And making plans was what Freya and Mrs Roberts did next.
Her sister Norma would come, and also there was a small crèche that Mrs Roberts occasionally used.
‘I might see if they can go there—just one afternoon a week, maybe two—so I can have some time with the new baby.’
‘I think that’s a wonderful idea,’ Freya said. ‘Did you know, once I’ve moved, I’ve got Mrs Hunt coming in to service my cottage between tenants?’
‘I dinnae need a cleaner.’
‘Well, I’m only mentioning it in case you might. She’s very thorough and her prices are reasonable.’
The appointment went well over time, but it was worth every minute because Mrs Roberts was actually smiling as she retrieved the contents of her bag from the floor.
‘You wee monkeys,’ she said to the twins. ‘Jamie, give Freya back her stethoscope.’
Before the cubicle door was opened Freya had a final word. ‘If you’re ever feeling overwhelmed when the baby is here—’
Mrs Roberts broke in. ‘Then I’ll speak to Betty. I honestly will. I feel so much better for talking with you.’
Mrs Roberts rounded up her three sons and Freya saw them to the desk. There she pulled up the appointments on the computer screen and made one for the next Thursday.
‘Thanks so much, Freya.’
‘You’re welcome, Mrs Roberts.’
‘Leah, please.’
Freya smiled, for it was high praise indeed to be invited to call Mrs Roberts by her first name.
‘I wish you all the very best in London.’
‘Thank you.’
Once Mrs Roberts had left Betty came over, and Freya explained a little of what had happened.
‘It would have taken a lot for her to admit she’s struggling,’ Betty agreed. ‘Well done, Freya. And don’t worry—I’ll be keeping a very close eye on her.’
Freya took in Betty’s knowing eyes and kind face and knew Mrs Roberts was in the very best of hands. Betty had been a midwife here for nearly forty years. She had, in fact, delivered Freya herself. Right now, though, she was just trying to get the clinic closed somewhat on time.
‘I’ll shut down the computers and you go and tidy up the cubicles,’ Betty said. ‘You’re going to be late for your own leaving party.’
Goodness, Freya thought when she saw the chaos of the cubicle. It looked as if it had been snowing!
Yet not for a second did she regret that the check-up had spilled more than an hour over time.
Freya tidied up and as she came out saw the waiting room was in semi-darkness.
‘Everything’s done,’ Betty said. ‘I’ll lock up.’
And then it was finally here—the end of her time at the Cromayr Bay birthing centre.
Freya looked around the waiting room and beyond the desk, thinking of the two birthing suites behind. Then she walked out through the familiar room and into the office to collect her coat before a dash home to get changed for her leaving do.
She hoped her ex wouldn’t show up.
Alison would be there. She had cried when Freya had told her that she was moving to London,
‘I’ll be back all the time,’ Freya had reassured her.
‘It won’t be the same.’
No, it wouldn’t be. But then, things hadn’t been the same between them since Andrew had died.
Freya had always been private. The only person she really opened up to was Alison—but of course the loss was Alison’s, so Freya had tried to remain stoic and strong for her friend, not burdening her with her own grief.
She said goodbye to Betty, who promised she would join them all at the Tavern shortly, and then drove the short distance home in her little purple car.
It was July. The holidaymakers were back and the town was busy.
She parked outside her tiny fisherman’s cottage which, although a bit of a renovator’s nightmare, was certainly a home.
Each of the houses along the foreshore was a different colour, and Freya’s little cottage was a duck-egg-blue with a dark wooden door. Opening it, she stepped into the surprisingly large lounge with its open fireplace, seeing on the mantelpiece her favourite pictures and little mementoes.
Freya headed into the tiny alcove kitchen. It needed a complete overhaul, but everything worked—and anyway, Freya wasn’t much of a cook. In pride of place was a coffee machine that Freya was having to leave behind in the move, as there really wasn’t that much room in her father’s car.
It would be nice for the tenants, Freya thought as she made a very quick coffee.
Freya had the house rented out over the summer, but in October it was going on the market to be sold.
In the cellar she had boxed up some of her belongings. The tiny spare bedroom looked a little bare, but it was ready for its new occupant with a pretty wrought-iron bed and a small chest of drawers.
Freya headed into the main bedroom to change out of her uniform and get ready for her leaving do, but for a moment she paused.
The unobstructed view of The Firth had sold the place to her on sight. Often at night she simply lay there in bed, looking out, and she had watched the new Queensferry crossing being built. It was a spectacular cable-stayed bridge, and Freya had watched the huge structure unfold from either side until finally the two sides had met.
It was her favourite view on earth, and as she gazed out to it Freya asked herself again what the hell she was doing leaving. Here, she had a job she loved and friends she had grown up with as well as her family, to whom she was very close.
Yet, the very things she loved about Cromayr Bay, were the very reasons she felt she had to leave.
The loss of Alison’s baby had hit everyone.
After it had happened Freya had often walked into a shop or a café, and on too many occasions the conversation would suddenly stop.
Everyone knew everyone’s business—which wasn’t always a good thing. Take tonight—there was a fair chance that her ex, Malcolm, would be at the Tavern. Not that she really thought of him much, but it was always awkward to run into him and see the hurt, angry expression in his eyes before he turned his back on her.
It wasn’t just about Malcolm, though. Freya wanted more experience and a fresh start.
She would be thirty soon, she reasoned. If she didn’t make the move now then she never would.
Deep down, though, she knew she was running away.
It was going to be hard to leave, but for Freya it was simply too hard to stay.
‘IS ANYONE...?’
Freya looked up and quickly realised that the woman in theatre scrubs wasn’t asking if she might join Freya at her table in the hospital canteen. Instead all she wanted was one of the spare chairs at Freya’s table.
People, Freya thought, didn’t even bother to speak in full sentences down here.
‘Help yourself.’ Freya nodded.
And so the lady did.
It was orientation day at the