Josie Metcalfe - Miracles in the Village

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 and bright, just like her mother to look at, and for that Fran was profoundly grateful. If she’d been the image of her father, the knife would be twisted every time she looked at her. As it was, it was easy enough most of the time to pretend she was just another little girl, just like the many little girls Fran taught all day.

But delightful though Sophie was, the very fact of her existence only served to underscore Fran’s own failure to successfully carry a baby to full term.

Having Sophie to stay every other weekend, for a couple of weeks every holiday and at half-term once or twice a year was like a two-edged sword. When she was there, she brought sunshine and laughter into their lives, and after she’d gone, the house—a beautiful old house that should have been filled with the sound of children—rang with silence.

It might be better if she didn’t come, Fran thought, and then shook her head. No. That was ridiculous. They both loved her to bits, and without her their lives would be immeasurably poorer. They’d had a lovely weekend, and even the rain today hadn’t spoilt things, because by the time it had started they’d finished at the beach and were home, making sandwiches to go with Mike’s birthday cake for tea.

And Sophie had been an absolute delight.

The car moved off across the streaming concrete yard, and Fran turned away from the cover of the doorway, steeling herself for the silence. Not that she had time to sit still and listen to it. She had a lot to do. Mike’s parents and Joe and Sarah had joined them for tea, and the sitting room was smothered in plates and cups. Brodie went with her, tongue lashing, and cleared up the dropped birthday cake crumbs from the floor while she dealt with everything else.

She saw Mike’s feet come into range as she was fishing for a fallen knife beside the sofa. There was a hole in the toe of his left sock, she noticed absently. Another failure in her wifely duties. She gave a muffled snort, and Mike dropped down onto his haunches beside her, his hand warm on her shoulder.

‘You OK?’

Her fingers coaxed the knife closer. ‘Of course. Why shouldn’t I be?’

‘I just—I thought you looked—’

‘I’m fine, Mike,’ she said firmly. ‘I just have a lot to do and I’m a bit tired. I didn’t get a lie-in.’

He sighed and stood up, and she could hear him scrubbing his hands through his damp hair in frustration. ‘I’m sorry. I’ll go and get the cows in, then. I’m late starting the milking.’

She straightened, the errant knife in hand at last, and threw him a tight smile. ‘Good idea. I’ll do supper for seven.’

‘Don’t bother to do much, I’m really not hungry after all the cake. Come, Brodie.’

And that was it. No offer of help. No thanks for his birthday tea, or having Sophie for the weekend.

No hug, no cuddle, no ‘Don’t worry, darling, it’ll be all right.’

Not that she’d believe him, anyway. How could it be all right? They’d run out of time on the NHS, and she was wondering if she could psych herself up for another IVF cycle and failing miserably. Not that they could afford it, although the way things were going, she wasn’t even sure Mike wanted a child with her. It was so much hassle and, despite his assurances, he seemed more than happy with just Sophie.

And why wouldn’t he be? She was gorgeous.

Gorgeous, and his, and if she was honest Fran had to admit that she was simply jealous of his relationship with her. They’d spent hours together over the weekend, and every time she’d looked up they’d been there, giggling about something, Mike chasing her, catching her and throwing her up in the air, turning her upside down, leading her by the hand and showing her the chicks, showing her how to feed a calf—just being the doting, devoted father that he was, with Sophie right there being the doting, devoted daughter.