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CATHY
WOODMAN

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me Home

PEGASUS BOOKS

NEW YORK LONDON

To Charlotte and Millie

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Cathy Woodman was a small animal vet before turning to writing fiction. She won the Harry Bowling First Novel Award in 2002 and is a member of the Romantic Novelists' Association. She is also a lecturer in Animal Management at a local college.
Follow Me Home
is the eighth book set in the fictional market town of Talyton St George in East Devon, where Cathy lived as a child. Cathy now lives with her two children, three exuberant Border Terriers and a cat in a village near Winchester, Hampshire.

CHAPTER ONE

Special Delivery

I'm not sure whether to be excited or scared when the call I've been waiting for comes at last, but I'm on my way. I leave the Village News, the newsagent's, and drive through the empty streets of Talyton St George on a cold February afternoon with the sleet pelting against the windscreen and the antique streetlamps dancing reflections on the puddles. I pass King's Head House, and Petals, with its colourful window display of flowers, before turning right at Mr Rock's fish and chip shop and Lacey's Fine Wines. Mrs Dyer, the butcher's wife is walking, or – it would be more accurate to say – is being walked by her giant dog that reminds me of Scooby-Doo. I wave, but with two hands on the lead, she can only nod back as the dog tows her out of the churchyard towards home.

I switch the heating up and continue out of town, following the signs for Talyford and beyond, where
torrents of orange water rush down the sandy banks dotted with bushes and bare-rooted trees on both sides of the road, and flood across the lane on the way to Greenwood Farm.

My mobile rings – I answer it on the hands-free.

‘Zara, when are you going to get here?' Murray, the father-to-be, is panicking.

‘I won't be long. Two minutes max,' I say calmly, although my heart is beginning to beat faster. ‘How is she doing?'

‘I reckon she's about to drop,' Murray says in a broad Devon accent as his wife utters a high-pitched wail in the background.

‘Why didn't you get in touch earlier?' I ask him.

‘Emily didn't want to bother you too soon.'

‘It's my job. I'm supposed to be there.' My fingers tighten on the steering wheel. ‘How often are the contractions coming now?'

‘Since her waters broke, every three or four minutes. I don't know. I've lost count.' Briefly, he recovers his sense of humour. ‘I never thought I'd hear myself say this, but I can't wait for you to turn up.'

I smile to myself. In Murray's opinion, I spend far too much time with Emily.

‘Murray, calm down, will you? We always thought it would be quicker this time.' I try to reassure him. I wouldn't mind betting that Emily's in transition at least, which means this baby will soon be here. I hope I'm not going to miss out. ‘I'll be with you at any minute. Tell her to remember to breathe,' I add lightly.

‘I heard that. I am bloody breathing,' I hear Emily
yell back before the mobile signal cuts out. Emily never swears. I put my foot down, speeding up along the lane before slowing and turning into the driveway just after the leaping deer that Murray created from brushwood last summer and placed by the gate to mark the farm entrance. I pull in off the muddy track into the yard and park between a tractor and a pick-up in front of the cob and thatch farmhouse where the door is open and the lights are on. I grab my bag and trolley from the back of the car and head inside, leaving my shoes on the mat in the hall and checking in the mirror above the table that I've remembered to tie my hair back. I straighten my uniform too, navy trousers and a royal blue top with our midwifery team logo, Topaz, embroidered onto it.

‘What kept you?' Murray, Emily's husband of five years, pops his head around the living-room door. He's thirty-three, two years older than me and Emily, and six foot four tall with a freckled complexion, a mop of curly red hair and hazel eyes. ‘Seriously, I've never been so pleased to see you, Zara. Come on in.'

I follow him into the room where the scent of lavender oil drifts through the air, displacing the smell of sheep and farmyard from my nostrils.

‘I thought you were all for delivering this baby yourself,' I say, observing that he's had time to change out of his outdoor clothes into clean jeans and a chunky-knit sweater.

‘I shouldn't joke about that. I thought I was going to have to.' He wipes his palms on his thighs. ‘Where's Kelly? I thought she'd be here too.'

‘She will be.' Kelly's my partner in our close-knit team of community midwives, and we usually attend a birth together, at least when delivery is imminent. ‘She's coming from Talymouth, but the road's been blocked by a landslip. The last I heard she was stuck in traffic.' I make my way to the sofa where Emily is on her knees in a long grey T-shirt with her blonde hair loose around her shoulders. She rests her arms on the seat, rocking back and forth and biting into a cushion.

‘Emily, how are you?' I kneel down beside her and she answers with a low moan. Her brow is beaded with sweat and her expression is pained. The lights flicker as if they're coming out in sympathy with her.

