Christmas with the Single Dad
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Louisa Heaton
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16,5K
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9
Chapter One
SYDNEY HARPER CONFIRMED her appointment details on the surgery’s check-in touchscreen and headed into the waiting room.
It was full. Much too full. Eleven of the twelve available chairs were filled with faces she recognised. People she saw every day in the village. One or two of her own clients from the veterinary practice she ran. Were they all before her? Would she be sitting in this waiting room all morning to see Dr Preston? She had patients of her own waiting—it was a busy time of year. Close to Christmas. No doubt everyone was trying to see their doctor before the festive season.
With a sigh at the thought of the inevitable wait she strode in, looking for the book she always kept in her bag for situations such as this.
At the empty seat she sat down and opened the book, slipping her bookmark into her fingers. She tried to focus on the words upon the page, but her eyes were tired and she kept reading the same sentence over and over again. The words were refusing to go in and make sense.
It was happening again. Every year when it started to get close to that date her body rebelled and she couldn’t sleep. The date would be hanging heavy in the near future, along with the dread of having to get through Christmas again, reliving what had happened before, every moment as clear as if it had just occurred. The shock. The fear. The guilt.
The difficulty getting to sleep. Then the difficulty staying asleep. She’d keep waking, staring at the clock, staring at those bright red digits, watching them tick over, minute to minute, hour to hour. Feeling alone. So alone in the dark! With no one to talk to. No one to go to, to reassure herself that everyone was fine.
That first year—the first anniversary of when it had happened—she’d got up and stood in the doorway of Olivia’s old room, staring at her daughter’s empty bed. She’d stood there almost all night. Trying to remember what it had looked like when it had been filled with life and laughter and joy.
The second year after it had happened she’d got up again and, determined not to stand in the doorway for another night, gawking at nothing, she’d decided to make herself useful. She’d cleaned. Scrubbing the oven in the middle of the night until it shone like a new pin was perfect therapy as far as she was concerned. She could get angry with the burnt-on bits. Curse at them. Moan about the ache in her back from all the bending over. But it felt better to be focused on a real physical pain than a mental one.
Last year, when the anniversary of Olivia’s death had come around, she’d decided to visit Dr Preston and he’d given her a prescription for some sleeping pills and told her to come and see him if it happened again.
This year, though her oven could no doubt do with another clean, the idea of being up all night again—alone again—just wasn’t an option. She hated losing all this sleep. And it wasn’t just the one night any more. She was losing sleep earlier and earlier, up to a month or more before the anniversary.
So here she was.
All she needed was a quick prescription. She could be in and out in seconds. Get back to her own patients—Fletcher the Great Dane, who needed his paw checked after a grass seed had become embedded under his pad, a health check on two new ferrets and the first set of jabs for Sara’s new kitten. There were others, she knew, but they were her first three and they would be waiting. Even now. Patiently watching the clock in her waiting room.
The screen on the wall in front of her gave a beep and she looked up to see if she was being called in. It wasn’t, but the person next to her got up out of her chair and left. Sydney was glad for the space, but it didn’t last long, Mrs Courtauld, owner of a retired greyhound, settled into the newly vacant seat.
‘Hello, Sydney. How nice to see you. How are you doing?’
‘Mrs C! I’m fine. How are you?’
‘Oh, you know. The usual aches and pains. That’s why I’m here. My knees are giving me a bit of gyp. They have been ever since Prince knocked me over in the park and broke my wrist.’
‘You did get quite a knock, didn’t you?’
‘I did! But at my age you expect a bit of wear and tear in the old joints. I’m no spring chicken now, you know. I get out and about each day if I can. It’s good to keep mobile.’
Sydney nodded, smiling. ‘But you’re still looking great, Mrs C.’
‘You’re too kind, young Sydney. I do have mirrors in the house—I know how old I look. The skin on my neck is that red and saggy I’m amazed a farmer hasn’t shot me, thinking I’m an escaped turkey.’
Sydney laughed. ‘Ridiculous! I’d be happy to look like you if I ever make it to pensionable age.’
