For the rest of Saturday, Richard rigorously deep-cleaned his entire house. No corner was left unswept, no cobweb undusted, no cupboard uncleared. It took him many hours but it had the saving grace of stopping him from thinking about the thunderbolt that had just shattered his life. Exhausted, he fell into bed and somewhat to his surprise dropped off almost immediately and slept until Sunday morning. Then the reality hit home.
Conscious of his abysmal lack of knowledge, he sat all day at his computer, feverishly scrolling through every website he could find relating to pregnancy and childbirth. He ordered several books, and started drawing up a week-by-week chart showing the development of the foetus and the accompanying physical signs in the mother. In his view, Camille had always been far too relaxed and slapdash, and he was sure he would have to monitor her carefully. The more he read the more horrified he became at all the things that could potentially go wrong. He had had no idea of how complex an issue pregnancy could be and by Sunday night he was amazed that any woman managed to survive it, let alone repeat the experience. He even toyed with the idea of calling Camille and urging her, for her own sake, not to go through with it.
A couple of days later the books arrived and he read each of them cover to cover twice. By now he probably knew as much about pregnancy and childbirth as the average midwife, and it wasn't making him any calmer or less worried.
One day at work he made an excuse to call in one of his sergeants, who he knew had recently returned from paternity leave. Trying (and probably failing) to sound casual, he asked him how he was finding fatherhood.
Sergeant Graham grinned. "Well, you know, Sir, he's a lovely little chap but my wife and I, we're living in a state of permanent chaos, nappy changing and sleep deprivation. It really does turn your life upside down. The night-time feeds are the worse, although my wife usually takes care of them, but there are times when he just cries and cries and nothing we do seems to make any difference."
Richard listened in horror. This was what was in store for him – at least for a few weeks in the year.
"So you won't be rushing to have any more, then?"
The sergeant laughed. "Oh I expect we will. We'll survive. It doesn't last for ever, you know, and there's simply nothing like holding your own child in your arms."
"No … er … quite."
"Sorry, Sir, I didn't mean to go on. I know you're not really a family man. But thank you for asking."
Richard gave a small nod of dismissal, still somewhat discomforted by the sergeant's words, and returned to his case files. He read the same page three times before he even noticed.
On a Sunday about two weeks after her visit to the UK, Camille rang.
"I just called to let you know that I've had my 12-week scan, and everything is fine."
"What could you see?"
"Not very much, just a blob, really. It's still very small. The next scan will be better."
"Yes. And … er … are you feeling OK? You know, morning sickness, fainting …?"
"I'm perfectly well, thank you. I've barely felt nauseous at all. Sometimes I'm a bit more tired than usual, but that's about it."
He pounced excitedly. "Ah yes, tiredness. That's one of the classic symptoms. Well, make sure you get enough rest, and take plenty of Vitamin D. It says so in the book I've been reading."
"Richard, I don't need to take Vitamin D! The sun shines virtually all the time here – remember?"
"But better to be on the safe side. You should take a course of tablets."
"Richard, I am not ill, just pregnant. Don't wind me up!"
"Ha! Mood swings – that's another symptom!"
She ground her teeth. He would never change. "I appreciate your concern, Richard, but there's really no need. As I said, I am perfectly well. Let's talk about something else. You will be pleased to know that my mother is over the moon, as I knew she would be, and Dwayne wants to be godfather."
"Dwayne?"
"Yes, and I think he will make an excellent godparent. I wish he'd been mine when I was growing up."
"Hmmm … I'm not sure about that! He's not exactly the most responsible of people." He sensed her hackles rising at the other end of the line, so added hastily "But we can talk about it later. Er … anyone ask any awkward questions?"
"Oh yes, but I just tell everyone who's bold enough to ask that the father isn't on the island, and they seem to have accepted that."
"Even your mother?"
"My mother is very wise, Richard. She knows when not to ask questions."
And so the pattern was established. They spoke, or – once Camille's bump became visible – skyped every weekend. She became used to twisting and turning in front of the camera, so he could see for himself how her normally slender figure was expanding. Camille continued serenely into her second trimester, a complete stranger to all the worries and concerns that beset and tormented Richard, half a world away.
