‘YOU MUST BE getting excited about the big move to London?’
It was a question Freya Ross had heard many times in recent weeks, and although the knot in her stomach tightened at the thought of what lay ahead she smiled.
‘I’m very much looking forward to it.’
As a midwife at the birthing centre attached to Cromayr Bay Hospital, Freya was examining Mrs Roberts while her three little boys ran amok in the rather small cubicle. Most patients preferred to be called by their first name, but not Mrs Roberts.
‘Jamie!’ Mrs Roberts scolded as her boisterous three-year-old climbed on a chair.
Freya was more than used to working with toddlers underfoot, and she was also very used to holding in her thoughts.
She had told no one of her misgivings about moving to London. Not her parents, nor her best friend, nor her colleagues. Certainly she would not burden a patient with her worries.
No one could possibly guess that now her leaving date was almost here Freya was dreading making the move from the small Scottish town of Cromayr Bay to London.
The news of her leaving had come as a complete surprise to everyone. No one had known she’d gone to London for an interview. This was no mean feat in Cromayr Bay! Even swapping her off-duty days had been complicated—Freya hadn’t been able to lie and say that she was visiting the dentist, given that the dentist was the husband of Betty, her senior midwife. And, had she called in sick—well someone would either have mentioned that her car had been seen at Cromayr Bay station, or they’d have dropped in to check that she was okay.
In the end Freya had said that she was catching up with a friend with whom she had trained.
‘Oh? Who?’ Betty had asked...
Feeling as if her nose must surely be an inch longer after such a complex lie, Freya had taken the train to Edinburgh’s Waverley Station and from there had travelled down to London to the Primary, a large, modern hospital.
Freya’s general nursing training had taken place in Cowdenbeath, and she had done some placements in Edinburgh during her midwifery training, so she wasn’t unfamiliar with busy hospitals. The Primary was incredibly large, though, and the interview had been very thorough.
Her training had been excellent, and Freya had kept her skills up to date with regular shifts in the main Cromayr Bay hospital, which the birthing centre was attached to.
She had been offered a six-month contract by the London hospital, commencing in the middle of July, and Freya was starting to get nervous.
Not that she showed it.
Instead of revealing her feelings now, she made small talk with Mrs Roberts as she palpated the baby. ‘We’ve got my leaving do tonight, over at the Tavern,’ Freya said. ‘You’re actually the last patient that I’ll see before I go.’
‘I’m sorry that you shan’t be here for the birth.’
‘I am too, Mrs Roberts,’ Freya agreed. ‘Although I know you are going to do just fine.’
‘I expect Alison is feeling the same as I do about your leaving?’
Freya’s hands paused mid-examination. Alison had made it clear that she didn’t want the news about her pregnancy getting out just yet.
‘We’re best friends.’ Freya decided to give a non-committal answer, just in case she had misinterpreted the question. ‘So, yes, she was a bit upset when I told her that I was moving—but I’ll be coming home regularly.’
‘I meant about the baby,’ Mrs Roberts said. ‘It’s okay, I’m not asking you to break any confidences. I just heard the other day that she’s expecting again. It’s lovely news.’
‘It is,’ Freya agreed, though inwardly she sighed for her friend at the fact that the news had got out. Very few people knew. And, even though Alison was past her first trimester, she had wanted to keep it to herself for a while yet.
But nothing stayed a secret for very long here.
‘I just hope...’ Mrs Roberts voice trailed off. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘I hope that things go better for her this time.’
Freya gave a small nod, but refused to be drawn into a discussion about the loss of Andrew.
Last year had been a hard one.
Following an uneventful pregnancy, Alison had arrived at the birthing centre in active labour. But while checking the foetal heart-rate Freya had realised something was terribly wrong.
Alison had been transferred to the attached hospital and a crash Caesarean had been performed. The little boy had been resuscitated and then transferred to Edinburgh, where there had been a NICU cot available.
He’d been beautiful and utterly perfect. A chunky baby, with long, dark lashes, big cheeks and pudgy hands. But the lack of oxygen from cord compression and subsequent meconium aspiration had left him severely brain damaged.
Despite best efforts Andrew had died two days later, leaving Alison, her husband Callum and their families shattered.
Freya had been his godmother and proxy aunt, and she still woke regularly from nightmares, with the ominous sound of the CTG bleeping seeming to fill her bedroom. It felt as if her chest was being crushed whenever she recalled the devastation on Alison’s face when it had become clear that things were going terribly wrong.
‘Freya?’ Alison had pleaded.
The fear in Alison’s voice was something that Freya would never be able to erase from her memory.
Alison had never blamed Freya. In fact she had drawn on her friend, and Freya had stayed strong for Alison even through a serious relationship break-up.
And now, not by a flicker did she reveal her own heartache as she focussed on her patient and the little life beneath her hands.
‘Everything’s looking grand,’ Freya said as she felt the baby’s position. ‘The head is down and baby is a good size.’
‘Aye.’
For Freya, the real beauty of working at Cromayr Bay was the chance to really get to know her patients and their families, and now, after being more than willing to chat about Alison’s pregnancy, Mrs Roberts’s short response when discussing her own, concerned Freya.
It wasn’t just that, though. Over the months Freya had been trying to gauge Mrs Roberts’s feelings.
This pregnancy had come close after the birth of twins, but Mrs Roberts insisted it was all part of the plan as she wanted her children to be near each other in age.
Freya was quite certain that Mrs Roberts was struggling, but she was a very proud and private woman. Earlier, though, she’d seemed more talkative, and Freya wondered if she actually wanted to speak to her.
Jamie, the eldest, was getting restless, and the twins were going through their mother’s handbag. Freya was in no doubt that Mrs Roberts would want to dash off as soon as her appointment was done.
As she went to the desk to write up her findings Mrs Roberts dressed and then came over and took a seat.
‘Jamie!’ She scolded her son, who had pulled over a jar of cotton balls. ‘I’m so sorry, Freya.’
‘It’s not a problem. I shouldn’t have left them at a three-year-old’s level.’ As Mrs Roberts went to retrieve them Freya stopped her. ‘He might as well play with them,’ she said—not just because the cotton balls would now have to be discarded, but also because it might keep Jamie amused for a few minutes.
‘He’s into everything,’ Mrs Roberts explained. ‘I need eyes in the back of my head.’
‘You’re certainly going to be busy when the new baby comes,’ Freya agreed. ‘Is there anyone who might be able to help once the