Mrs Courtauld snorted. ‘Of course you’ll make it to my age! What are you now? Thirty-three? Thirty-four?’
‘Thirty-five.’
‘You see? Loads of years left in you.’ She thought for a moment, her eyes darkening, and she looked hard at Sydney in concern. ‘Unless, of course, you’re here because there’s something wrong? Oh, Sydney, you’re not dreadfully ill, are you?’
Mrs Courtauld’s face filled with motherly concern and she laid a liver-spotted wrinkly hand on Sydney’s arm.
‘Just not sleeping very well.’
Mrs Courtauld nodded, looking serious. ‘No. ’Course not. The anniversary is coming up again, isn’t it? Little Olivia?’
Sydney swallowed hard, touched that Mrs Courtauld had realised the date was near. How many in the village had forgotten? Don’t cry.
‘Yes. It is,’ she answered, her voice low. She wasn’t keen on anyone else in the waiting room listening in.
Mrs Courtauld gripped Sydney’s hand and squeezed it. ‘Of course. Understandable. I’m the same each year when it comes round to my Alfred’s birthday. Ten years since I lost him.’ She paused as she looked off, as if into the distance. But then she perked up again. ‘I laid some flowers at Alfred’s grave the other day and I thought of you. Your little Olivia’s plot is so close. I hope you don’t mind, but I put an amaryllis against her headstone.’
Oh.
Sydney wasn’t sure how to respond. That was sweet. It was nice to think that Olivia had a bright, beautiful flower to brighten up her plot. Nice for her to be remembered in that way.
She hadn’t been to the graveyard for a while. It was just so impossibly bleak and devastating to stand there and look down at the headstone, knowing her daughter was...
She swallowed hard.
Don’t even think it.
It hurt too much. Going to the grave just kept proving that she was dead, making Sydney feel helpless and lost—a feeling she couldn’t bear. She’d found that by staying away, by existing in her dreams and her memories, she could still see her daughter alive and well and she never had to stare at that cold, hard, depressing ground any more.
Blinking back the tears, she was about to thank Mrs Courtauld when the computer screen that announced patient’s names beeped into life and there was her name. Ms Sydney Harper. Dr Jones’s room.
She got up quickly, then did a double-take, looking at the screen again. Dr Jones?
But she’d booked in with Dr Preston. He was her doctor, not this Jones person! And who was it? A locum? A new partner? If it was, and she’d been passed on to someone else...
She shoved her book back into her bag, wondering briefly if she ought to go and check with Reception and see what had happened, but the doctor was probably waiting. If she faffed around at Reception she might lose her appointment altogether—and she needed those tablets!
Clearing her throat, she pushed through the door and headed down the corridor. To the left, Dr Preston’s room. To the right, Dr Jones’s.
Sydney hesitated outside the door, her hand gripping the handle, afraid to go in. What if this new doctor wanted to ask questions? She wasn’t sure she was ready to tell the story again. Not to a stranger. Dr Preston knew everything. There was no need to explain, no need for her to sit in front of him and embarrass herself by bursting into tears, because he knew. Knew what she’d gone through and was still going through. He often saw her in the village and would call out with a cheery wave, ask her how she was doing. She appreciated that.
A newcomer might not understand. A locum might be loath to hand out a prescription as easily.
Please don’t ask me any probing questions!
She sucked in a breath and opened the door, not knowing what or who to expect. Was Dr Jones a woman? A man? Young? Old?
She strode in, her jaw set, determined to be as brief as possible so she could get her prescription and get out again but she stopped as her gaze fell upon the extremely handsome man seated behind the doctor’s desk.
Her breath caught in her throat and somehow paralysed it. He was a complete shock to her system. Totally unexpected. It was like walking into a room expecting to see a normal person—some old guy in a boring shirt and tie...maybe someone bald, with old-fashioned glasses and drab brown trousers—but instead laying eyes upon a movie star in all his airbrushed glory.
The man was dressed in a well-fitting dark suit, with the brightest, bluest eyes she’d ever seen. There was a gorgeous smile of greeting upon his face. The type that stopped your heart. That stopped you breathing for a moment.
