A/N: This is a bit of an outtake from A Most Delightful evening, inspired by the Yankee Countess's review of the epilogue. Should really go in the other fic, but again, the rate that is progressing we would be well into the next decade before I got to this point !
Manchester, March, 1934
Sybil stared out of the tram window on the way home from work and wondered exactly when her views on marriage had changed. As a young bride she had treasured every little discovery she made about Tom; the way his hair fell in his eyes when he slept, that he liked his toast black, every last mark and blemish on his body. She wanted nothing more than to gather all these little pieces of information to her and hoard them away in some corner of her brain so that she could take them out again and admire them, like a miser with his money. And in return she loved being a study, of being stripped down to her very being, his fingers rubbing away the grime of politeness, the shyness and uncertainty until she, Sybil, shone like the clearest diamond for him. She was drunk on being known, truly known, for the first time in her life. She felt then that there was nothing she would not share, no piece of herself she wouldn't turn over under his questioning gaze.
But somewhere in her almost fifteen years of marriage she had realised that there were some things that she didn't want to share, that losing yourself in your husband meant precisely that - losing yourself. Tom knew her better than anyone - better, she suspected, than she knew herself - but even he would say that there was always some corner that remained hidden, where she kept herself private. And that was where she was right now, instinctively retreating with what she had just been told at the hospital into that part of her psyche that she knew Tom couldn't reach. The younger Mrs Branson would not have been able to hold on to her news, but Sybil wanted to keep it to herself for a while, to turn it around and look at it from different angles, to get to grips with the shape and the weight of it before she was ready to let it go and watch it weave itself into their life together. She also knew that doing so was inevitable - but not just yet.
For the fact was that, at the age of thirty-eight, she was pregnant again. There had been none of the terrible nausea she had with Aoife - only a constant dragging tiredness that had eventually made her realise she should really see a doctor.
She's gone on her lunch break. The gynaecologist was a friend, and when she'd told Sybil she was expecting again, Sybil had blinked at her uncomprehendingly.
"Are you sure ?"
Dr Lucy Ramsdale had sent her eyes heavenward at this point, as if asking for the patience of the divine.
"Yes, Sybil, I am sure. You are very definitely pregnant."
"But…."
"You are surely not going to ask me how it happened ?"
"No, of course not ! But…. we've been so careful…."
"Not careful enough, obviously."
Sybil had sat in silence as she watched the doctor dry her hands, feeling unaccountably as if she wanted to burst into tears.
"When am I due ?" she whispered.
"Early September, I should think." Lucy looked at her, a little concerned. "I know this must be a bit of a shock for you, but I really don't think you should be worried. You were fine with Aoife and there no reason to think that you won't be fine with this baby too."
'I'm thirty-eight."
"Lots of women have babies in their late thirties."
"I suppose so," she said, looking down at where her hands were folded in her lap. Lucy sighed.
"Go and have a cup of tea. Put lots of sugar in it - you've had a shock."
"I think I'd rather put some brandy in it."
Lucy laughed at this.
"Honestly, Sybil, It will be alright. We'll need to keep an eye on you, of course, but you'll be fine. Do you want me to have a word with Matron ?"
At the mention of Matron, Sybil's head shot up.
"No ! No, I'll tell Matron when I have to."
Lucy nodded and got up from behind her desk, signalling that the consultation was over.
"Alright then. But take it easy. Don't tire yourself out."
Sybil had done as she was bid and returned to her ward and made herself some strong, sweet tea. But before she could really take on board what she had been told, one of her staff nurses put her head round the door.
"Sister ? Mr Worthington wants to take Mrs Evans down to surgery an hour earlier. I've tried to tell him we can't get her prepared in time, but he won't listen. He's looking for you…."
She sighed, poured the rest of her tea down the sink and followed the agitated nurse out onto the ward, putting her own thoughts away in order to deal with an irascible surgeon.
