Over the next weeks, life in Portwenn settles into some semblance of a routine for Stirling and Joe as they become accustomed to balancing married life with their respective jobs.
After a brief advertising campaign in the area, she manages to find a receptionist to cover for Morwenna during her maternity leave, a young woman in her 20s from a farm out near Bude. Alexandria – or Alex as she prefers to be called – doesn't have a lot of experience as a receptionist but she makes up for it with intelligence and enthusiasm. In early March, the pony-tailed blonde spent a week job shadowing Morwenna. The next week, she started full-time, settling easily into the job and managing the patients.
Stirling is kept busy seeing patients at the surgery. Most days she finds herself looking forward to the end of the day, walking in the gathering dusk through Portwenn on her way to the police station. Sometimes Joe is waiting outside to walk with her or meets her en route. Other times, he's at home preparing dinner while he locks up the station for the evening. She loves the feeling that washes over her as she comes out of the darkness into their brightly lit home, the smell of yummy cooking wafting in the air, a pair of strong arms wrapping around her and responsive lips pressing hard against hers.
Some evenings they forget all about dinner. Or feed one another while cuddling on the chesterfield in the lounge. Or enjoy their meal while sitting side-by-side in bed. "I hope this never ends," Stirling whispers one evening as she lies with her head tucked into Joe's neck, her right hand gently rubbing his chest.
"What never ends?"
"This," she says, pointing back and forth between them. "The honeymoon period. I hope we can be this way always."
She shifts in his arms and kisses his nose before cuddling back against him.
"You do realize that when this sprog arrives, our lives will change," he says softly, rubbing his hand over her belly. During the past few weeks, she has expanded even further outward, her stomach beginning to resemble an over-inflated beach ball.
She sighs. "I know. But I hope we still continue to do things like this from time-to-time – eat dinner in bed, cuddle together while we watch football in the lounge, go for long walks along the cliff paths, visit our beach, slow dance, hold hands while we walk home together – romantic things."
Joe tightens his arms around her and kisses the top of her head. She smells like strawberries, he realizes, enjoying the scent.
"I have an idea," he says. "From this day forward, I think we should plan to do at least two romantic things together every week."
Stirling pulls back from his shoulder to look him in the eyes. "Do you mean that?"
"Yes."
She looks at him uncertainly. "That means more than shagging, right?"
He laughs. "I think that might depend on what type of shagging we're talking about. Candles, bubble bath and blindfolds can be romantic."
She giggles at the thought of Joe putting a blindfold on her. "You're so vanilla!" He gives her a puzzled smile. "What does that mean?" he asks.
Stirling stops laughing. "You know, vanilla."
"Nooo, I don't know. You think I'm like ice cream?"
She's silent for a moment, trying to think of a way to explain the slang term. "Vanilla can be used to describe a type of sex. It's the opposite of kinky."
He shifts his head and stares at her. "Kinky? You want it to be more kinky?"
"No!" she says, her eyes widening in alarm. "It's fine the way it is."
Joe flinches and gives her a hurt look, opening his mouth to say something. She quickly cuts him off. "I didn't mean fine, I meant fine-fine! I mean great! Fantastic! Terrific! Brilliant! Aces!" She takes a deep breath. "I have an idea. Let's just drop this subject and move on to something else." She pauses for a moment, her mind scrambling for a new conversation topic, anything. "Michael has come up with a solution to our transportation problem," she blurts out.
Joe closes his mouth and looks interested. "He has?"
Stirling gives a quiet sigh of relief. Disaster averted.
Suddenly, he looks puzzled again. "What transportation problem?"
"Remember, last week? You mentioned again how you felt about me driving the Triumph while pregnant?"
"And you told me again you weren't having any problems handling the bike and I should stop hassling you about it," he adds.
"Well, I've been giving it some thought and, you may be right."
Joe's eyes widen in surprise. "I'm sorry, what did you just say?"
