Miracles in the Village. Josie Metcalfe

it is there? You can’t walk down.’

      ‘No, I know. It was just an idea. It’s the other bit, really, that’s the most significant, and Lucy’s decided she loves gardening—takes after her grandmother, I think, and she really wants to expand it. She says I only want it so I can have a little red tractor mower and drive around on it, pretending to be a farmer—’

      Mike laughed out loud at that. ‘Any time you want to play at being a farmer, give us a shout and you can get up at five and do the milking.’

      Ben grinned. ‘I’ll stick with the mower,’ he replied. ‘So—think about it, ask Joe what he thinks. There’s no rush, and we certainly don’t want to put any pressure on you, but if the land’s going begging, we’d be more than happy to pay you amenity rates. We’d have to get it valued to make it fair.’

      Amenity rates? They doubled the price of agricultural land, sometimes more than doubled it. And the land Ben was talking about wasn’t in any way fundamental to the running of the farm. They had plenty of grazing, and certainly the area between the house and the road was only ever grazed just to keep it down. It wasn’t good enough for hay, it wasn’t big enough for crops and the most sensible thing would be to sell it to the Carters.

      And, God knows, cash at the moment was tight.

      ‘Have you got a plan of the plot?’

      ‘Not here,’ Ben said. ‘I have at home. Want me to draw it up so you can see?’

      ‘Or I can walk over it with you.’

      Ben arched a brow ironically, and Mike sighed. ‘Well, drive, then. I can get Joe to bring me up. We could all talk it over on site. I’ll speak to him and Dad first.’

      ‘Do that. And now I’m going to leave you in peace. Fran was cooking something that smelled really gorgeous, and I don’t want to be responsible for ruining your supper. Enjoy the book—and drop in when you’re next in the hospital. The fracture clinic’s right next to A and E, and if I’ve got time, I’ll stop for a coffee with you.’

      ‘I’ll do that,’ Mike promised.

      Ben went out, and he could hear his voice in the kitchen, talking to Fran for a moment before the back door shut.

      So Ben wanted to buy the land.

      And if he did, Joe and Sarah would get enough money to refit their kitchen, which was absolutely falling apart, and he and Fran—they’d have enough money, he thought, the realisation slowly dawning, to pay for another cycle of IVF.

      He swallowed. If Fran felt brave enough to go for it. And if she did, he’d have to find the strength from somewhere to support her when it all went wrong.

      Assuming she even wanted a baby with him any more. Right now, he wasn’t sure she did. He didn’t know what was going on in her head, and that made life with her an absolute minefield.

      And to make matters worse, Sophie was coming back on Sunday week and he still hadn’t worked out how to tell Fran that Kirsten was pregnant.

      Oh, damn.

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      THERE was only one way to do this, Mike decided, and that was to tell Fran straight.

      So he did—eventually.

      She’d prepared a lovely meal—chilled watercress and tomato soup with basil and garlic croutons, a really tasty chicken dish in a creamy blue cheese sauce with shiitake mushrooms on a bed of wild rice served with the freshest, crunchiest runner beans out of their own garden, and then a fabulous fruit salad rammed with fresh summer fruits topped with a dollop of clotted cream. It was streets away from the usual food they ate, when she was up to her eyes in schoolwork and he was milking until six-thirty and then fighting with the paperwork. He didn’t care if it was geared to helping his leg mend, it was gorgeous, and he scraped the last dribble of cream off the edge of the bowl and pushed it away with a sigh of regret.

      ‘That was delicious, darling, thank you,’ he said with a smile, and she smiled back and took his plate.

      ‘You’re welcome,’ she said.

      It would have been easier if he hadn’t felt so guilty because he was about to wreck it all by telling her about Kirsten. In fact, he was so preoccupied with working out how to do it he was surprised she hadn’t picked up on it.

      But apparently she hadn’t, because she cleared the table, loaded the dishwasher and topped up his glass of apple juice without commenting on his silence.

      He wished he didn’t have to do this. Telling her about the baby was going to spoil their evening, and good times between them were so few and far between. She’d made a real effort tonight—did he really have to say anything to spoil it?

      Yes, because otherwise Sophie would come next weekend and if she knew she was bound to say something, and he owed Fran a few days to get used to the idea without having to pretend enthusiasm to a delighted little girl who was finally having her dream realised.

      But not now. Later, perhaps. When they’d gone to bed. When he could lie there and hold her, and hug her when she cried—because she would, of course. She was bound to, and if she was already in his arms, maybe she wouldn’t run away and cry in private.

      Although he hated it when she cried, he hated even more the idea that she’d run away and do it in a corner somewhere, like a wounded animal. That he really, really couldn’t bear.

      ‘Coffee?’ he suggested.

      She hesitated, then smiled. ‘OK. Just a little one. I don’t want to keep you awake.’

      He’d love her to keep him awake, but that wasn’t what she was talking about, and, anyway, there was still this whole pregnancy minefield.

      Oh, hell. Life was so incredibly complicated.

      ‘What’s wrong, Mike? You’ve been frowning all evening.’ He turned towards her in the darkness. With the bedroom curtains open, as they always were, he could just about make out her features, but he couldn’t read her expression. That was a definite disadvantage of doing this in the dark, but it was more intimate, easier to say the things that would hurt her so badly.

      ‘Nothing’s wrong, exactly,’ he said, not knowing where to start. He reached out and found her hand, curling his fingers round it and squeezing gently. ‘It’s just—Kirsten’s …’

      He let it hang, and after a few seconds she sucked in her breath and he knew she’d worked it out.

      ‘When?’ she said, her voice almost inaudible.

      He ached to gather her into his arms. ‘February,’ he told her, although he couldn’t see that it made any difference, but it had been his first question, too, and he supposed it was only natural, part of the process of establishing just when the changes would start to show. Soon, he thought, remembering Kirsten’s first pregnancy.

      Fran’s fingers tightened on his, and he squeezed back and didn’t let go.

      ‘Does Sophie know?’ she asked eventually, her voice hollow.

      ‘I don’t know. She didn’t when Kirsten told me.’

      ‘When did she tell you?’

      ‘On Sunday.’

      ‘Sunday?’ she exclaimed, pulling her fingers away. ‘But—it’s Thursday!’

      ‘I know,’ he said heavily. ‘I didn’t know how to tell you.’

      ‘Oh, Mike, that’s silly,’ she said, her voice more normal now—or was it? ‘It’s lovely for them. And Sophie will be delighted.’

      ‘Are you going to be OK with it?’ he asked, wishing to God he could read her face. If only he’d done this in daylight …

      ‘I’ll live. It was always going to happen, Mike.’ But this time