Oh, my!
Sydney had not noticed a good-looking man since Alastair had left. There was no point. Men were not on her radar. She wasn’t looking for another relationship. What was the use? She’d only end up getting blamed for everything.
She was sure those men were out there. Somewhere. Even though Silverdale Village wasn’t exactly overrun with hot guys. The type who ought to star in Hollywood movies or get their kits off for a charity calendar. She’d just never noticed. Living too much in her own head.
But this guy? Dr Jones?
I’m staring at him! Like a goldfish with my mouth hanging open! Speak, Sydney. Say something. Anything! So he knows he’s not dealing with a mute.
She turned away from him to close the door, shutting her eyes to compose herself and take in a steadying breath. Hoping her cheeks had stopped flushing, hoping he hadn’t noticed the effect he’d had on her.
He’s just a guy.
Just.
A.
Guy.
She blew her breath out slowly before she turned around, telling herself to try and sound haughty and distant, whilst simultaneously feeling her cheeks flame hot enough to sizzle bacon. ‘I...um... I don’t mean to be rude, but I made an appointment to see Dr Preston...?’
* * *
An angel had walked into his consulting room.
An angel with long, luscious waves of chocolate-coloured hair and sad grey eyes. Big, sad eyes, tinged with red, in the fresh face of an English rose.
Startled, he dropped his pen, fumbling for it when it fell from his fingers and smiling in apology. What the hell had just happened? Why was he reacting like this? She was just a patient!
He’d not expected to feel suddenly...nervous. As if he’d never treated a patient before. Tongue-tied. Blindsided by his physical response to this woman. He could feel his normal greeting—Morning, take a seat, how can I help?—stifled in his throat and he had to turn to his computer, glancing at the screen briefly to gather his thoughts before he could speak.
Sydney Harper.
Beautiful. Enchanting.
A patient!
Reel your thoughts back in and show that you know what you’re doing.
He cleared his throat. ‘Er...yes, you did... But he...er...got overbooked.’ He paused briefly, noticing the way she hovered uncertainly at the door. The way her long cardigan covered her almost to mid-thigh, the shapeless garment hiding any figure she might have. The way her heavy tartan skirt covered her legs down to her boots. The way her fingers twisted around each other.
Curious... Why is she so frightened? Why do I get the feeling that she tries her best not to be noticed?
He could see her gaze darting about the room, as if she were looking for means of escape, and suddenly curiosity about this woman overrode any previous nervousness.
‘Is that okay?’
‘I’d prefer to see Dr Preston. He knows me. I’m his patient.’
Nathan glanced back at the computer, so that he wouldn’t stare at her and make her feel even more uncomfortable. Did Dr Preston really know her? The last time she’d been into the surgery had been—he checked the screen—a year ago. A lot could change in a year.
He should know.
Forget that. Concentrate on your work.
He was itching to know what ailed her. What he could help her with. How to keep her in the room and not have her bolt like a skittish horse.
Purely on a professional basis, of course. I’m not interested in her in that way.
What had brought her to the surgery today? She looked anxious. A bit stressed. Not entirely comfortable with this change.
He gave her his best friendly smile. ‘Why don’t you take a seat? You never know, I might be able to help. Doctors do that.’ He tried to reassure her, but she approached the chair opposite him as if she were a gazelle trying to sidle past a ravenous lion.
He waited for her to sit and then he looked her over. A little pale, though her cheeks were flushed. Her pulse was probably elevated. Her blood pressure rising. What had made her so anxious? He was intrigued. But he’d learnt a valuable trick as a doctor. Silence was a wonderful tool. People would feel compelled to fill it. They’d start talking. Eventually.
So he waited, noting how white her knuckles were as they clutched the bag upon her lap.
And he waited.
She was looking at anything but him. Checking out the room as if it were new to her before she finally allowed herself to glance at his face. Her cheeks reddened in the most delightful way, and she was biting her bottom lip as she finally made eye contact.