She quickly learned to minimise any symptoms she might be suffering following a painful episode in which he convinced himself that the swelling she was experiencing in her feet was a sign of imminent pre-eclampsia. It took a great deal of reassurance on her part that this was a perfectly normal part of pregnancy and eventually a promise to have her blood pressure checked again, for that particular storm to pass.
Then there was the time when, at 18 weeks, the baby hadn't yet started moving in the womb. Richard knew perfectly well that it didn't always happen that early and that there was nothing to worry about, but he couldn't stop himself from fretting and texted her constantly for updates. Camille found it wearing, but also rather endearing – at least it showed he cared – so she tolerated his panics whenever they arose and soothed and cajoled him into something approaching her own state of calmness.
She herself had no worries. She knew she was fit and healthy and there was no reason at all why everything should not go perfectly smoothly. And she knew that, if she needed her, Catherine would be by her side. Together they had re-decorated and fitted out the little spare room above the bar to make it into a nursery. Painted largely in sunshine yellow and with bright red shutters opening on to the blue ocean and a bright red cot, it was to be a happy place in which to raise a baby. She had taken photos and emailed them to Richard, who had replied – she thought a little wistfully – with a description of the beige-and-white coloured room he had grown up in himself. But then everything in his parents' house had been beige and white.
During one of their Skype discussions, Richard asked Camille about her 20-week scan, which was due shortly.
"So, are you going to find out whether it's a boy or a girl?"
"Yes, I think so. I won't tell you if you don't want to know, though."
"No, I want to know. At least, I think I do …"
"Well, whatever it is it's hungry! I'm permanently starving and forever eating."
"You mustn't eat too much, Camille. I know you need to snack, but don't go overboard. You're only supposed to be putting on about 4lb a month, you know."
"Are you saying I'm too fat?"
He sighed. She was so moody, it was impossible to say the right thing. It was bad enough normally, but with her hormones running riot it was like tiptoeing through quicksand.
"No, of course you're not fat – it's the baby. I'm just saying, don't take eating for two too literally!"
"Of course I might be having twins! That's why I'm so fat!"
Richard blanched. One baby was bad enough, but two …
"Do you think that's likely?" he asked weakly.
"No, not really, there's no history of twins in my family. But you never know!"
He decided a change of subject was in order.
"Are you doing your pelvic floor exercises?"
"Yes, Richard."
"And putting your feet up to rest?"
"Yes, Richard."
"Well, you should be fine, then."
If there had been a wall handy, she would have banged her head against it.
Some days later Richard received an unexpected item in the post. He could see that it was post-marked Saint-Marie, so he guessed it must be from Camille, but it felt rigid so he had no idea what it could be. He opened it slowly and out fell a cardboard photo frame. In the middle was a grainy image. It was blurred, but there was no mistaking that it was of a baby. The baby he had helped to make. At the bottom Camille had written 20 weeks – and only one of her!
So, a little girl. This was for real. Richard sat staring at the image for some time, then put it carefully in his desk drawer.
Some weeks later, in their weekly chat, he brought up the issue of the birth.
"Really, I'd like a home birth, but the midwife says I should go to the hospital as this is my first child."
"Yes, I'm sure that's right. You'll be classed as an elderly primigravida, and there's always an added risk in those cases. You have to be sensible about it, Camille."
"What do you mean elderly? Are you calling me old again, as well as fat? I'm a lot younger than you!"
"I'm well aware of that. It's a medical term, Camille, that they apply to anyone from their mid-thirties onwards who is about to give birth for the first time. Not a very flattering description, I agree, but I would think you just about fit into that category."
"Pff! Well I certainly feel old at the moment – swollen feet, varicose veins and backache! And I feel like an elephant lumbering around. I told her not to kick so hard the other day, and she kicked me again even harder! So we had words …"
"You're talking to her?"
"Of course! I would have thought all your books would have told you that you should talk to your baby to get it used to your voice. I play music too – they say babies can recognise when they're born music they listened to in the womb. Perhaps you should try talking to her too?"