She smiles. "I've been giving it some thought and you may be right."
"Pardon? I don't think I heard you clearly. Can you repeat that?"
"Stop it," she says laughing, giving him a playful push on the shoulder. "You may be right."
He leans his head back against the pillow, cupping his hands behind his head with a cocky expression on his face. "I may be right, eh?"
"Stop gloating! Or I won't tell you about Michael's idea."
Joe reaches out and pulls her against him, kissing her forehead and smelling her hair again. "Alright, alright, I'm listening."
Stirling awkwardly sits up in the bed, shifting her body until she eventually manages to get comfortable. "Michael called today during my lunch break to inform me he's fairly certain he and Christie have found the perfect upright piano for the lounge. He wanted to double check the space dimensions with me, which I remembered from when we measured just before the wedding. So, the piano's going to fit. He's now going to arrange a way to have it shipped down here and moved in properly."
"Well, that's good news," Joe says. "But what does that have to do with a vehicle?"
"I'm getting to that. Before he rang, I was thinking about what we'd talked about, trying to imagine what kind of auto I'd want to drive. Most that I liked were impractical – a Morgan, Bentley, Rolls Royce, Aston Martin ..."
As she lists off the car brands, Joe's eyes grow larger. "We can't afford those cars!"
"I know! That's why I said they were impractical. Anyway, I was thinking about vehicles when Michael called and I mentioned in passing that I was probably going to be in the market for a car in the near future. And he said he might have something I'd be interested in. It's on his family's country estate in Norfolk. It's only been used sparingly and is usually kept in storage in one of the back garages. He'd be willing to sell it to us fairly reasonably."
"It's a used vehicle?"
"Yes, but it's been barely used. The mileage is really low, considering it's age."
He gives her a suspicious look. "How old is it?"
She puts on her most winning smile. "It's just a little, tiny bit older than me."
"Older than you? That's not a practical, serviceable car; that's an antique!"
"Thank you so much!" she snarls, suddenly very annoyed. "How nice to know you consider me to be as old as an antique!"
"I wasn't describing you! I was talking about the car!"
Stirling folds her arms across her chest and glares at him.
"Exactly how old is the car, Cheeky?" he asks patiently.
"It's a 1968 model."
"1968! It's closer in age to me!"
"And it has less than 25,000 miles on it! It's a classic! He emailed me some snaps and it's in amazing condition, very well cared for, serviced regularly. And I like it!"
Joe leans back against his pillow, closes his eyes and sighs. "What kind of car is it?"
"A Citroen DS 21," she says, feeling a flare of hope in her chest.
He opens his eyes and looks at her sharply. "What did you say?"
She gives him a puzzled look. "It's a Citroen DS 21."
"A Citroen?"
"Yes," she says, the tone of his voice making the flare of hope plummet into the pit of her stomach.
"That's a French car, isn't it?"
"Yes. What does that matter?"
Joe jumps out of bed and begins to pace. It's the most agitated Stirling has ever seen him. She watches him walk back and forth several times.
"I'm not comfortable with this," he finally says, stopping to look at her. "I don't want you driving a French car, especially with the baby."
She looks at him open-mouthed and slightly shocked. "Why not?"
He starts pacing again, scrambling for an answer. "French cars aren't safe," he finally says, making a wide arm gesture toward her. "They're not built to our standards. I'll be worrying about you and the baby all the time if your drive that, that – thing."
"You're joking, right? It was designed by an artist and an aeronautical engineer, using some of the most advanced technologies of the time. It has front power disc brakes, front wheel drive, power steering, a semi-automatic transmission, plus an independent suspension that is also hydropneumatic. The car can self level and handle variable ground clearance, which is perfect for the roads and lanes around here. It's a bloody work of art!"
"No," Joe insists, shaking his head. "Wouldn't you rather have a Jaguar? Or a new British-made car?"