‘I need some sleeping pills. Dr Preston told me to come again if I needed a repeat.’
Ah. There we go!
‘You’re not sleeping well?’
Her cheeks reddened some more, and again she averted her eyes. ‘Not really. Look, I’m needed back at work, so if you could just write me a prescription? I don’t want to keep my clients waiting.’
Nathan Jones sat back in his swivel chair and appraised her. He was curious as to why she needed them. ‘Sleeping pills are really a last resort. I’ll need a few details from you first of all.’
The flash of alarm in her eyes was startling to observe. And if she twisted the strap of her handbag any more it would soon snap.
Sydney shook her head. ‘I don’t have long.’
‘Neither do I. So let’s crack on, shall we? Eight minutes per patient can go by in the blink of an eye.’ He was trying to keep it loose. Casual. Non-threatening. This woman was as taut as a whip.
She let out an impatient breath. ‘What do you need to know?’
‘Tell me about your sleep routine.’
Does your husband snore? Does he toss and turn all night, keeping you awake? Wait... What the...?
Why was he worrying about whether she had a husband or not? He wasn’t looking to go out with this woman. She was a patient! At least for now. He had no doubt that the second she bolted from his consulting room she would make sure she never had to see him again!
‘What about it?’
‘Is it regular?’
‘I work long days at the veterinary surgery across the road from here. I’m the only vet there, so I’m on call most nights, and since the new homes got built I’ve been busier than ever.’
‘So you get called out a lot?’
‘I do.’
He nodded and scribbled a note. ‘And are you finding it difficult to drop off to sleep?’
‘Yes.’
‘Worried about your beeper going off? Or is it something else?’
She looked at him directly now. ‘Look, Dr Preston has given me the pills before. I’m sure he won’t mind if you give me some more.’
She didn’t like him prying. He glanced at her records, his eyes scanning the previous note. Yes, she was correct. She’d been given sleeping pills by Dr Preston this time last year...
‘...due to the sudden death of the patient’s daughter three years ago, patient requested tranquillisers...’
He felt a lump of cold dread settle in his stomach as he read the notes fully.
She’d lost her child. Sydney Harper had lost her daughter and she couldn’t sleep when the anniversary of her death got close. It happened every year. Oh, heavens.
He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, mentally apologising.
‘I...er...yes. I can see that in your notes.’
How terrible. The most awful thing that could ever happen to a parent. And it had happened to her and he was trying to poke around in her despair when it was clear in her notes why she needed the pills. But would he be being a good doctor just to give them to her? Or would he be a better doctor if he tried to stop her needing them? They could be addictive...
‘I’m sure he won’t mind if you give me some more tablets.’
Nathan had a daughter. Anna. She was six years old and she was all he had in this world. He couldn’t imagine losing her. She was everything to him right now. What this poor woman had been through...! No wonder she looked the way she did.
‘I can write you a prescription, but...’ He paused. ‘Have you ever been offered counselling?’
She looked directly at him, her demeanour suggesting she was about to explain something to a child. ‘I was. And I did go to start with. But it didn’t help me so I stopped going.’
‘Perhaps you weren’t ready for it then. Would you be interested in trying it again now? It might help you with this sleeping issue. I could arrange it for you.’
The computer whirred out the prescription and he grabbed it from the printer and passed it over to her.
‘Counselling is not for me. I don’t...talk...about what happened.’
‘Maybe that’s the problem?’ The words were out before he could censor them. He bit his lip with annoyance. Too late to take the words back. He needed to cover their crassness. And quickly. ‘Have you tried a different night-time routine? Warm milk? A bath? That kind of thing?’
But she’d stood up, was staring down at him, barely controlling the anger he could see brewing behind her eyes. ‘Are you a father, Dr Jones?’
He nodded solemnly, picturing his daughter’s happy, smiling face. ‘I am.’
‘Have you ever experienced the loss of a child?’
He could see where she was going with this, and felt horrible inside. He looked away. ‘No. Thankfully.’
