Midwives On-Call. Alison Roberts

her breathe, told Oliver there was more than one hole. It must be inoperable.

      And he had to ask.

      ‘Em, is she yours?’

      The words echoed around the kitchen, and as soon as they came out he knew it was the wrong thing to ask. The arms holding Gretta tightened, and so did the look on Em’s face.

      ‘Of course she’s mine,’ she whispered, but the friendliness was gone. ‘Gretta’s my daughter. Oliver, I think you should leave.’

      ‘I meant—’

      ‘You meant is she adopted?’ Her face was still bleak. ‘No, she’s not adopted. I’m Gretta’s foster-mum, but her birth mother has given all responsibility to me. That means I can love her as much as I want, and that’s what I do. I love her and love her and love her. Gretta’s my daughter, Oliver, in every sense of the word.’

      ‘You have another … son?’

      ‘You’ll have met Toby on the way out with Mike, and he’s my foster-child, too. He has spinal kyphoscoliosis. He’s the bravest kid. I’m so proud of my kids. Mum’s so proud of her grandkids.’

      He got it. Or sort of. These were fostered kids. That’s what Em had wanted him to share.

      But that’s what he’d been, he thought bleakly. Someone else’s reject. Much as he approved of the idea in theory, in practice he knew it didn’t work.

      But what Em did was no longer his business, he reminded himself. This was what she’d decided to do with her life. He had no business asking …

      How could he not?

      ‘Who’s Mike?’ he asked, and he hadn’t known he was going to ask until he did.

      ‘My lover?’ Her lips twitched a little at the expression on his face. ‘Can you see it? Nope, Mike’s our next-door neighbour, our friend, our man about the house. He and Katy have three kids, we have two, and they mix and mingle at will. You like going to Katy’s, don’t you, Gretta?’

      There was a faint nod from Gretta, and a smile.

      And the medical part of Oliver was caught. If Gretta was responding now, as ill as she was, her IQ must be at the higher end of the Down’s spectrum.

      He watched Em hold her tight, and he thought, She’s given her heart …

      And he never could have. He’d never doubted Em’s ability to adopt; it was only his reluctance … his fear …

      ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’ he found himself saying. ‘Now that I’m here?’

      ‘But you don’t want to be here.’ Em shifted a little, making herself more comfortable. ‘You’ve moved on. At least, I hope you have. I’d have thought you’d have asked for a divorce, found a new partner and had kids by now. You wanted kids. What’s stopping you?’

      And there was a facer. He had wanted children, they both had, but after a stillbirth and so many attempts at IVF it had worn them—and their marriage—into the ground. Em had told him to leave.

      No. She hadn’t. She’d simply said she wanted to adopt a child, and that was a deal-breaker.

      ‘I haven’t found the right person,’ he said, trying to make it sound flippant, but there was no way he could make anything about what had happened to them flippant. The last year or so of their marriage had been unswervingly grey. He looked at Em now and he thought some of the grey remained.

      A lot of the grey?

      He glanced around the kitchen, once sparkling and ordered, if a bit cluttered with Adrianna’s bits and pieces from the past. But now it was all about the present. It was filled with the detritus of a day with kids—or a life with kids.

      But this was what Em wanted. And he hadn’t?

      No, he thought fiercely. It had been what he’d wanted more than anything, and that’s why he’d walked away.

      So why hadn’t he found it?

      There was the sound of feet pounding up the veranda, a perfunctory thump on the door and two little boys of about six and four burst in. They were followed by Mike, carrying the toddlers. The six-year-old was carrying a bunch of tattered kangaroo paws, flowers Oliver had seen in the next-door front garden. Tough as nails, Australian perennials, they hardly made good cut flowers but these were tied with a gaudy red bow and presented with pride.

      ‘These are for Gran Adrianna,’ the urchin said. And when she obviously wasn’t in the kitchen, he headed through the living-room door and yelled for her. ‘Gran? Gran Adrianna, we’ve got you a present. Mum says happy birthday. She was coming over to say it but she’s got a cold and she says she wants to give you flowers for your birthday and not a cold.’

      And Em turned white.

       CHAPTER FIVE

      EVERYONE ELSE WAS looking at the kid with the flowers, and then at Adrianna, who reappeared and stooped to give the kids a hug. Only Oliver saw the absolute mortification that crossed Em’s face.

      She’d forgotten, he thought. Of course she had. Even if she’d remembered this morning, after crashing her car, doing a huge day on the wards, then coming home to such a sick kid, forgetting was almost inevitable.

      Think. Think! he told himself. He used to live in this town. Cake. St Kilda. Ackland Street. Cake heaven. It wasn’t so far, and the shops there stayed open late.

      ‘Are you guys staying for the cake?’ he asked, glancing at his watch, his voice not rising, speaking like this was a pre-ordained plan. ‘It’ll be here in about twenty minutes. Em asked me to order it but it’s running a bit late. Adrianna, is it okay if I stay for the celebration? Em thought it might be okay, but if you’d rather I didn’t … Mike, can you and the kids show me the swing while we wait? I’m good at pushing.’

      ‘Em asked you to order a cake?’ Adrianna demanded, puzzled, and Oliver spread his hands.

      ‘I crashed into her car this morning. She’s been run off her legs all day and I asked if there was anything I could do. Therefore, in twenty minutes there’ll be cake. Swing? Kids?’

      ‘Oliver …’ Em started, but Oliver put up his hand as if to stop her in mid-sentence. Which was exactly what he intended.

      ‘She always wants to pay,’ he told his ex-mother-in-law, grinning. ‘She’s stubborn as an ox, your Em, but you’d know that, Adrianna. We seem to have been arguing about money all day. I told you, Em, I’m doing the cake, you’re on the balloons. Sorry I’ve mistimed it, though. I’ll pay ten percent of the balloons to compensate. Any questions?’

      ‘N-no,’ Em said weakly, and his grin widened.

      ‘How about that? No problems at all. Prepare for cake, Adrianna, and prepare for Birthday.’

      And suddenly he was being towed outside by kids who realised bedtime was being set back and birthday cake was in the offing. Leaving an open-mouthed Em and Adrianna in the kitchen.

      Two minutes later, Mike was onside. They were pushing kids on swings and Oliver was on the phone. And it worked. His backup plan had been a fast trip to the supermarket for an off-the-shelf cake and blow-them-up-yourself balloons but, yes, the shop he remembered had decorated ice cream cakes. They were usually preordered but if he was prepared to pay more … How fast could they pipe Adrianna’s name on top? Candles included? Could they order a taxi to deliver it and charge his card? Did they do balloons? Next door did? Was it still open? How much to bung some of those in the taxi as well? He’d pay twice the price for their trouble.

      ‘You’re a fast mover,’ Mike said, assessing him with a long, slow look as they pushed the double swing together. And then he said, not quite casually, ‘Should I worry?