Stirling had originally considered a Jaguar, keeping it on her mental short list of possible vehicles. But now that Joe is showing such resistance to the Citroen – and for no logical reason that she can fathom – she is fully committed to the DS. I am not budging, she thinks stubbornly.
"No," she says adamantly. "I don't want a new car or a Jaguar. I want the Citroen! There is nothing wrong with the vehicle."
"You're not listening to me!" he says, folding his arms across his chest. "I'm concerned. Who knows what kind of substandard parts the French use on their cars. It's not safe and you and the baby shouldn't be driving around in a death trap."
Stirling is beginning to feel peeved. "Death trap? Do you really have so little faith in me? Do you really think I would choose an unsafe vehicle to transport our baby in; that I didn't research it? I actually feel a bit hurt and offended."
By this point, she is also standing up, arms folded across her chest, but on the other side of the bed. They glare across the expanse at each other.
"You're being unreasonable," he finally says, running his hand through his hair in frustration. "Maybe we should talk about this later when you're not quite so emotional."
"Emotional!" she shouts. "I'm trying to have a logical discussion about a car and you keep going on about it being French, as if that's something bad."
"It is bad!" he shouts back.
"Why?"
He's silent for a moment. "Because it's French," he shouts. "And it's come from France."
She throws her hands up in frustration. "This is ridiculous. It's like arguing with a 10-year-old!"
"Are you suggesting I'm acting like a 10-year-old?"
"About this particular subject? Yes!"
Joe is hurt and angry. "Well, you're acting like an overly emotional, hormonal spoiled princess! Who's – who's – who's really fat!"
Stirling gasps, a stinging sensation building behind her eyes. He thinks I'm fat! she sobs mentally, fighting to keep the tears from falling She takes a deep, steadying breath. No way am I going to give him the satisfaction of seeing me become EMOTIONAL in front of him. Without a word, she marches past him and out the bedroom door.
Joe stands there for a moment, uncertain what to do. As soon as the word "fat" left his mouth, he knew he'd gone too far. The stupid thing is, I didn't even mean it, he thinks, turning to follow her. "Stirling!" he calls.
She's already in the front vestibule, pulling on a pair of paddock boots when he starts down the stairs. "Stirling!" he calls again.
She grabs her jacket and stomps out the door, closing it with a self-satisfying slam behind her, right in his face. He wrestles the door open and runs out after her in his sock feet. It's raining.
"Wait!" he yells, running after her as she marches up the hill toward the village. She spins around, forcing him to come to a sliding stop. "You stay away from me, Joseph Penhale!" she says, jabbing a finger in his direction. "I'm so angry right now I could – I could – I could kick you in the bollocks!"
He steps back, keeping a close eye on her boots, not wanting to upset her any further. "Where are you going?" he asks quietly.
"Out!" she barks. "Please don't follow me. Just leave me alone."
She turns to walk away. "When will you be back?" Joe calls after her.
"Later," she says, continuing her quick march.
He feels a surge of relief. At least she'll be coming back.
It's just after 11 at night when Stirling walks back into the house. Her feet are stinging, her lower back is aching plus she's soaked through and cold from the rain. She's daydreaming about a nice warm shower as she hangs her dripping coat on a peg inside the door and kicks off her mud-spattered boots.
She feels like she's just completed the grand tour of Portwenn. After chugging a glass of Coke at The Crab – her first in months – she played the Steinway for about an hour at the surgery. After, she sat in the darkness at the harbour and listened to the rain fall and tide come in before wandering aimlessly up and down the streets of the village. And she thought – about Joe and the Citroen, about the baby, about all the other babies soon expected, about the Doc and Louisa, about the surgery, about Michael and Christopher and Leyland, and about London.
She's decided she wants to go back to the city – not permanently but for a visit, to see London again, feel the busy rush of traffic and people, see a play in the West End, have one last moment of freedom with Joe before the baby arrives.
She has no idea what to do about the Citroen.