‘Then don’t tell me that warm milk—’ she almost spat the words ‘—will make me better.’ She spun on her heel and when she got to the door, her hand on the handle, she paused, her head low, then glanced over her shoulder, her teeth gritted. ‘Thank you for my prescription.’
Then she left.
He felt as if a hurricane had blown through the room.
He felt winded. Stunned. He had to get up and pace, sucking in a lungful of air, running both hands through his hair before he stood and stared out of the window at the sparrows and starlings trying to take food from the frozen feeders hanging outside. The smaller birds were carefully picking at the peanuts, whereas the starlings were tossing white breadcrumbs everywhere, making a mess.
No, he had not experienced the same pain that Sydney had gone through. He would never want to. But he did know what it felt like to realise that your life had changed for evermore.
People dealt with tragedies in different ways. Some found comfort in food. Some in drink or drugs. Some kept it all inside. Others found it easy to talk out their feelings and frustrations. A few would blindly choose to ignore it and pretend it had never happened.
He felt deflated now that she’d left his room. Sydney Harper was intense—yes—and hurting—definitely—but there was something about her. He couldn’t quite put a finger on it.
It bothered him all day. Through seeing all his patients. The chest infection, the sprained ankle, a case of chicken pox, talking someone through using his asthma medication. His thoughts kept returning to his first patient at his new job.
Sydney Harper.
Beautiful. Elegant.
Fragile.
And then it came to him. The reason why he couldn’t forget her. The reason he kept going over and over their interaction that morning.
I’m attracted to her.
The thought stopped him in his tracks. No. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—be. He had nothing to offer her. Besides, he had a child to take care of. Clearly!
No. That way danger lay.
He doubted he would ever see her again. Not as his patient. She had clearly wanted to see Dr Preston, and the way she’d stormed from the room had left him feeling a little bit stunned. He’d never had a patient walk out on him like that.
A fiancée, yes.
The mother of his child, yes.
But never a patient.
* * *
Sydney strode from the room feeling mightily irritated with Dr Jones, but not knowing why. Because she had the prescription she needed. She’d obtained what she’d wanted when she’d made the appointment. But now that she was out from under Dr Jones’s interested, unsettling gaze she felt restless and antsy. Almost angry. As if she needed to go running for a few miles to get all of that uncomfortable adrenaline out of her system. As if she needed to burn off some of the inner turmoil she was feeling. As if she needed to let out a giant enraged scream.
Averting her gaze from the people in the waiting room, she went straight back to Reception and leant over the counter towards Beattie the recetptionist—the owner of a moggy called Snuggles.
‘Beattie, I’ve just been seen by Dr Jones. Could you make a note on my records that when I make an appointment to see Dr Preston—my actual doctor—that I should, indeed, see Dr Preston?’
Beattie looked up at her in surprise. ‘You didn’t like Dr Jones?’
Her jaw almost hit the floor.
‘Like him? Liking him has nothing to do with it. Dr Preston is my GP and that is who I want to see when I phone to make an appointment!’
Beattie gave an apologetic smile. ‘Sorry, Syd. Dr Jones offered to see you as Dr Preston was overrun and he knew you were in a rush to get back to work.’
Oh. Right. She hadn’t thought of that. ‘Well, that was very kind of him, but...’
It had been very kind of him, hadn’t it? And what was she doing out here complaining? Even though she’d got what she needed.
Deflating slightly, she relaxed her tensed shoulders. ‘Next time just book me in with Richard.’
‘Will do. Anything else I can help you with?’
Not really. Though a niggling thought had entered her head... ‘This Dr Jones that I saw today... Just a locum, is he? Just here for the day?’
She tried to make it sound casual. But it would be nice to know that she wouldn’t be bumping into him in the village unless she had to. Not after she’d stormed out like that. That wasn’t her normal behaviour. But something about the man had irritated her, and then he’d made that crass suggestion about warm milk...
‘No, no. He’s permanent.’ Beattie’s face filled with a huge grin. ‘He moved to the village a week ago with his daughter. Into one of the homes on the new estate.’
‘Oh. Right. Thank you.’
Permanent. Dr Jones would be living here. In Silverdale.