Mr Worthington had found Sister Branson uncharacteristically short that afternoon, insisting that her patient's schedules could not be changed at the drop of a hat just to accommodate his plans for fitting in a little golf after surgery. She was normally such a change from the other senior nurses he encountered at the hospital - competent, by God, yes, a bloody good nurse, but so charming and well spoken with it. But this afternoon she had been brusque almost to the point of rudeness and she wouldn't let him have the patient early, referring him to Matron if he was not happy. He had decided that an not even an additional hour's golf was worth a confrontation with Matron.
Sybil watched him go and inhaled deeply, thankful that her shift was nearly over and she could soon go home and even more thankful that she was on an early shift, meaning she would have the house to herself for a while before having to face either Tom or the girls. So here she was, on an afternoon tram back to Didsbury, watching weary mothers dragging small children along with them on their daily marketing, their dull coats complementing the dreary Manchester skies.
She walked the short distance from the tram stop back home in a trance, letting herself into cool dimness of their hall. She dropped her bags, took off her coat and headed straight for the kitchen and put the kettle on. Standing by the range her gaze fell on their small garden and she immediately saw herself seated on a blanket with one of her baby daughters, the child's infinite curiosity matched equally by her own. She remembered the joy and the awe of seeing her babies grow into little girls - but most of all, she remembered the exhaustion. The girls were no longer small; indeed, they stood on the brink of womanhood, their emotions as awkward as their bodies. They were beginning to pull away from their parents, creating their own private spaces where Mummy and Dad weren't welcome. She and Tom found themselves increasingly alone together, free to talk and to make the rather wonderful discovery that after living in the same house all these years, they still liked each other better than anyone. Sybil was wise enough to know that this was not always the case, and she was grateful for it.
Indeed, she thought, that was what had got her into her current state. Casting her mind back to the previous December, she remembered a day when Mary and Matthew had motored over to Manchester to do some Christmas shopping and had offered to take the girls with them for the day. Niamh and Aoife had jumped at the chance at spending time with their glamourous Aunt and Uncle, especially, Sybil suspected, because it meant they could indulge in their favourite pastime of tormenting George. Tom had just come back from a miserable two weeks in London and when the front door had closed it had taken them very little time to start behaving like a pair of youngsters themselves, kissing each other as they had done in the garage a lifetime ago and leaving a trail of eagerly discarded clothes all the way up the stairs to the bedroom. They'd made love not in the familiar, comfortable way they both liked, but with the passion of long-separated newlyweds. Dr Ramsdale was right. They hadn't been nearly careful enough recently.
The kettle boiled and she made some tea, letting the ritual of swilling water around the teapot soothe her. Finally she sat down at the kitchen table and put her head in her hands.
Another baby. They had left sleepless nights, dirty nappies and screaming infants behind years ago. Nowadays, she and Tom both had responsible jobs they enjoyed and it felt as if life had finally reached a more pleasant equilibrium. A new baby would disrupt that completely. She'd have to stop work - she was already dreading the conversation she would have to have with Matron - and she was by no means sure they would let her come back. And she had absolutely no idea what Tom would think. He would be forty-four this year. She was sure that being a father again at his age was not something he had bargained for.
Her musings were interrupted by the sound of the front door opening, followed a few minutes later by the appearance of the man himself at the kitchen door.
"Hello, sweetheart," he smiled as he passed behind her, kissing the top of her head. "Is there any tea in that pot ?"
She nodded and silently placed another cup and saucer next to hers.
"You're home early,"
"I wanted to finish that piece on Mosley. It's easier to do it at home. Good day ?"
She focussed on pouring his tea.
"It was alright."
Tom loosened his tie and looked at his wife curiously. She was usually quite voluble on the subject of her work, sometimes too much so for his stomach's liking. Her indifference caught his attention.
"Sybil ?"
She placed her hands in her lap and looked up at him.
"You know I've been feeling so tired lately ?"
"Yes," he said cautiously.
"Well, I went to see Lucy Ramsdale at lunchtime."
"Oh."
"I think you'd better sit down. There's something I need to tell you."
The colour drained from his face and he felt himself go cold all over. He remained where he was, unable to move.
"What's the matter ?" he whispered.
Sybil looked at him and could see the fear in his eyes. She knew what he was thinking, but somehow the news she was about to give him seemed equally devastating. Her eyes started to fill with tears.