Richard decided to ignore that suggestion. It all sounded very dubious to him. "Well, what I do know is that a woman's hormones can affect the personality traits of her baby – and that is scientifically proven! So you need to keep calm and not get so worked up!"
"I am perfectly calm, Richard – you're the one that's getting worked up! But there's no need – everything is fine and I am going to all my appointments and my ante-natal classes. What about you?"
"Me?" he squeaked.
"Yes, you. Lots of men go to ante-natal classes – you should too."
"Understand this, Camille, I am not – repeat not – going to spend my time sitting cross-legged on the floor with a lot of women playing breathing games and humming! Especially as I don't have a pregnant partner to accompany."
She shrugged. "That's a very old-fashioned view – there's a lot more to it than that. But as you wish – I'm not going to argue with you."
"Well that's a first. But anyway, I need to check that you've got your hospital bag all packed and ready."
She sighed. "Richard, there's another ten weeks to go – plenty of time for that."
"But anything could happen. You need to be prepared."
"OK, OK, I'll do it tomorrow. Or probably on Tuesday, as I've promised to visit my cousin on the east coast tomorrow."
"I trust you're taking a taxi. You're not still driving?"
"Of course I am – why ever not? The seatbelt still fits round me."
"But if you have to swerve or do an emergency stop …"
"It would be no different whether I was driving or a passenger. I keep telling you, Richard, I'm not ill, I'm just a bit ungainly and I waddle. That doesn't mean I can't live a normal life. I'll stop when I can't get behind the wheel."
Richard gave in. He knew that he would never be able to influence her from thousands of miles away, and he was honest enough to admit that opting for anonymity hadn't left him in the strongest position in any case. But it didn't stop him from fretting and worrying as the due date grew steadily nearer. He had of course fully researched the process of childbirth and knew exactly what to expect, even though he wasn't going to be there. Unfortunately for him, horror stories of mishaps and medical incompetence proliferated on the internet, and though they made him blench with fear he could not stop himself from devouring them. He told himself repeatedly that in the modern world virtually every delivery was successful and tried vainly to suppress the panic which rose in him at the slightest thought of something going wrong. What would he do if that happened, stuck on the other side of the world as he was? He had no idea.
Camille was well aware of the terrors with which Richard was beset; she felt a little sorry for him as he was so clearly out of his depth, and she did her best not to exacerbate them. To be honest, she was profoundly grateful that he was not attending the birth; whatever lay ahead for her she was quite sure that she would cope much better without his well-meaning but ultimately infuriating presence. She was a little nervous, but not unduly so, as she knew she was well prepared and would be in the best of hands. She was planning on having the baby in Guadeloupe (providing it did not arrive too quickly) as she knew that the French health care system was one of the very best in the world. Of course, Richard had disputed that, but as she was able to quote the relevant World Health Service report he was eventually forced to concede.
One thing she was determined on: she was not going to tell him when she went into labour. What he didn't know, he couldn't worry about, she reasoned.
And so it was on a Thursday morning in the second half of July, while he was writing up a case report in his office, that Richard's phone pinged and an email from Camille popped up.
Eva Aimée Bordey, born 19 July, 2.8 kg. We're both fine.
There was an attachment. With shaking hands he opened it. Staring back at him was a little bundle with fairly light skin and dark hair. His daughter. He had become a father.
Eva Aimée Bordey. He had left the choice of name to Camille, conscious that they were unlikely to agree on the subject and unwilling to provoke an argument. Eva would not have been his first choice, but he didn't dislike it, and when he thought of some of the French names she could have chosen he acknowledged that it could have been much worse. Aimée was obviously for her murdered friend, and he had no problem with that. It came as something of a shock, however, to see Bordey as her surname, although given his reluctance to be known as the father, there was little else that Camille could have done. Quite surprisingly he was conscious of a degree of regret that she could not be called Poole.