‘Please don’t tell me he’s got an aging pet dog or anything?’
‘I don’t think so. But you’ll run into him at the committee meetings for the Christmas market and the village nativity.’
What? She’d only just decided to return to those meetings. Had been looking forward to them!
‘Why?’
Beattie looked at her oddly. ‘Dr Preston is cutting down on his commitments now that he’s nearly retired. He’s asked Nathan to take over. You didn’t like him? We all think he’s gorgeous! Have you seen him smile? I tell you, that man’s a heartbreaker!’
A heartbreaker? Not if she had anything to do with it.
Sydney grimaced, but thanked Beattie once again and left the surgery, pausing to wait for traffic to rush by so she could cross the road over to her own practice.
The new doctor was going to be on the Christmas committee. And she’d just agreed to go back. To help. She’d told them she would be there. Her heart sank at the thought of it as she neared her place of work.
Silverdale Veterinary Surgery was a relatively small building, comprised of two old cottages that had been knocked through inside and transformed from homes into a business.
Sydney loved it. It was clinical and businesslike, but still retained its old-world charm with white walls and large exposed oak beams and, outside, a thatched roof. There were even window boxes, which she’d learnt to tend. They overflowed with primulas and pansies in the spring, but right now were hung with dark green ivy and indigo lobelia. And no fairy lights. Even if everyone else seemed to think it was okay to start decorating for Christmas in November!
She’d never been a green-fingered person. Not before she’d got married. But when Olivia came along the little girl had loved being in the garden and growing pretty things. Although Sydney had managed to kill the first few plants they’d got, they’d eventually learned together and their flowers had begun to thrive. There’d been nothing she’d liked better than to watch Olivia use her pink tin watering can to water them each evening, when it was cool. And Syd’s talent with flowers had not gone unnoticed around the village either. She’d often been in charge of the flower stalls at the Christmas market each year.
When she’d been involved, anyway.
She pushed through the door and saw that her waiting room was pleasingly busy. There was Mr Shepherd, as expected, with his Great Dane, Sara with her new kitten, and no doubt in the box by Janet’s feet were her two ferrets, Apollo and Zeus.
‘Morning, everyone! Sorry to keep you waiting.’
Her anxiety was gone here. This was her home turf. Her safe haven. The place that she controlled. Was in charge of. Where there were no surprises. Well, nothing life-changing, anyway. Not to her. Here she could cure illnesses. Make things better. As much as she could.
Her clients waved and smiled and said good morning, too. They weren’t too bothered about waiting for her. And she appreciated them for that.
In the staff room, she put on her green veterinary top and prepared to start work.
This was better.
This she could do.
This she was in control of.
* * *
Nathan stood in the playground, surrounded mostly by mothers waiting for their children to come out of infant school. As always, he felt like a complete fish out of water here. All the mothers stood in little groups, chatting and laughing. They all knew each other. And him...? He was the lone male, feeling awkward. Sure that he was standing out like a sore thumb.
He could feel their eyes on him. Judging him. Assessing him. Were they talking about him? Could they see his awkward gait? His limp? Could they see what was wrong with him? It feels like they can. He almost felt as if he was carrying a huge sign naming his condition around his neck.
Silverdale Infants had seemed the perfect place for Anna when he’d first come to the village for his job interview. He’d scouted the place out and asked the headteacher to give him a tour. He’d walked through the school with her, looking in the classrooms, seeing the happy children and their paintings, listening to them singing in assembly and watching as they’d sat for storytime in their impossibly small chairs. He’d genuinely felt his daughter would be happy there. It had a good vibe. The head was a nice woman and Miss Howarth, Anna’s teacher-to-be, seemed really lovely and welcoming.
Nathan had just had his first day in his new job and this had been Anna’s first day at her new school. He could only hope that it had gone as well as his own day, and that she would come running out with a big smile on her face. Then, perhaps, the lump of anxiety in his stomach would disappear and they’d be able to go home and he’d cook dinner.
Nathan hated being away from Anna. Giving her into the care of someone else. But he had to work and she had to learn—and weren’t schools considered in loco parentis?