As she steps into the dark kitchen, she can see light coming from the lounge and hear the murmur of voices. She stands in the doorway and glances at the telly, broadcasting a news program. Joe lies sprawled on the chesterfield, still in his uniform, sound asleep. She feels a smile tickle at the corners of her mouth as she watches him but fights it back. He looks so innocent lying there, snoring lightly. But I'm still angry, she growls mentally. Even so, she pulls a folded fuzzy blanket from the back of the chesterfield, shakes it out and covers him with it. It's kind of chilly down here, she thinks, tucking the blanket around him. She quietly turns off the telly and the lamp before slowly walking upstairs to the loo.
After stripping off her soaked clothes and having a nice, hot shower, Stirling pads into the bedroom, towel drying her hair. And with a tired sigh, she crawls under the duvet, closes her eyes, and gently drifts off to sleep.
At first, all she can hear is her heartbeat pounding in her ears. Next, it's panting breaths coming in and out of her open mouth. Then she can hear and feel more pounding, the staccato beat of horse hooves in her ears, jarring up her spine, punctuated with the odd snort. Ahead is a shade-dappled hard dirt trail, twisting and turning through a hardwood forest. How she knows this, she's not sure until she passes a trail marker and realizes where she is. She's on the cross country course adjacent to the Wycombe Abbey stable, specifically on the approach to jump number 12, a Normandy bank with a steep drop off on the far side. She doesn't have to look down to know she's riding Hannibal. She can tell by the feel of his body between her thighs, the pull of the reins and feel of his mouth in her hands and fingers. The coal black horse hated the Normandy bank.
She feels some apprehension as they approach the multilevel obstacle, comprised of a jump up to an elevated bank and then over two wooden logs set on top of one another. The drop off after the log jump is the complicated component of the combination. The horse can't see the difference in elevation until it's half way over the jump. Hannibal hates surprises.
She gathers her reins for the first jump onto the bank and then steadies him with a hand to the neck as he prepares to launch them over the log jump. Suddenly, a strident ringing noise cuts through the silence of the woods. Hannibal startles, scared by the loud noise, twisting his body hard to the left, banging Stirling's leg hard against the log jump. She loses the reins and a stirrup, her balance thrown off. She feels herself falling, pitching sideways over the log jump and plummeting two metres to the ditch below. Before she hits the ground, she sits up in bed, gasping with fear and covered in sweat, looking wildly around the dark room.
The ringing persists as the dream slowly fades – a subconscious replaying of the first time she suffered a concussion. I cracked my riding helmet that day, she recalls. The ringing sound blares again. Stirling lunges for her bedside table, grabbing her mobile and answering the call.
"Hello?" she croaks, her throat somewhat dry.
"Doc? It's Al. I think it's time."
Who the hell is Al? Then it all clicks into place. She sits on the side of the bed, glancing at the alarm clock – 15 minutes after three. "How's she doing?"
"The pains started yesterday morning, about every eight to 10 minutes, nothing consistent," he says, his voice sounding strained and weary. "It all started speeding up about three hours ago. You said to call when her water broke and it did about five minutes ago. The contractions are coming every three or four minutes now."
"Can she talk through them?" she asks, digging in her bureau for clean knickers and a bra.
"Not really. She just moans and groans a lot. I really think you need to get over here."
"Help her with her breathing through the contractions," Stirling says, her mobile tucked between her face and her shoulder as she fights to balance on one leg, trying to put on her knickers. "I'll be there as soon as I can."
With her underthings on, she puts on the most comfortable clothing she has, knowing this might take some time. In the loo she brushes her teeth and scrubs her face before combing out her hair and pulling it back in a pony tail.
Downstairs, she grabs a few bottles of water from the refrigerator and a package of HobNobs from the cupboard. She chews on a biscuit as she pulls on her boots and heavy leather jacket before grabbing her doctor's bag – well stocked for the expected births. She's out the door and starting the Triumph in minutes, completely forgetting about Joe in the rush.