He quickly texted a few words to Camille, promising to call her that evening, and rang a florist to order some flowers. When they asked him what message he wanted on the card, his mind went blank. It would be on public display in the hospital, so he could not sign his name. In the end he opted for no card at all, but insisted the flowers should be white orchids; he knew she would recognise the sender. The rest of the day passed in a bit of a whirl, but if his colleagues noticed he was more than usually distracted from the job in hand, they did not comment on it.
He rushed home and quickly dialled her number.
"Richard …?" she said sleepily.
"Oh God, sorry … have I woken you up?"
"Yes, but it will be feeding time soon anyway. It's always nearly feeding time."
"So … how are you?"
"I've just had a baby, Richard. I'm sore and I'm tired, what do you expect?"
"Sorry … I … er … how did it go?"
"It was straightforward – I can't say it was pleasant or painless but it was fairly quick. Maman was with me. "
"And she … Eva … ?"
Camille dropped her voice to a whisper. "She's beautiful, Richard … really beautiful and quite perfect. I know all mothers think their babies are beautiful, but she truly is – everyone says so."
"She must take after you then."
"If that was a compliment, then thank you. I don't know, I can't really see any resemblance – she's too young, just a tiny baby. Time will tell."
A tiny wail floated across the miles. Eva was hungry.
"It's feeding time, Richard, I have to go. I'll Skype you on Sunday when we're home. Come and see her soon. Oh, and thank you for the flowers. I told my mother the card must have fallen off in the delivery van. I'm not sure she believed me, but as I said she's too wise to ask questions."
Richard hung up thoughtfully. Yes, he would go and visit but the timing would be tricky. He had taken hardly any leave this year so he had several weeks due to him, but it was school holiday time and he was supposed to be covering for his colleagues who had to take their break in July and August. He couldn't just take a week off when he felt like it. Then it came to him: there was a bank holiday weekend coming up at the end of August. He thought he could probably get away with taking the Friday off which, allowing for travel and the time difference, would give him a couple of days in the Caribbean. It was a long way to go just for a weekend, but at least he would get to meet his daughter. A shiver of apprehension ran down his spine; the very prospect made him extremely nervous, and he wasn't sure how he was going to react. But he had promised Camille, and whatever else he was, he was a man of his word.
Since Eva's parentage was not to be generally known, he and Camille had agreed to meet on Antigua instead of Saint-Marie. Richard quickly searched for flights and when he next spoke to Camille the arrangements were confirmed and she undertook to book a self-catering bungalow for the weekend.
Soon afterwards, a large hardbacked envelope postmarked Saint-Marie arrived at his home, containing a couple of professionally taken studio photographs of Eva. Richard studied them carefully. All babies tended to look the same to him, but he conceded that in this instance Camille was right: Eva was beautiful. He had seen her via Skype of course, but the picture was always a little fuzzy and this was the first time he had had a really clear view. She was lying on her back and appeared to be smiling at something out of shot. Her hair was dark and quite curly and her eyes a kind of slaty-blue. Her features seemed totally harmonious – she was the sort of perfect baby that was chosen to appear in advertising shoots.
Richard was mesmerised. He rushed up to the attic and dug around until he found a box of old photo frames that had been there for many years; his house was spartan and austerely furnished with no place for knick-knacks or mementos, and there had certainly been no-one whose photo he had wanted to display and gaze on daily. As he dusted off the frames and selected ones that fitted, he experienced a moment of guilt; perhaps he should have put a photo of his parents up on his wall, as they were his only relations …? But then, how would it have felt to live under the slightly disappointed stare of his father all this time?
He dismissed that thought hurriedly, returned the box to the attic and set about framing the photos Camille had sent. He stood the bigger of the two on the mantelpiece, and put the second in his briefcase. It was destined for the drawer of his desk, where the next morning he placed it carefully, next to the tin of jelly babies. Over the next few days he took to leaving the drawer open, so whenever he paused from whatever task was in hand he could glance down at the chubby features of his daughter, slamming the drawer quickly shut whenever anyone entered his office. He thought about making the photo on his phone into a screensaver for his computer, but decided that was a step as yet too far – anyone might see it, and he was still, after all, the timid, reserved and cautious man he had always been. What he really needed was more books – this time, about child development and looking after a baby.