He was grateful for the flexible hours his new job afforded him. Since Gwyneth had left them he’d had to become both father and mother to Anna. And he didn’t think he was doing too badly. Anna seemed happy enough, only occasionally asking why she didn’t have a mummy, like other children. Those days were hard. When he could see the hurt in his daughter’s eyes. And when it happened he would curse Gwyneth inwardly, whilst outwardly he would throw everything he had at making his daughter happy.
He just couldn’t give her the mother that she wanted. He wasn’t ready to be with someone new. To open himself up to possible hurt and betrayal. To being left again. And why put Anna through the hope of getting to know someone when they might walk away and break her heart, too?
He didn’t bad-mouth Gwyneth to Anna. It wasn’t up to him to tell Anna how to feel about her mother. Anna might want to find her one day and see her. Talk to her. Ask her things. Did he want Anna to grow up resentful and hating her mother? No. Even if it was hard for him. Because Gwyneth had abandoned them both. And that hurt. Not so much now, but it still caused pain whenever he thought about his and Anna’s future.
He sighed as he thought about his mistake in getting involved with Gwyneth. She’d been so much fun to begin with, but—as was sometimes the way with relationships—they’d both realised something was missing. And then they’d discovered she was pregnant...
Life was short. And he would not have Anna spending hers moping about for a mother who had no interest in her whatsoever. He was only sorry that he hadn’t noticed Gwyneth’s shallowness earlier on. Before he’d got in too deep.
The school bell rang and he braced himself. Now he’d know. Had it gone well?
Crossing his fingers in his jacket pockets, trying not to shiver in the late November cold, he looked for her familiar face amongst the mass of children pouring out through the door, all of them almost identical in their little green jumpers and grey skirts or trousers.
Then he saw her and his heart lifted.
‘Daddy!’
She was smiling. Beaming at him as she ran to his open arms, clutching a painting that was still slightly wet. Nathan scooped her up, hefting her onto his hip, trying not to grimace at the pain in his shoulder.
‘What do we have here?’ He glanced at the painting. There were daubs of brown and green that he guessed was a tree, and to one side was a large black blob with ears. ‘Is that Lottie?’
Anna nodded, grinning, showing the gap where her two front teeth were missing. ‘Yes!’
Lottie was their pet rabbit and his one concession to Anna’s demands to fill their house with pets of all shapes and sizes. Anna adored animals, and ever since she’d started at nursery had plagued him with requests for cats or dogs or parrots or anything that had fur, feathers or a cute face.
Knowing that they would both be out all day—him at work, she at school—he’d not thought a dog or a cat was appropriate, but he’d given in and allowed her a rabbit. It had the added bonus of living outdoors and its presence had stopped Anna from ‘rescuing’ injured insects and bringing them in to be ‘nursed’.
‘It looks just like her.’ He squinted as he saw a small daub of bright orange. ‘Is that a carrot?’
‘No, Daddy. Silly! That’s a worm.’
‘Oh, right.’ He gently placed his daughter back on the ground, being careful not to grimace or wrench himself further. ‘So how did it go? Was it good? Did you make friends?’
She nodded. ‘Lots and lots.’
She proceeded to list them as they walked back to the car. There seemed an awful lot, and to his ears it sounded as if she’d just memorised the register, but he nodded and smiled at her as she told him about Hattie with the bright pink glasses, and George who had held her hand as they’d walked to assembly.
They were soon home. Nathan still had half their life packed away in boxes after the move, but he knew they’d get there eventually. All the important stuff was unpacked. And Anna’s room had everything. He’d done that first. Everything else could wait for when he had the time. He just had to decide where he wanted it all to go.
The house was brand-new, so had none of that old-world character the rest of the cottages in the village had. He had tiles on his roof, not thatch. A modern fake fireplace rather than an old rustic one with real flames. Flat, smooth walls rather than whitewashed ones with crooked oak beams.
Still, the place would get its character eventually.
‘I’m going to see if Lottie missed me.’ Anna ran through the house towards the back door, so she could go into the garden.