"Oh, God, Sybil - "
"I'm pregnant !" she blurted out.
He stared at her, too startled by what she had just said to be relieved.
"Pregnant ?"
She nodded, the tears now falling freely.
"Pregnant ?" Confusion was etched in every line of his face as he watched her wipe her nose with the back of her hand as she nodded again. He pulled the chair back and sat down beside her very slowly, as if stunned. Sybil wondered if her father had looked like this when her mother had announced her late pregnancy. He nodded back at her.
"Pregnant."
"Are you upset about it ?" she said in a small voice, not really daring to ask.
A small, curious smile appeared, tugging his mouth sideways into a lopsided grin.
"No," he said softly, "not at all. I'm just a bit surprised…..I mean, we've been careful…"
"Not careful enough, evidently."
The looked at each other for a moment and then suddenly, Tom broke into a grin could have lit up the whole street.
"We're going to have a baby !"
"So you're pleased ?"
"Of course I'm pleased ! God, Sybil, I thought you were going to tell me you were ill….but a baby…" he shook his head, still not quite being able to believe it.
"I know its rather unexpected, but….."
"It's wonderful."
"Oh darling ! I'm so relieved !" Sybil launched herself out of her chair and into his arms, pulling herself onto his lap. He held her close, kissing her forehead as he did so.
"I was so worried you would hate it. It's going to be such a big disruption to our lives….."
"Well, its not as if I didn't have anything to do with it," he smiled ruefully, " and we'll manage. We did before."
"You really don't mind ?"
"Of course not !"
She reached up to stroke his cheek, then leant forward to kiss him properly, a mixture of relief and thanks. When he broke away it was only far enough to rub noses with her.
"Another baby…." he said in wonder. He sat up suddenly, pulling a little away from her to regard her critically.
"When is it due ?"
"September"
"And are you alright ? You've not been sick ?"
She shook her head.
"Not like with Aoife."
"Oh God," he muttered at the mention of one of his daughters, "we'll have to tell the girls…what are they going to think ? "
Sybil rolled her eyes.
"I should think they'll be horrified by the evidence that their parents …." she trailed off. They looked at each other and then both burst out laughing.
"Oh Lord," she said, "I was twenty-six when I was last pregnant."
"Don't worry," he said, pulling her closer. "We'll look after you. Me and the girls."
She gave him a thankful smile, then nestled her head comfortably under his chin and began to play with the button on the cuff of his shirt.
"Do you want to wait a while before telling them ?"
She shook her head.
"We might as well tell them tonight. I'll start to show before too long…I'll have to tell my family too. Goodness knows what they'll think."
He fell silent. Looking up, she could see he was frowning.
"Mama was older than I was," she said, following his train of thought, "and lots of women have babies at my age. Dr Ramsdale doesn't think it will be a problem."
He looked at her. Apart from a few stray grey hairs, she didn't look a great deal different from the girl he married fifteen years ago. The girl that never ceased to surprise him. He had to kiss her then.
Being otherwise engaged, they missed the clatter of bicycles being thoughtlessly dropped outside the kitchen window.
"Oh, honestly….do you have to ? " Niamh seemed to take the sight of her parents kissing in the kitchen personally. Sybil jumped up as if she had been scalded.
"Why shouldn't I kiss your mother ?" Tom asked belligerently.
An old hand of Branson family arguments, she headed off what was likely to be one of Niamh's more scathing observations with one word.
"Homework."
"Sylvia's father never kisses her mother."
"Knowing Sylvia's mother, I'm not surprised."
"Tom !"
"What's for dinner ?" Aoife was permanently hungry.
Sybil's eyes widened and she gasped. She had completely forgotten about dinner. Thoughts of her new child vanished as she contemplated the fact that the two children she already had would soon be moaning volubly about dining on sandwiches.
"I'll go to the chip shop when you've done your homework," grinned Tom. The girls immediately brightened at the prospect of such rare treat. Not stopping to question their father's inexplicable generosity, they disappeared up the stairs with their school bags before he could change his mind. She could have kissed him all over again. "And then," he called after them, "your mother and I have something to tell you…."