enthusiastic also, after she had described everything in detail over the phone. He had one month to go in Los Angeles, to work out his notice at the university, and to organize the shipping of their belongings over to England. He told her it was hard to imagine how much junk they’d accumulated in the past six years. She said to throw away anything he wasn’t passionate about keeping.
‘So, who actually owns this place?’ Harriet asked, eyeing the vast Indian carved mahogany two-poster bed.
‘I was explaining to your sister on – er – Wednesday. It is owned by the man who did the conversion, Roger Hammond. He’s just gone to Saudi Arabia on a three-year contract. They are considering moving to Australia at the end of the contract. That of course would mean an opportunity to buy this place – be a wonderful investment – the garage block could be converted into a separate dwelling. This kind of property comes up once a decade, if that.’
‘Well-designed bathroom,’ Harriet said approvingly. ‘Twin sinks. That’s good.’
The agent led them across the corridor. ‘And of course this next room would be perfect for your twins!’
After they had done all the rooms, Suzie Walker told them she would leave them to have a wander around by themselves, and went out to her car.
Sitting in front of the bright red Aga, at the ancient oak refectory table in the kitchen, Naomi looked at Harriet, then her mother. ‘So?’ she asked.
Her mother said, ‘There seems to be lots of cupboard space. Very good cupboard space.’
‘What will you do when it snows?’ her sister demanded.
‘Well – we may spend a few days trapped. I think I’d find that quite romantic!’ Naomi replied with a smile.
‘Not if you have to see a doctor urgently.’
‘What about schools?’ her mother said. ‘That’s what you need to think about.’
‘She needs to think about the isolation,’ her sister said. ‘John’s going to be at work all day. How are you going to cope with no one to talk to except sheep?’
‘I like sheep,’ Naomi said.
‘You’d need a dog, darling,’ her mother said.
‘Dogs are a pain,’ Harriet said. ‘What do you do if you want to go away?’
‘I like dogs,’ Naomi said. ‘Dogs don’t judge people.’
36
There was something snagging in John’s throat, tugging at it from the inside, a muscle twitching from nerves; there were muscles twitching in his guts, also. He couldn’t stay still for more than a few moments. He wanted this all to be over, yet at the same time he was truly scared. Scared for Naomi, for the babies inside her. Scared about what lay ahead.
They had given him a chair beside the operating table, and he was sitting there now, stroking Naomi’s forehead, staring at the green cloth screen that had been clipped across her chest, blocking their view of everything that was going on beyond in the operating theatre.
They were waiting for the epidural block that had been injected into Naomi’s spine to become fully effective. John glanced at the round white clock face on the theatre wall. Five minutes had passed. He smiled at Naomi.
‘How are you feeling, darling?’
She looked so vulnerable in the loose gown, with the drip line in her wrist and her plastic name tag. A tiny bubble of spittle appeared in the corner of her mouth and he dabbed it away with a tissue.
‘OK,’ she said very quietly. ‘I’ll be glad when-’ She mustered a smile back at him, then swallowed, a nervous gulp. Her eyes were wide open. Sometimes they were green, sometimes brown; right now they seemed to be both at the same time. Her smile faded and doubt flickered, like a guttering candle, in its place.
‘Me too,’ he said. ‘I’ll be glad when-’
When what? he wondered. When this waiting is over? When the babies are born and we can start to find out what Dettore has really done? When we can start to discover the wisdom of what we have done?
‘What are they doing?’ she asked.
‘Waiting.’
John stood up. The theatre seemed crowded; it had filled with figures in green gowns, most of them just chatting through their masks as if they were at a cocktail party. He was trying to remember who they all were. The consultant obstetrician, the registrar obstetrician, the consultant paediatrician, anaesthetist, assistant anaesthetist, nurses, midwife. Harsh white light burned down from the overhead lamp onto Naomi’s exposed swollen belly. Banks of electrical equipment were giving off readings.
The anaesthetist, a cheery, thorough man called Andrew Davey, touched her belly with cotton wool. ‘Can you feel this, Naomi?’
She shook her head.
Next he gave her a tiny prick with a small pointed instrument. ‘Feel anything now?’
Again she shook her head.
He picked up a water spray and gave a hard squirt, first onto her belly, then either side of her navel. Naomi did not flinch.
‘OK,’ the anaesthetist said, turning to the obstetrician. ‘I’m happy.’
The consultant obstetrician at the Royal Sussex County Hospital, Mr Des Holbein, was a solidly built, bespectacled man in his mid-forties. He had dark hair shorn to stubble, with a serious face that had the air of a benign bank manager. Like everyone else, he knew nothing about their background with Dettore. But he had done a great deal to bolster their morale, in particular Naomi’s, over the past seven months.
It seemed to John that for the past seven months, doctors’ offices, clinics and hospitals had become part of the rhythm of their lives.
Naomi had had a rough pregnancy. John had made it his business to try to understand more about the double uterus, and the conversation he and Naomi had had over and over, to the point of exhaustion and then beyond, was why Dr Dettore had never told them about this abnormality – and why had he implanted two eggs?
