Previously…

‘All right,’ I said, ‘thanks for telling us the truth. It must have been hard. You look all in. Why don’t you go up to bed and we’ll sort something out tomorrow.’

‘You’re not angry?’

‘No, but you must promise in future to tell the truth. If you do it again, I don’t think I could trust you.’

‘I won’t lie ever again, I promise–’

‘Okay, off you go and we’ll see you in the morning. Make sure you get up early, we have to open the gallery at nine sharp.’

‘Yes ’M–I mean S’manfa.’

She hesitated for a moment looking very vulnerable in her jim-jams and scrubbed face – she looked about twelve and then she came over and hugged me and then Abby, who for once was lost for words and appeared to have something in her eye–

She gave us both a shy smile and then left the room.

Abby and I gazed at each other.

‘Well,’ I said, ‘you seem to be good at looking after stray cats; I appear to be collecting the human variety.’
She smiled.

‘She is sweet, if a bit rough around the edges. We could send her to Mummy Dotty’s for finishing orf, but knowing Dotty she wouldn’t be that gentle. Are you thinking what I am?’

‘About my cottage? Yes, she and her mum could house sit for us and I could still come and go when I use the studio.’

‘Sounds like a plan,’ said Abby, smiling.

‘I just thought of another plan,’ I said.

‘What’s that?’

‘There are still two éclairs in the fridge, crying to be eaten.’

‘I thought that was one of the cats.’

‘Shall we find out?’

‘Let’s––’

And now the story continues…

The following morning I was up bright and early. I would like to say that Tracy was too. You would have thought that she would be keen to be up and at ’em, but she was one of those girls who prefer to stay in bed till lunch time, have a light brunch, followed by a rest in bed that would last until five o’clock, by which time she would be ready to face the day. One of her faults had always been that she was never on time for work. Well, that had to stop. We were now opening for business and had set opening hours. She might be feeling a bit off now, what with the beach hut incident and the fact that her mum was boracic¹; but if she wanted our help and a roof over her head, she would have to change the habit of a lifetime and actually get up in time to get to work.

I cut her a bit of slack that morning, letting her stay in bed for a further ten minutes, but being the hard headed business women I was–I recalled that in Nelsons day, they used to cut peoples’ hammock ropes if they were more than a minute late–I threatened her with the wet towel treatment if she didn’t stir her bones.

It worked and a short time later she came in the kitchen, looking like death warmed up and demolishing her Shreddies in record time. She said little. I think that she had had a poor night of it, so I wasn’t too hard on her.

Abby had gone off early to her pottery as she had a few pots to throw about and she had to meet a man about an urn. Jocasta had forgiven me for throwing Prendaghastly in her direction at yesterdays post-opening nosh up, although I had to go to church on Sunday and prostrate myself at the altar as a penance. She had picked up Heather and would be looking after her today as I had lots to do. From tomorrow, Abby and I would be looking after her. She was no trouble really and if she cried too much, it was normally because of a, feeding and watering time; b, bum changing time; c, ‘I want my dummy’/cuddle/tantrum time. I wish everything was as simple as that.

Dead on the dot of nine o’clock, I turned the sign on the gallery door to ‘open’, stood back and waited for the Harrods sale-type onrush of bargain hunters.

Of course, no one came in and we were able to spend the time waiting for the first client by having a cuppa, dusting the exhibits, reading the paper and other important things (my nails needed repainting and Tracy texted her mum).

At about eleven o’clock, the rush started as a man walked in. I stood up and went to greet him. ‘May I help you?’ I asked in my best subservient and yet slightly condescending way that shop keepers have perfected over the years.

He looked around, eyes wide, a bit like a hedgehog being caught in the headlights just before being flattened.

‘Erm, where the post office?’ he asked.

I looked at him and wondered if I should be polite or just kick him out of the shop. Unfortunately, my parents gave me a ‘polite chip’ that I haven’t been able to prise out of my brain yet.

‘It’s in the High Street. Left outside the door, go past two lanes and the third one is the High Street. It’s about half way up. You can’t miss it as it has a sign that says Post Office on it.’

