Calais, November 1793

The sea lashed at the coastline. It whipped up great walls of spray and dashed flotsam against the breakwater. The small boats had made for land, huddling for protection inside the harbour walls, and out in the Channel the bigger boats trapped in the weather grimly rode out the storm. On land the wind matched the waves in its anger, sending dried leaves whirling into piles and tossing them up in clusters like migrating birds. The trees groaned and protested at their violent treatment, and the black skies parted now and again to let through a ray of moonlight.

There hadn’t been a storm like it for years.

Sophie stood by the casement window of the inn and looked out over the sea. Every so often, her hands tightened on her swollen belly. It seemed to her in her heightened state of anguish and fatigue that the water was bloodstained and its noise was the moaning of prisoners.

‘It was too much,’ she murmured to herself. ‘Too much of everything. Death. Fear...’

Down below a door banged and she knew it was her husband returning with the midwife. With some difficulty, she walked over to the bed, recoiling as she brushed against one of the many cobwebs that festooned the room. The bed was made up with soiled sheets and she did not want to lie on it, but she knew she must.

Gasping at a renewed onslaught of pain, she edged onto the bed, swung her legs up and lay back. The unaccustomed sensations took over.

Downstairs in the kitchen all was frantic activity. Two kitchen maids staggered into the room with a basket of wood. It was already tropically hot but they piled more logs on to the fire and the flame leapt up under the cauldrons of water which were suspended on the cast-iron spit.

Her husband watched as the midwife divested herself of her dripping outer clothes.

‘Hurry,’ he said.

The midwife nodded as she rubbed herself dry.

The cook stood by. ‘Mon Dieu, what a night for a birth,’ she said, fetching a large white apron from a cupboard and tying it around the midwife’s waist. ‘You’ll need this,’ she said.

Upstairs the bedroom was quiet. For a moment, Sophie could almost imagine that she was back in Paris, and she was sure she could smell chocolate made hot and thick as she liked it. There was the clop-clop of wooden sabots in the street outside, the shouts of the oyster man and the flower girl.

Pain tugged at her flesh.

Someone moaned.

Who?

What was happening? Where was she?

The bedroom came into focus and she remembered. She was having her baby and it was coming too early. She had tried to stop it, but it had been no use. Raising her head from the filthy pillow, she made out a figure bending over a basin.

The fire was making it so hot... so hot.

Someone bent over her with a cloth and wiped her sweat from her face.

‘Hush,’ said her husband, his voice hoarse with strain. ‘Hush now. It won’t be long.’

Sophie made a gigantic effort. ‘Am I...?’ she whispered. ‘Is it all right?’

‘It is well,’ said the midwife, placing a hand on her stomach. ‘You must be patient.’

Sophie moved restlessly. ‘Patient.... With this?’ She fell back and tried to hide from a strange half-world peopled with whispering memories and ghosts which had taken up occupation in her head.

‘It’s time to examine her,’ the midwife said, and her husband helped to lift Sophie higher on to the pillows. He stroked back her long, tangled hair and made a clumsy effort to braid it. Sophie brushed his hand away. The midwife rolled up Sophie’s linen shift and her swollen body leapt into relief. The white thighs were streaked with blood and the distended belly contracted visibly.

‘It’s coming,’ said the midwife. ‘Lift her up.’

This is what it is like to die, thought Sophie. But I haven’t said my prayers.

‘Dear God...,’ she began, but a roaring in her ears and a burning, splitting sensation blotted out coherent thought.

Paris... she was back in Paris when a smell of death lay over the streets and marching feet could be heard at nights... when the thud of falling heads cut into the greedy silence of watching crowds. Héloïse was in there somewhere but where? However hard Sophie tried, Héloïse eluded her.

The baby was not coming as quickly as the midwife expected.

‘Turn her on her side,’ she ordered.

He obeyed, shifting Sophie’s heavy body awkwardly. A log on the fire broke in half with a crack and the flames spurted higher, sending a shadow flickering up the wall.

‘Try to push,’ said the midwife.

‘I can’t,’ Sophie gasped. ‘I can’t. Oh, but I can’t... I can’t...’

The midwife’s hands darted between her legs and cupped gently at the tiny head emerging between them.

‘It’s almost here,’ she said reassuringly. ‘Easy.’

With a slither the baby arrived. Her husband laid her down and went to look as the small body was lifted clear.

‘A boy,’ said the midwife. ‘Madame, a boy.’

Her husband snatched him from the midwife. ‘Look, Sophie... look. He’s wonderful. He’s beautiful. He’s here.’

Sophie’s exhausted face lit up with a smile. ‘Our son... our son...’ Then her face puckered as the pain gripped her once again. ‘Isn’t this over?’ she whispered. Then: ‘help me’.

‘There’s another,’ cried the midwife. ‘Quick.’

Sophie’s husband cradled his son in his arms where he cried the desolate cry of the new-born while, with infinite care, the midwife helped an even smaller, more delicate baby into the world and placed it on the bed. With an effort, Sophie stretched out an arm and her fingers brushed the baby’s head. The midwife cut the cord and wrapped the baby in a shawl.

‘There, little girl,’ she crooned. ‘It is over.’

There was an empty cradle by the bed. The midwife laid Sophie’s daughter in and took her son from her husband and placed him beside his sister. They looked like tiny effigies.

Sensing each other perhaps, brother and sister closed their eyes and lay quiet.

Sophie was dimly aware of the midwife’s hands busying themselves with the afterbirth. After the storm of labour, the absence of pain was overwhelming. Her husband sat down on the bed and took her hand.

Peace wrapped her in an embrace, pulling her down into a place remote from... this place.. from what had happened... from whatever lay in the future. She closed her eyes. Sparks of light filtered in between her eyelashes reminding her of petals ... apple blossom petals.

They heaped gently on to her face and around her body.

Sophie fell asleep ...