Confirming

Martin was still gone to Truro, so I bathed Philip, played with him a while, then fed him, changed him, and put him to bed. All the while I was partly replaying my time in London; a certain Friday morning.

"Alright, Miss Glasson, I'll have you give a urine sample, we'll take some blood, et cetera then the doctor will do a physical exam. Yes?" The nurse was a petite woman, with fine features framed by blond hair on tanned skin. Her hazel eyes looked at me intently. "And you are otherwise healthy, feeling fit?" She'd already taken my blood pressure, heart rate, and temperature plus height and weight and basic dimensions.

"Other than the things I mentioned I'm ok. But missing my period for two months, feeling a bit queasy and the erh, nipple soreness, those are different."

She picked up a sample cup. "Ok. Any frequency of urination? Here. The water closet is just here. Leave the sample, in there please. There's a little shelf."

"Not that I'd noticed." I took the cup into the loo and did as she asked. Now that the nurse mentioned it, perhaps I had been weeing a bit more often. Louisa, this is going way too far. But haven't you convinced yourself this is true - no dreaming? Otherwise why would you be here? That little voice just kept going. There was a Greek chorus of 'you are preggars' in the background which would fade and then come back.

The blood samples were taken, put into a rack and taken away, along with urine for testing (second time today) then the doctor came in.

Dr. Moore, GP, first name Samantha, was younger than me but listened carefully as I ran down my heath history. No family major history of any illness, unless you count gambling and a bolting mum as illnesses.

I explained what brought me to her that Friday. By the time I got to the important stuff (took a preg test and it was positive) it seemed like an anti-climax. The skimpy gown gave me no coverage at all, of course, but what did I expect as she did an abdominal and pelvic exam?

She spent a fair amount of time poking around my lower belly. Once or twice she said, "Ah," like it meant something.

Dr. Moore was thorough and I felt calm as she finished. There was a knock at the door and the nurse came in with a clipboard. "Test results look…" she started as she read the sheet, "not remarkable."

Not remarkable? What the hell was she talking about? Maybe I should have picked a doctor at either end of that list and not in the middle?

She stripped off her gloves and sent them to the bin. "Get dressed; be back in a moment."

I got dressed feeling a fool. Had I followed the early pregnancy test instructions? I was shoving my feet into my still damp flats when there came a rap on the door. "Come in," I called.

Dr. Moore came in and sat at her little desk and entered some more checkmarks, words, and sentences into the laptop there. "Ok." She began. "Everything looks quite correct."

"Correct?" I'd managed to say, as I felt the blood come to my face. "You must be joking!"

"Me, joke? I suppose you don't know that real doctors never joke, at least not to patients."

"Dr. Moore, believe me, I do know a very real doctor, and I agree with your assessment."

"Oh! Who's that? Maybe I know them."

I twisted the hem of my sweater. "Doesn't matter."

"Ok. Well, Miss Glasson, let's see now," she turned back to the computer and I saw her pop up a calendar display, "you said your last menses was about ten weeks back?"

"Yes, I did. The 7th of that month." There was a drum roll and the Greek chorus in my brain stopped for a few seconds, all of them holding their breath.

"Let me see." She peered at the display. "I'd say, counting from that date, you are ten weeks pregnant. Technically it's eight weeks, but we count these things from your last period…"

Her voice went on but I didn't catch much of it. Well. Louisa you are pregnant – and there is absolutely no doubt when or who with it happened! My fiancé, my lover, my ex-groom to be, Martin Ellingham – my man in Portwenn. But he didn't do it all by himself, now did he?

I breathed deeply as I started at my shoes, past my lap. I thought about the pregnant woman on the subway, Mr. Prange holding the door for me, the woman at the chemist's, cute David from Manchester in the café nearly a father of two. Through all that I'd bounded from disbelief to acceptance. Now here it was - the payoff. An answer – and it was YES.

But there was no brass band, no roses and moonlight, no warm husband's, or even boyfriend's hand and encircling arms. Just me in another windowless room, and I tried hard not to think about the dirty stall back at school, but I couldn't help it.

My eyes rose up to look at Dr. Moore who went on and on. Have you a husband Samantha, or a lover of either sex, and you've talked about babies one day? How you'd pick the right time to try to start a baby?

Or do it backwards? You'll look at the calendar and say 'well I'll be on break here and here, so let's back that up about nine months?' Flip, flip go the calendar pages. Compare your history, regular or not, and then say right here and circle a week or so. You'll point to that week and think – 'yes, I'll go the salon the week before for a facial and get my hair done, then find just the right nightgown, and make reservations at our special restaurant.'

Or say it will likely take a few months to start a baby, so let's start back here? Or maybe you'll say what the hell and jump in the sack? Just take what comes, hell or high water?

Or maybe there is no significant other, but you want a child anyway. So you cruise the bars, talk to a really good friend, or go to a clinic for artificial insemination?

Or the two of you will be trying and trying with that special person, making rounds of fertility clinics for months or years, spend thousand of pounds, and still keep your fingers crossed and pray that this time, damn it, it will work?

Or just have it happen after only a few weeks with the man that says he loves you, and you say that you love him, and you can count off the most likely week, if not the day that this happened?

It's not rocket science, Louisa Glasson. You can probably even remember the night. It was at your cottage, in your bed, with the red and white wallpaper on the walls. And Martin was there with you just as you wanted him to be.

But then you didn't get married, which would have made things all the simpler.

Millions of babies are born every year and most of those never get planned, most likely. Just like this one. My left hand went to my belly.

"A few more things, Miss Glasson, my nurse will give you whole a packet of information, plus prenatal vitamins to get you started, a nutrition guide, no alcohol or drugs, and no cigs either. And avoid caffeine and eat plenty of fruits and vegetables. Moderate exercise is good, all that."

"And how big, erh, is my…"

She took my hand and guided it down low. "Just about here," she pointed. "Your uterus is around the size of a cricket ball now. A bit bigger perhaps."

I sat there taking this all in, while my other hand was creeping to my purse, crawling almost with a mind of its own there, lifting the flap, and taking out my mobile.

The doctor patted my arm. "Congratulations. And we'll schedule another visit in a month. Should be able to get ultrasound then, and hear the heartbeat. Thank you for choosing my practice." Dr. Moore saw me looking at my phone. "Calling the father?"

I looked at this young doctor, who'd spent loads more time than I had in school, seen thousands of patients in her professional life already, had any number of fancy diplomas on her walls (I counted three in the outer office) but needed a little more maturing.

Yet when I looked at the mobile screen, my very clever right hand had pressed the speed dial to Martin's phone. All I had to do was press lightly and his phone would ring right in his surgery, in Fern Cottage, on the south side of Portwenn Harbor, on Roscarrock Hill.

I could imagine the buzz. He'd grimace, excuse himself as he would be with a patient, and would pull his mobile from his suit pocket. He'd flip the phone open, the number the call came from would flash up and my name would appear on it - 'Call from Louisa Glasson.'

Martin would push the ON button, lift it to his face and say "Louisa?"

And I'd say… well, what would I say?