I called my mum. ‘Are you sitting down?’
‘What’s happened?’ Mum said, a slight panic in her voice.
‘It’s all good, don’t worry. We’re having a baby!’
‘It’s so funny you should say that – I was just wondering if you and Martin were planning to have more. I can’t wait to be a nan again!’
My whole family were overjoyed, but particularly Mum, because she had suffered a horrific shock a few weeks earlier. She had always been a tower of strength to me, and had seen me crumble after Hope’s death, but recently it had been her turn to be heartbroken.
Mum’s older sister Lily had had an only son called Joseph, who was more like a brother to Mum than a nephew, as they were so similar in age. No one knew why, but he had committed suicide. One morning he got up early, attached a hosepipe to the exhaust of his car and fed it through the window, knowing perfectly well that the carbon monoxide fumes would kill him. That day, the bottom fell out of Mum and Auntie Lily’s world.
After Joseph’s funeral, Lily’s whole appearance was transformed, partly because of grief, and partly because of the medication she was taking to anaesthetise herself from the grief.
It was about six months after Joseph’s suicide when Mum called and I could barely understand what she was saying, she was sobbing so hard.
‘What’s happened, Mum? Take a deep breath and tell me what it is.’
It took a minute for Mum to compose herself. ‘Lily’s dead,’ she managed to blurt out between sobs.
I was speechless. All I could say for the next minute or so was, ‘Mum, I am so, so sorry. Stay where you are. I’m coming round.’
I don’t think any of us were that surprised to hear about Auntie Lily. It wasn’t suicide exactly, but the post-mortem showed that a mix of tranquillisers and white wine killed her. To numb the pain, Lily was drinking two bottles a day and had probably forgotten how many pills she had taken – a combination that proved lethal.
Facing two funerals in quick succession was painful for everyone, and only a year after Hope’s death. Deep down I knew the sadness couldn’t last and that something would come along to lift the family’s spirits, and it was my pregnancy. The timing of it could not have been more perfect.
It was brilliant news as far as my family were concerned and everyone got really excited. The phone never stopped. Everybody got involved, suggesting names, wondering if it was a boy or a girl (everyone hoped for a boy because that’s what Martin wanted) or saying, ‘Is there anything you need? What can we get you?’ It wasn’t just between Martin and me; it was a family event, and everyone embraced it. Finally, we had something to smile about and something other than the death of Lily and Joseph to talk about.
As I ticked off the months my bump grew bigger and bigger, and the new house took shape. Family and friends helped us decorate, but the most special helper was my beloved dad.
Dad did everything for me and I could do no wrong in his eyes. If I’d come home and said, ‘Dad, I’ve just murdered someone,’ he’d have said, ‘Go and get me the shovel.’ His love was unconditional, and we just needed to look at each other to know what the other was thinking. I was never going to feel as special with anyone as I did with my dad, I knew that, so I treasured these moments.
I had an extremely supportive family willing to do anything for me without expecting anything in return, and that fact did not escape me. Dad wanted nothing for the hours and hours of work he put in. The only thing he would accept was a glass of chilled white Italian wine at the end of the day and fish and chips on a Friday night.
They were fun times and special times. We would laugh, and shout at each other if we messed up. I loved it when it was just me, Dad, the bump and the paint roller.
Nine months flew by and my waters broke one Saturday while I was up a ladder, painting the hallway. Dad and Martin were both there, Dad painting the other side of the hall, with Martin working on the top floor.
Dad shouted up to him: ‘Mia’s labour’s started!’
Martin panicked, slipped downstairs and landed in a heap at the bottom. While he lay there groaning, Dad was running round like a headless chicken and I was crippled with contractions. It was like a sketch from a sitcom, only no one was laughing.
Somehow we composed ourselves and Dad promised to look after Francesca and Ruby while Martin drove me to the hospital.
The car journey was horrendous – Martin was useless, and we rowed all the way. He was driving about twenty miles an hour and it didn’t help that Saturday shoppers were out in force, and when he stopped at a red light I finally lost it.
‘For heaven’s sake, go through it and drive faster!’ I shouted.
‘I don’t want to get a ticket!’ Martin replied.
‘Are you off your head? I’m having a baby!’
We finally arrived and I was so far into my labour I had lost the ability to walk.
‘Run and get a wheelchair,’ I managed to puff between contractions.
When Martin got back I was screaming, but somehow he managed to get me into the chair. Finally, he shot off like a Formula 1 racing driver, speeding through three sets of double doors, all of them closed, so by the time we reached the labour ward not only was I crippled with contractions, but my shins were black and blue, too.
‘Now you decide to put your foot down!’ I said, and he ignored me.
Isabella was born fifteen minutes later.
Martin was so fed up that he didn’t have a son, he reached into my overnight bag and chucked the pink Babygro and blanket I’d put in there out of the window, and a nurse had to run down and rescue them.
I had a bit of sympathy for him because being surrounded by us girls, with no interest in football or car mechanics, must have been hard for him at times. I knew how I would long for a girl if I only had sons, so when I saw the blanket go flying, I smiled to myself.
The lovely thing about Martin is that he never stays mad for long. It’s true for both of us, really; we’ll have a row, shout and scream, and then it’s all out in the open and forgotten about a few minutes later.
‘I’m getting a cuppa,’ he said, still looking sulky, and ten minutes later he returned with the biggest bunch of flowers I have ever seen and a packet of Jaffa Cakes, my favourite biscuit.
I was cuddling Isabella.
‘Can I hold her?’ he asked.
‘Idiot,’ I said. ‘Course you can.’
He scooped her up gently, and although he tried to hide it, I could see tears welling up in his eyes. As he stood cooing at her, holding her tiny hand, I promised I would buy Isabella a Chelsea football club Babygro, got off the bed and limped over to give him a hug.
‘You still in pain?’ the nurse asked.
‘Only my shins,’ I said, and she looked confused.
I left hospital after a few hours and by the time I got home the family were there waiting, so I could forget any thoughts of having a rest. The chatter and laughter was so loud I’m sure the whole neighbourhood heard, and the house looked like a florist’s shop.
A few days later the doorbell went and I was surprised to see Peter, my social worker, on the doorstep with another huge bunch of flowers.
‘Congratulations,’