‘Erm, thanks.’

‘Don’t mention it.’

‘I won’t.’

He smiled nervously and left rather quickly.

‘Blimey,’ said Tracy looking up from her Teen Angst magazine, ‘not got much people skills ’ave yer?’

‘How do you know about people skills?’

‘We learnt it at skewl di’n’twe?’

‘Did you?’

‘Yus.’

‘Well, I didn’t see what I did wrong.’

She sighed, put her magazine down and stood up.

‘Righ’, let me show yer ’ow yer shouldda done it. You go out an’ come in again an ask the same question, got it?’

‘Erm, well I don’t know––’

‘Look, it won’t ’urt like; jus’ do it fer me. Let’s face it, we ain’t got no customers ’ave we?’

‘I wish you wouldn’t use double negatives, Tracy.’

‘Yer wot?’

‘Never mind,’ I sighed.

At some stage, Tracy and I were going to have a somewhat pointed conversation regarding the correct employer/employee interaction, but for the moment, I decided to go with the flow.

‘All right,’ I continued, smiling, perhaps rather falsely and leaving the gallery.

I waited for a few moments and then came in. The door bell tinkled as I opened it and tinkled again as I shut it behind me. I wondered how long it would take before I wrenched the damn thing off the door but I had no time for that because Tracy came up to me in her Zebedee, bouncy mode.

‘Good morning, Madam, ’ow may I ’elp yer?’

‘Erm, I want the post office.’

‘Certainly, but while yer ’ere would you like to ’ave a butcher’s–I mean, ’ave a look at our fine works. Look, this is one that our loverly owner pain’-ed. See it’s a paintin’ of the cove. Innit colourful, look at the texture and quality; the fine brushwork, the way the paintin’ draws yer in. It’s full o’ life, don’cher agree?’

‘Erm, yes.’

‘I fought vat’cher might.’ Her voice dropped almost to a whisper,’ she’s going places, she is. In a few years time she’ll be up for the Turner Prize, that is if they stop being daft and let a real artist win instead of someone who shows a dead cow or somefink.’

I had been completely sucked in. I was thinking, ‘wow, the Turner Prize!’ then I shook my head and realised that it was little me she was talking about.

Tracy was looking at me with a slight smile on her face.

‘Blimey,’ I said, ‘you’re good: how come?’

‘Why I’m good? Like I’ve got the patter in’ I?’

‘Patter?’ I asked, wondering if she was talking about the patter of tiny feet, like my Heather would be trying to do within the next year or so.

‘Yea, yer know, I got the shpeel, patter, rabbit,’

I sighed.

‘Please try to talk English Tracy. It’s bad enough living in the darkest depths of Devon, trying to understand their strange lingo and here you are talking yet another weird unpronounceable language.’

‘Eh?’

She gave me ‘the look’. The one teenagers use everywhere when an adult is talking rubbish. She sighed, went over to her chair and sat down. I dragged up a chair and sat opposite her.

‘I think you did brilliantly there. How did you learn to talk like that?’

‘Peckham Market, I used to do a bit o’ sellin’ on the stalls. I were good too. You try selling dodgy gear–I mean, stuff what fell off the back–I mean, stock that was crappy ter people who didn’t want to part with their readies–’

‘Readies?’

‘Money, loot, spondulicks, – yus. If yer can sell there, yer can sell anyfink, anywhere.’

I gazed at her, then just smiled, and then laughed.

‘Wot?’ she said indignantly.

‘Sorry, Tracy. I might as well give you the keys and let you be the sales girl while I go and paint a few masterpieces. I’m surplus to requirements here.’

‘Yer wouldn’t do that, wouldgyer?’

‘What?’

‘Leave me in charge. I don’t want that. I might do somefink stoopid.’

‘Like what?’

‘I don’t know, sell the paintin’s at the wrong price or make meself look a proper narna.’

Looking at her I could see that despite the patter, as she called it, and show of bravado, she was still an insecure young girl with more than a few hang-ups and problems. I made one of those snap decisions that I seemed to be taking lately. I hoped that my reading of her was right–that she was desperate to get on and make something of herself. It was a huge plus in my eyes that she had been sending money that she could ill afford to her mum, while squatting in that wooden beach hut.

