‘Last dash of the ovaries,’ said her GP. ‘Evolution is incredible. If you haven’t given birth by a certain age, your body can launch into action.’
‘Wow,’ Sam had said, which was almost all she’d said since she’d gone to the GP to discuss her strange tiredness and morning nausea, thinking there must be a medical reason other than the obvious.
On the phone, Dad said it was a good sign the baby was a week late.
‘All first babies are late and the later they are, the smarter they are. I can’t remember what site I read it on, but it’s true.’ Liam spent hours consulting the internet every day on pregnancy issues. ‘I was going to drop round later with your birthday present,’ he added.
‘I’d love that. We’ll be here. Ted’s going to walk the dogs, but I plan to tidy the kitchen cupboards.’
‘Ah, love, not on your birthday,’ begged her father. ‘Watch old movies and drink hot chocolate. That’s the right sort of plan. Do you have marshmallows? I’ll bring some.’
‘Just like old times,’ said Sam, smiling into the phone.
When her father had hung up, Ted nuzzled into her.
‘Happy birthday, sexy pregnant lady,’ he said, sliding up her nightie to stroke her bare belly.
Baby Bean wriggled and they both gasped to feel Sam’s small guest poke an elbow up.
‘Incredible,’ said Ted, marvelling.
‘I know,’ agreed Sam, stroking her belly gently. ‘Incredible.’
Ted swung out of bed.
‘I’ll let the dogs out and bring you tea. Camomile and apple? Earl Grey?’
Sam considered it. ‘Earl Grey. Anymore camomile and I’ll turn into a camomile lawn.’
She used to love her morning coffee but had given it up as soon as she’d learned she was pregnant – not that a certain amount of caffeine was necessarily bad in pregnancy. But Sam had spent too long wishing and praying for this child to do anything but turn her body into a temple until he or she was born. This was the legacy of every failed pregnancy test: a fear of doing something, anything, to hurt her baby.
She snuggled back down into the bed and talked nonsense to Baby Bean. She did that a lot now – running commentaries, telling the baby what she was doing and how she couldn’t wait to do it all with Baby Bean.
‘Grandpa will be over later with a present for me, baba. It’s my birthday today! You’re my best birthday present, though.’
Ted returned with a cup of Earl Grey tea for her. Sam took a sip. She’d never been able to touch it pre-pregnancy, but now she wasn’t drinking coffee and the idea of milk in tea made her want to gag, Earl Grey, black, no lemon, was perfect.
He got back into bed with her and gently stroked her shoulder.
‘Sleep?’ he asked.
‘Bean is undecided about whether to be a footballer or a gymnast,’ Sam sighed. ‘Lots of moving and kicking. I don’t know what that means. Oh, but Dad says that late babies are smarter.’
‘Aren’t you clever,’ crooned Ted to her bump.
He’d been amazing all through her pregnancy: kind no matter how ratty she’d got and perfectly happy to sit on the side of the bath rubbing her back as she soaked in the water. No matter how enormous she’d become – and boy, she was enormous now – he’d still told her every day how gorgeous she was.
‘Now that your dad’s got that new bit of information, there’s still time to start that blog about baby advice,’ Ted suggested.
Sam loved this game. She started first.
‘Number one, people need to know that babies who are carried low can be boys/girls/llamas.’
‘Or that fish is good and bad for you, simultaneously,’ added Ted.
They laughed.
By now, forty-one weeks into her first pregnancy, Sam and Ted had come to the conclusion that everyone on the planet believed themselves to be an expert in babies.
And that they all had advice they wanted to impart – whether Sam or Ted wanted to listen or not.
‘Don’t eat fish – mercury kills babies.’
‘Eat fish – it’s good for their brains.’
‘One glass of wine occasionally relaxes you. I’m sure the World Health Organisation said that. Or was it my sister . . .?’
‘Your baby will be born with Foetal Alcohol Syndrome if you so much as smell alcohol from more than a distance of four feet. I saw it on the Discovery Channel.’
‘Natural births are the best for mother and baby. Who wants drugs in their poor baby’s system?’
‘Ask for the drugs early on, like, really early on. If you don’t get them in time, you’ll scream and the pain . . .’
‘You’re carrying low – definitely a girl.’
‘You’re carrying low – a boy, for sure!’
‘Go back to sleep, Sam. You need to rest,’ Ted said. But Sam felt wide awake now. She knew she’d never get back to sleep for even a few minutes.
‘Dogs still out the back?’
‘Yes. Four magpies in the garden – did you not hear the orgy of barking? The neighbours will love us for dragging them out of their hangovers at this early hour on a Saturday.’
Four magpies, Sam thought, hauling herself out of the bed to hit the bathroom for her first of many trips of the day. Was she having a boy? Three magpies meant you were having a girl, four meant a boy. If she saw five magpies, Sam wondered if a silver baby would slither out.
From all the painful birth stories she’d been told, she hoped slithering out was part of it all.
They’d asked not to be told the sex of the baby. ‘It’s not long until we’ll know and it’s life’s biggest secret,’ she said to Ted. ‘Let’s wait.’
‘I thought life’s biggest secret was whether there is life on another planet,’ said Ted, deadpan. ‘OK, you win. No asking the radiographer if they can see a willy or not.’
The spare bedroom was turned into a nursery decorated in a riot of yellows and white and Ted, whose father had a lathe, had slaved over a handmade cot.
She wriggled her feet into her slippers after the bathroom. It was a long time since she’d been able to see her feet, much less bend down to pull on shoes.
‘You try and snooze,’ she said, kissing Ted on the head as he rearranged the pillows.
She went into their tiny kitchen to make toast with honey – she could eat it for the Olympics. Also ice cream. Gallons of it.