‘Not yet, young lady,’ he called after her. ‘Go upstairs and get out of your uniform first.’
‘Daddy, please!’
‘It was raining this morning, Anna. I’m not having you getting your uniform covered in mud and straw. Please go and get changed.’
She pouted, but only briefly, and then she ran back past him, clambering up the stairs as he took their bags through to the kitchen, pinned her painting to the fridge with a magnet that was shaped like a banana. He’d picked up some vegetables from a farm shop, so he popped those in the fridge, then switched on the kettle for a drink.
Upstairs, he heard a small thunk as Anna kicked off her shoes and soon enough she was trotting back down the stairs, wearing a weird combination of purple corduroy skirt, green tee shirt and a rather loud orange and yellow cardigan.
‘Nice... I’m liking your style.’ He was keen to encourage her to wear what she wanted and to pick her own clothes. He’d learned that it was important—it helped Anna to develop her independence and allowed her to express herself. And he needed Anna to be a strong character. He wanted to encourage her at all times to feel happy about herself and her own decisions. To feel valued and beautiful. Because she was beautiful. With her mother’s good looks but thankfully none of her character.
‘Will you do me a juice, Daddy?’
‘Sure thing, poppet.’ He watched her twist the back door key and trot out into the garden. It wasn’t huge out there, and as theirs was one of the original show houses it was just plain grass, with one side border of bushes. Nothing too impressive. Nothing that needed that much work. Something he figured he’d get to later. Maybe in the New Year.
But it had the rabbit hutch. The main reason for Anna to go and play outside. He was hoping to get her a trampoline, or a bike, or something. Maybe for Christmas.
He was just diluting orange juice with some water when he heard his daughter let out a blood-curdling scream.
‘Daddy!’
‘Anna?’ His body froze, his heart stopped beating just for a millisecond, and then he was dropping the glass into the sink and bolting for the back door. What on earth had happened? Why had she screamed? Was she hurt?
Oh, please don’t let her be hurt!
‘Daddy!’
She ran into his arms, crying, and he held her, puzzled. What was it? Had she fallen over? What?
‘Let me look at you.’ He held her out at arm’s length to check her over, but she looked fine. No scuffed knees, no grazes, no cuts. Just a face flooded with tears. What the...?
‘Lottie’s bleeding!’ She pointed at the hutch before burying her face in his shirt.
He looked over the top of her head and could now see that the hutch had a broken latch and poor Lottie the rabbit sat hunched within, breathing heavily and audibly, with blood all over her and in the straw around her, as if she’d been involved in some sort of weird rabbit horror movie.
‘Oh...’ He stood up and led Anna away and back into the kitchen, sitting her down on one of the chairs by the table. ‘Stay here.’
‘She’s bleeding, Daddy.’
‘I know, honey. We’ll need to take her to the vet.’
He didn’t know if the poor thing might have to be put to sleep. There was a lot of blood, and Lottie looked like she might be in shock. He dashed for the cupboard under the stairs, where they’d put Lottie’s carrier and got it out. Then he grabbed some latex gloves from under the sink and headed for the garden.
‘I’ll get Lottie. Can you get your shoes on for me? And your coat?’
‘Where are we going?’
‘The vet. The animal doctor. She’ll need to check her over.’
‘What if she dies, Daddy?’ Anna sobbed, almost hiccupping her words.
He hadn’t imagined this. He’d agreed to have Lottie knowing that rabbits lived for around ten years, hoping that they wouldn’t have to face this day until Anna was in her teens. But not this early. Not now. He wasn’t sure how she’d handle a pet’s death at this age.
‘Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it. Get your shoes on. We need to get her there quickly.’
Nathan headed into the garden, slipped on the gloves and picked up the poor, shocked rabbit and placed her in the box. Normally she fought going in the carrier. But there was no fight today. His heart sank at the thought of having to tell his daughter her rabbit might die. Had Anna not been through enough?
He pulled off the bloodied gloves and quickly discarded them in the bin.
He could only hope that the veterinary surgery was still open.
