Sunday 16 December, 2 a.m.
Two weeks later, she woke with a ‘show’. And then, with a soft gush, her waters broke. She woke Matthew straight away. ‘I think I’m in labour.’ The intense pain shooting through her back and tightening up her abdomen confirmed it. He took one panicked look at her. (For goodness’ sake, he was a qualified doctor. He could have delivered the baby on the kitchen table – if that had been the only option.)
‘I’ll drive you to the hospital.’ His hands were shaking. ‘Hey, Matt.’ She touched him. ‘It’ll be all right, I promise you.’ Surely life could not be so cruel that Kath Whalley could have harmed their child?
He put his arms around her, buried his face in hers. But then a stronger contraction came and she gasped. ‘Matt, can we get a move on?’
10 a.m.
She hadn’t realized labour could take so long or be so tiring.
It was more than twelve hours later when the child finally showed its head. Matthew, white-faced, stood at her head, and in a rush of blood and liquor they laid the child on her deflated abdomen, a little cord stump with a clip on it. The connection severed, Matthew picked it up and nestled it against him.
‘Welcome, my little darling.’ And with a triumphant glance at Joanna, he announced his name. ‘Jakob Rudyard Levin. And he’s perfect.’
‘How did you know it was a boy?’
He grinned. ‘I saw the scan,’ he said. ‘Unmistakable.’
‘But …’
He wagged his finger at her. ‘You said you didn’t want to know.’
The face he turned then to Joanna would stick in her mind for ever. The purest, most wonderful joy.
‘Thank you,’ he said.