I leaned forward and took her hand.

‘I won’t do that until you are ready. But I want you to learn as much as you can so that I can go and do what I am good at while you eventually run the gallery for me. I will send you on courses and teach you what I know, but in the end it’s down to you. Are you up for it?’

Her eyes looked wide, she reminded me of Bambi for some reason.

‘D—do you fink I c’n do it?’ she asked, her voice quavering slightly.

‘I do, after some training. But no more getting up late. I can’t rely on a person whose day starts at five or six in the evening.

‘You sound just like my mum,’ she said ruefully.

‘Well I suppose that I’m in loco parentis until she comes down.’

‘Is that some sort of train?’

I sighed. This was going to be a bit of an uphill journey.

~ §~

After that, the day went quite well. We had several customers come in and we sold three paintings, a wonderful sunset photograph and a lovely repro of a Greek urn. How much did the Greek earn? No, I won’t say it.

At five, we shut up shop and went to collect Abby, who was still plastered in clay. I think that she had enough on her to make more than a few pots.

I just happened to glance over at my lickle boat as we popped next door and saw that she was still there. I couldn’t believe that the thing was mine; well Abby’s and mine because what’s mine is hers and little Heather’s too. I felt sorry for the other boats in the harbour because as they bobbed up and down in the gentle swell they looked so small. They say size isn’t everything but as far as boats were concerned, big is beautiful–mind you, I am biased. I almost fired up my iPhone and asked for someone to come in the tender and take us all to some far off exotic place. Then real life–if you could possibly consider my life to be anything like real–popped up and told me not to be such a silly moo and get on with things.

‘I’ll just have a quick shower then I’ll be with you,’ said Abby after coming up to me and trying to give me a hug.

I of course, shrieked and backed away from her as if she had some sort of highly contagious and deadly disease while Tracy giggled behind her hand as if it was funny or something.

We waited outside, sitting on a convenient bench overlooking the harbour. Smells from the chippy wafted over making me long for haddock and chips. There should be a government health warning about that smell. I swear that they have ginormous fans in the fish and chip shop that blows the divine perfume all over the village.

The beaches were practically empty now–it was very much the tail end of season. The kids had all gone back to school and the only visitors were those that prefer to go out of the main season. During the day the village was still quite busy, but come evening it sort of turned into a ghost town. Apart from dog walkers, joggers and those taking evening constitutionals, the place was pretty devoid of people. It was a bit busier around the two main pubs and a couple of restaurants, but apart from that it was quiet.

It was nice like this though as we locals were now back in charge. No more queuing up for things, being overrun by holidaymakers who seemed to think that they had a right to take us over.

That wasn’t fair though. The visitors were the lifeblood of the community. Without them a lot of jobs would go.

Tracy had whipped out a sketch pad and pencils from her bag and was drawing things while we waited. I was dying to look at what she was drawing but knew from bitter experience what it was like to have somebody look over one’s shoulder while trying to be creative.

I just stood up and walked over to the edge of the harbour. I had to hold my skirt down lest I shock some of the local wildlife with a glimpse of my panties á  la Monroe.

Glancing down I watched some seagulls basking on the small strip of sand by the harbour wall. Before long, the sand would be covered and the fishing boats would be going out on the high tide with the birds following the boats out as they tried to catch some of the ever dwindling stocks of fish. This was a cod and haddock area with a few other types of fish that added variety to the local taste.

Winter would be here soon and the boats would still have to go out and try to make a living under the ridiculous quotas imposed by the EU they had to adhere to. I wondered if it was worth their risking their lives over a few fish. Maybe it was if they wanted to continue the tradition carried down through father to son and now a few daughters too––

‘Samantha, come on, Dolly Daydream, we have to go and collect the favoured daughter.’

I smiled as I turned away and joined Abby and Tracy on the uphill trek to the Vicarage.

After picking up number one child and saying the obligatory thanks, hugs and goodbyes we made our way home.

~ §~

After putting Heather to bed and our Spag Bol tea, we settled down on the comfy sofa in the sitting room and held hands. Tracy was in her new room on my mobile, calling her mum about the arrangements for her to move into the other cottage.

‘It will be nice to be by ourselves again,’ said Abby.

‘Why, don’t you like having Tracy here?’

‘Yes, but I can’t ravish you quite so much while she’s in the next room?’

‘Why not?’

‘You’re too noisy,’ she replied with a grin.

‘Noisy. I am not!’

‘Yes you are. The cats can’t sleep when you are in full voice. You remind me of wotsername in that film–the name of which I can’t remember–you know, when she was in that restaurant with that bloke, dark short hair and she started shouting ‘yes, yes, yes!’

‘I am not like that. I might just get a wee bit carried away, but it’s your fault for doing things that make me go all squiggly.’

‘Squiggly, is that a real word?’

‘Well it ought to be––’

Just then Tracy came in, all bubbly and bright.

‘S’mafa, Abby; mum can’t wait ter come. She’s telling wotsisface where to get orf and she’ll be ’ere termorrer.

‘Oh good,’ I said, realising that at last I was getting used to her awful accent. ‘You can go and meet her from the bus stop and take her to the cottage and settle her in. Mrs Pearson will be there but I’ve already told her of the situation so there shouldn’t be any trouble there.’

‘Mrs Pearson? I can’t understand a flamin’ word she says!’

Both Abby and I laughed at that but Tracy didn’t get the joke for some strange reason.

The next few days were pleasant but busy. We had a steady dribble of people come in and have a look at our gallery and what we had to sell and we were lucky in as much as we sold several pieces.

Tracy’s mum had arrived and she and Tracy and made themselves at home in the cottage. Peace and quiet had returned once again to our little Shangri-La.

~ §~

It was on the third day after Tracy’s mum had arrived that I had the summons.

I was just burping Heather who was kind enough to puke all over the towel that I had over my shoulder when the phone rang. It was just Heather and I in Jellicle cottage, if you discount the one thousand one hundred and twenty-two cats–I exaggerate but you know what I mean if you have cats, they are everywhere–anyway, where was I? Oh yes. Abby was doing her pottery class. She was roped in the previous year and now did evening classes. The phone went. I put Heather down on the rug so that she could play with her mobile thingy and I answered the phone.

‘Hello?’

‘Samantha is that you?’

I took my ear away from the phone and rubbed it. Dotty was at full volume.

‘Yes. Hello, Mummy?’

‘Don’t ‘hello mummy’ me, you prime idiot.’

‘What have I done now?’

‘It’s not what you have done; it’s what you have not done.’

‘Oh, right…sorry, being a bit thick here. What haven’t I done?’

‘Brought Heather up for four days, updated me about the paintin’ of me and me husband, told me about how the gallery’s doin’. Shall I continue?’

‘Sorry, Mummy, it’s just that there has been rather a lot happening––’

‘–How could I know that? The lines of communication have broken down. Consider yerself chastised. Now I need to talk to you.’

‘Right, erm what about?’

‘Can’t talk on the phone. Need ter see yer in person. Are yer at the gallery tomorrow?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ll be there at eleven sharp. Have the tea ready and at least two cream cakes. Have to go–bloody moles have been havin’ a go at me vegetable gardens. It looks like bloody World War Three out there. If things go on like this, I’ll have to lay out some mines.’

The phone went dead and I sat there staring at it.

Heather started giggling and I smiled then suddenly, she sort of frowned and started crying. I shushed her a bit and gave her a cuddle and her dummy. I put her down again as I didn’t want her to get all clingy and expect hugs every two and a half seconds. She didn’t like that, but we all have our off days.

Recalling the phone conversation, I smiled. Even an angry Dotty was a bit of a laugh. I did feel guilty at not keeping my brand new Mummy more in the loop though.

I picked up Heather again and played ring-a-roses on her tiny hand. I was trying to take her mind off what was bothering her. I realised though, distractedly as I shushed Heather, that if I wasn’t careful, I would be too busy and not be able to enjoy life to the full, now that I had a family and a wonderful place to live.

Heather seemed to be tired and listless and I wondered if she was coming down with a cold or something. She seemed rather warm to me, though her little hands and feet were cold. I put to bed and read her Snow White. I’m not sure that she was paying much attention as she fell asleep on page three. She’s a tough little cookie though, and I expected her to be back to her usual chirpy self next morning.

Mind you, I was yawning too. I wondered why I always felt sleepy when reading her a bedtime story, must be something from my own childhood.

Abby returned at nine o’clock and we decided on an early night. We checked on Heather first and she seemed to sleeping fitfully with a frown on her tiny forehead. I picked her up and she didn’t like that as she wriggled about a bit. We took her temperature and it was up slightly. We would have to check that a bit later and before going off, we made sure that the baby alarm was working properly.

After a few minutes she seemed to settle down and we left her in peace. She was prone to having colds and this wasn’t the first time that she had caught the sniffles. She just liked to be left alone in those circumstances so we did just that.

~ §~

Abby and I had been getting to grips with each other and exploring new places. Our five-year mission: to explore strange positions; to seek out new heights and new naughtiness; to boldly go where no woman has gone before––

–Why is it that babies know exactly when you are trying to do something interesting and begin screaming at the most inappropriate and inopportune moment?

It took a few moments untangle ourselves before Abby, bless her, went to have a look to see what Heather was up to. I must admit that her crying was quite shrill and loud, but that was nothing unusual for her. She would put our yacht’s foghorn to shame sometimes. Mind you, I was in such a state of arousal; I was contemplating doing something with the bedpost–

However all that stopped as soon as I heard Abby shout for me.

I got up and ran out of the bedroom and into Heather’s.

Abby was there gazing down at Heather who looked hot, flushed and very agitated.

‘This isn’t right,’ said Abby, very worried.

Something was ringing a bell in my mind. I turned the light down and she didn’t seem quite so restless.

‘What is it?’ said Abby, ‘this isn’t one of her colds.’

I carefully un-popped Heather’s baby grow, no signs of anything there. But she seemed to be in a bit of pain. I looked at the back of her neck–nothing, but she was feeling really hot while her little hands and feet were cold. Then she was promptly sick all over the bedding.

I looked up at Abby.

‘Call Marcia and then get the Beemer out. We’ll take her straight to the hospital; we haven’t time to wait for an ambulance.’

I was amazed at how calm my voice sounded while inside I was screaming louder than Heather. I had read an article in Mother’s Monthly only a few days previously. I didn’t even want to think of what it might be and dared not tell Abby, who was upset enough. I had to be strong for all of us. I would cry later if I had to but for now we had to get our baby to hospital–and quickly.

I cleaned her up, wrapped her in a blanket and rushed outside. Abby had just got off the ’phone. As we went out to the car, she told me; ‘I ’phoned Marcia and then the hospital and quickly told them that our baby wasn’t well and we were worried. They asked about symptoms and I told them what I knew. They’re waiting for us now and Marcia will meet us there.’

I could tell by the way she was talking that she was close to losing it. I got her to sit in the back of the car with Heather in her seat as I drove off down the road, tyres screeching.

The journey up to the cottage hospital seemed to take ages. I was exceeding the speed limit until Abby told me to slow down. The last thing we wanted was for me to kill someone while speeding.

Things were rushing through my head as I tried to concentrate on driving. I felt guilty about not realising that our daughter was suffering and the fact that we were having sex next door while she–she––

I shook my head. I had to pay attention and not be negative.

‘How is she?’ I called over my shoulder.

‘She’s gone to sleep–please hurry.’

I couldn’t go fast now even if I wanted to. The trees and bushes flashed by in a blur as I went up the twisty road that led to the hospital. I refused to think too much about what it might be. I just hoped and prayed that I was wrong. What did I know? I wasn’t a doctor. Marcia would take one look at our precious baby and laugh at us for being so silly.

We went through the gates and I screeched to a halt in front of the hospital entrance. Marcia was there and couple of nurses. As I opened the car door, Marcia smiled briefly and didn’t hang about. Abby had undone the belts holding Heather and lifted her out to Marcia who ran into the hospital with the nurses, leaving us alone in the drive.

We looked at each other and hugged. Abby was crying.

‘What is it Sam, what’s making her ill? She seemed like a rag doll when I lifted her out of the seat.’

I took her arm and led her into the hospital. Amanda Freeman, the receptionist was there. I knew Amanda well; she had a few of her photographs up in my gallery. She got up from behind her desk and walked over. Taking one look at us she took us to a side room–a small waiting room–disappeared and returned a few moments later with cups of Rosie Lee, as Tracy would say.

It was only then that I realised that both Abby and I were only in our dressing gowns. I would have been highly embarrassed if I wasn’t so worried. Amanda didn’t bat an eyelid though.

‘All right, you two,’ she said in a no nonsense tone, ‘you have done everything right and the team here are the best that Devon can offer. I know that you are worried sick, but we’ll let you know what’s happening as soon as we know. I’ll leave you alone now and maybe get something more appropriate for you to wear–only hospital scrubs, but beggars can’t be choosers.’

With that she left us to our thoughts. A few minutes later she came back and gave us some clothes to put on. Green wasn’t my colour, but I couldn’t give a toss about that.

~ §~

Half an hour later and my nails were in a sorry state. Abby just sat next to me holding my hand. We hadn’t spoken much, each with our own thoughts to occupy us.

The door opened and Marcia came in. she looked tired and she wasn’t smiling.

I gripped Abby’s hand tightly as she came over and sat next to us.

‘I thought that you needed to know. She has Pneumococcal Meningitis,’

Abby gasped, I didn’t; I thought that it might be meningitis, although I wasn’t sure.

‘But there was no rash?’ cried Abby.

‘It isn’t always present. Look we have her under treatment and are doing a number of tests. Indications are that we have caught it early enough, but time will tell. She’s sleeping now.

‘Will she die?’ I asked.

She looked at me, compassion on her face.

‘I can’t lie to you. It’s a nasty thing to get and some people do die, but that is more likely to happen if treatment isn’t sought at an early stage. If you had left it another hour things might be different but what I can say is that she is strong and all the signs indicate that she should be okay. We’ll know a lot more tomorrow. Why don’t you both go home…?’

‘I’m not going home!’ I said forcibly.

‘Nor me,’ said Abby.

She sighed.

‘I thought you might say that. We have a family room that you can use. Amanda will show you. Try to get some rest though.’

‘Can we see her?’ I asked.

‘For a few minutes then you both need to get some sleep before we have to admit you too!’

She gave us both a brief hug and then led us out of the room, down a short corridor and into another room. We had to put masks on and wash our hands with anti-bac before we were led into a room with a number of cots. A couple of the cots were occupied by tiny forms but our eyes were on the third cot, where our little girl was. A nurse was close by and she smiled as we came up. Marcia whispered goodbye and went off.

Heather looked so small and defenceless there. She was asleep with a monitor on one of her toes and a few others attached to her body with small pads. She was twitching slightly and moving in her sleep. Whether that had anything to with her illness or just that she was dreaming, I didn’t know.

Abby and I held hands as we looked at her. The beep…beep of the monitors was all we could hear in that quiet room. I looked at the nurse as she went around almost constantly checking on the three children in the ward. I was thankful that we had some wonderful people looking after our baby.

After a while, we left Heather to rest and after a whispered thanks to the nurse, we left the ward and went down the corridor, through the swing doors and into the reception. We stopped short as there stood my sister Dawn, Jocasta and David, Katie and Dotty too!

They came over straight away and we had a sort of group hug with Dotty doing most of the crushing.

After a few moments of this, we went back into the waiting room and everyone dragged up chairs. There was a mad grab for the tissue box and surprise, surprise, Dotty won.

‘How did you know?’ I said to no one in particular. David spoke first.

‘The hospital rang me. They do when there’s a chance that I might be needed. I know that there are confidentiality issues, but this is Penmarris and we all stick together. I told Jo of course and she, not knowing how to keep quiet, rang around a few close people. We thought that you might need some support.’

‘Flaming cheek, David. I do not blab, I just sort of try to–erm, help.’

David snorted at that. He had heard it all before.

‘Damn good thing she did ring,’ said Dotty, ‘can’t stand secrecy. Didn’t want to find out too late. Wanted to help and all that sort of rot. She is my God child and you are family. When did yer intend tellin me, when she’s all better and home again?’

‘Sorry, Mummy, it’s just it happened so quickly. One minute we were home in bed and––’

‘–what Sam’s trying to say is that we had to get Heather in quickly and worry about telling everyone, especially you, Mummy Dotty, as soon as we could.’

‘Hmm. Well…that’s all right then. So how is the little sprogette?’

‘She’s responding to treatment, Marcia told us,’ I said, ‘they should know better by the morning.’

I was still a bit tearful. I had held myself together for so long, not wanting to worry Abby about my suspicions and then everything happened at once. Now it was really sinking in and I started to sob and put my head in my hands.

Before I knew it I was in a bear hug with someone wearing a fox fur. It could only have been Mummy.

I must have lost it for a few moments but being in her reassuring arms helped make me feel better. No matter how old you are. Having a hug, even from an honorary mother, is very nice and reassuring.

~ §~

The others left after about an hour, promising to come back when needed. Dawn said that she would go and sort out the cats and the gallery and pottery tomorrow so that we didn’t need to worry on that score. Mummy said that she would come up after breakfast to get a bulletin and we were ordered to keep our pecker up, whatever that means.

As they left, despite how desperate I felt, I had a warm fuzzy feeling about how everyone rallied around at our time of crisis.

Abby and I slept fitfully that night. We kept waking up at the least noise, dreading the possibility that someone might come and give us bad news. Eight thirty found us awake and after confirmation that Heather had not deteriorated overnight, we were advised to go and have breakfast as there would be more tests and then the doctors’ rounds a bit later and we wanted to back for that.

The hospital cafeteria hadn’t opened yet, as the volunteers wouldn’t show until ten, so Abby, who knew the area better than I, said we should go to Tony’s Café for breakfast. We left our mobile numbers with the duty receptionist–Amanda’s shift had finished last night–and made our way down the road, to the café on the hill that was Tony’s.

As we walked I tried to ’phone Dotty to tell her what was happening. She was on the ’phone so I left a message. Abby rang Jo because we knew that the whole village would get the information in ten minutes flat. Dawn had texted me that all was well with cats and businesses and that she would be up with the rest of the family a bit later on unless she heard otherwise.

Tony’s was on the hill leading down to the quay. It was not a big place but you couldn’t miss it as the walls were painted a bright yellow and the doors and window frames blue. It looked bright clean and very seasidish–if there is such a word.

Abby went up the single step, opened the door and went in. I followed close behind. There wasn’t anyone in the cafe that I could see but behind a door, we could hear singing. I think that it was Nessun Dorma, but Pavarotti it wasn’t, being rather off key and making the possibility of shattered glass a distinct possibility.

Abby glanced at me and grimaced as we approached to the counter.

‘He’s at it again. He’s in the talent contest at the end of the month and thinks that he’s Penmarris’s answer to the three tenors.’

‘Well, I said, ‘I wouldn’t give a fiver for him.’

We giggled at that, releasing the tension a bit.

The door flew open and there was Tony. How do I describe Tony? He was short, fat, bald and as ugly as sin, but that didn’t matter. He had such twinkling eyes and a smile of welcome that would melt the ice caps.

‘Liedies, welcome to my ’umble restaurant.’ The Italian accent seemed to be a bit over the top, but what the hell, it wasn’t as hard to translate as Devonian or–God forbid–Tracy’s. Didn’t anyone talk proper like what I do around here?

‘Tony, nice to see you. Lost some weight?’

‘Yessa, you like?’ he said as he did a bit of a twirl that reminded me of the hippo thing in Fantasia.

‘Very nice. Look we are in a hurry can we have one of your specials?’

‘Cominga up, dear liedy.’ His eyes came onto me. ‘so you are the delityeful and beautiful Sarmantha?’

‘Erm, yes.’ I said, blushing.

‘Charm-ed, you are as beautiful as the swans on-a the like.’

‘Like?’

‘Yessa, like. You no speaka da lingo?’

‘He means lake,’ Abby whispered.

‘Oh, thanks,’ I said, not really knowing if I had been complimented or insulted.

‘No mention it. Two specials a-cominga up.’

With that he pirouetted on the spot and disappeared out the back. A few seconds later we heard the banging of pots and pans, some Italian type oaths and then verse or was that round two of Nessun Dorma?

‘Blimey,’ I said, ‘is he for real?’

‘Yes,’ replied Abby with a smile, ‘mind you, although he is Italian on his mother’s side, he actually comes from Scunthorpe.’

‘Riiight.’ I said, more confused than ever.

After a surprisingly small space of time, the breakfast was brought in and placed in front of us as if it was some sort of tour de force. ‘Two specials for two special liedies!’

‘Thanks,’ we replied, smiling.

‘I leave you alone–enjoy.’ Another pirouette and he was gone.

The breakfast was an English “full house” with all the trimmings. I won’t describe it in detail, as even thinking about it could add inches to my bum. Needless to say, it was lovely and added about three times my recommended calories for the day.

After thanking Tony for the excellent breakfast and promising to back real soon, we struggled back up the hill to the hospital. The break had done me good and made me put the worries we had into the back of my mind, but now it was back to reality. We had to see what was happening with our wee Heather and steel ourselves for the worst.

We had been told the previous night that it looked as if she was going to be okay, but I had an ominous feeling in the back of my mind that they were just saying that to make us feel better. The fact that we weren’t allowed to see Heather this morning because of tests being done, didn’t help the feeling of dread that was rising with every step that I was taking back towards the hospital.

When we entered, Amanda was back on duty and smiled at us. She was on the ’phone, so we sat on the hard plastic chairs and waited. With a start, I realised that we were still wearing hospital scrubs to and from the cafe and also, Tony never said anything–we must have looked decidedly strange to the passers-by. Mind you this place was full of strange people so we probably didn’t look out of place.

A few moments later Marcia came through some swing doors wearing a white doctor’s coat and a stethoscope around her neck. She came straight over and ushered us into the waiting room that we had spent so much time in.

She did not keep us in suspense.

‘Right, I have some good news. She is responding well to the medication. The lumbar puncture results showed that she does indeed have Pneumococcal Meningitis but it was caught early and as I say she is showing every sign that things will be all right. She will have to stay in for a while as we need to monitor her closely though.’

‘Thank God!’ I said as Abby and I embraced.

‘We will also have to do some tests for hearing and eyes. Difficult in one so young but not impossible. All motor functions are responding and there is no sign of brain damage that we can see, although there is still some inflammation that should subside once the treatment takes effect. As I say we need to do further tests, but I am feeling positive about this one. I have to be frank with you though. We cannot test for everything and she will have to be tested regularly as she grows to make sure that there is no lasting damage caused by this.’

‘She was vaccinated though.’ I said.

‘Yes, but the vaccination doesn’t cover all strains. Heather was unlucky enough to catch a strain not covered by the vaccine. Anyway, you can go and see her now and if you have any further questions come and find me.’

She smiled and hugged us both and then went off leaving us to find our way to Heather’s ward.

~ §~

She still looked small and vulnerable, but her colour looked more normal. She was sleeping but not fitfully. She looked more like the baby we knew and loved. A little noisy monkey sometimes, but our little noisy monkey and we wouldn’t have her any other way.

¹ (Boracic = boracic lint = skint in cockney rhyming slang);

To be continued…

Please leave comments…thanks! ~Sue

As a point of information, I had meningitis as a baby and my mother told me that I nearly died. I have short term memory problems and these have been attributed to that illness. The more people who know about the symptoms, the more chances of recovery if caught early enough.

My thanks go to the brilliant and lovely Gabi for editing, help with the plot-lines and pulling the story into shape.