‘How are you doing?' I repeat gently.

‘How do you think?' She swears out loud and glares in my direction as if she blames me for putting her in this situation. I can see myself in her, in the deep blue of the eyes, the plumpness of the cheeks and the shape of the mouth. I can feel her pain as the contraction peaks and dies away once more, giving her a short respite during which time I make quick checks on her and the baby. Emily's fully dilated and the baby's heartbeat is strong and regular.

‘It won't be long,' I say, smiling despite my anxiety because, although all my babies are precious, this one is a particularly special delivery.

Murray waits perched on the arm of the sofa while I stroke Emily's back. There is a stack of logs burning in the grate behind the fireguard, plastic sheets and blankets thrown over the sofa and sponges strewn across the carpet. A cross-eyed teddy bear looks down
from the mantelpiece in the direction of a wooden crate overflowing with toys, as if to say, put me away so I can have some peace and quiet, as Emily moans again with the onset of another contraction.

I check my fob watch. Where the hell is Kelly? I thought she'd have found an alternative route and be here by now. At this rate, I'll be catching Emily's baby single-handed. The realisation of what I've agreed to do suddenly hits me.

Emily had such a traumatic labour giving birth in hospital the first time around – I wasn't her midwife on that occasion – that she wanted a home birth and a better experience for her and the baby. She was reluctant to ask me initially, but I would have felt hurt if she'd asked anyone else. Emily's children are the closest I'll ever come to having children of my own.

‘I want to push,' She says through gritted teeth.

‘Go for it,' I say.

‘I need something for the pain,' she goes on. ‘I'd forgotten how bad it is. It hurts sooo much.' She gasps as she starts to bear down. ‘I want the gas and air. Now!'

I set up the Entonox and hand her the mouthpiece, but she can't really concentrate any more.

‘Do you want the music on, my darling?' Murray says.

‘No thanks,' Emily says.

‘Are you sure? I spent ages putting those tracks together.'

‘I said no,' Emily snaps, and I'm glad because although my sister's taste in music under normal
circumstances is similar to mine, I wouldn't put it past her to have chosen something soothing like pan pipes. I have delivered so many babies to the sound of pan pipes, I never want to hear one again.

‘Concentrate on your breathing,' I say. ‘That way you'll get the full effect of the gas and air.'

There's a strong gust of wind, which rattles the windows and the lights go out, leaving us in near-darkness.

‘Am I hallucinating, or has it just gone dark?' Emily says.

‘It's a power cut,' Murray says. ‘I expect the overhead power lines are down.'

‘Have you got candles or torches?' I've never had to deliver a baby in the dark, and I don't want to start now.

‘I'll get the candles,' says Emily, attempting to stand up.

‘No, you won't,' I say firmly. ‘You aren't going anywhere. Murray will get them.'

‘Lewis has a couple of storm lanterns in the barn.'

‘He'll need them for the ewes,' Emily says.

‘I think our baby is more important, don't you?' Murray walks towards the door.

‘Don't leave me, not when you got me into this state,' Emily shouts.

‘I'm here. Emily, calm down,' I go on with sisterly impatience. ‘Everything's going to be all right.'

Murray returns within five minutes.

‘Let there be light.' He places a lantern on the side table before striking a match and lighting several
candles and tea-lights around the room, his presence seeming to enable Emily to regain her focus on the imminent birth of her baby.

‘Let me check the baby's heartbeat again before the next contraction.'

‘It feels like it's got hiccups,' Emily says, frowning, and I check with the Doppler. The baby's heart rate is slower than before.

‘Something's wrong,' Emily goes on. ‘I know it.'

‘Baby's heart rate has dipped,' I say, as the lights flicker on and off again. ‘It's getting a little stressed, that's all. It's perfectly normal.'

‘It isn't. I can tell from your voice. Zara, you can't hide anything from me.'

‘I'm not hiding anything.'

‘You would tell me, wouldn't you?'

‘Of course I would,' I say, lying through my teeth. ‘Everything will be fine. All you have to do now is concentrate on pushing as hard as you can – between as well as during contractions.'

‘Should I call somebody, Kelly or an ambulance?' Murray asks.

‘I need you to help,' I say, knowing that by the time an ambulance reaches us, it will be too late. I have to help Emily get this baby out as soon as possible. I look towards Murray for help to get her into a better position so I can use suction to assist the delivery if necessary. Five minutes later, although it feels like much longer, the baby's heart rate comes back up, but then it begins to dip again. I'm more worried than (I hope) I am letting on.

‘Come on, Emily. Push,' I urge her. ‘Push as hard as you can.'

‘Come on, love,' Murray joins in.

‘I am pushing,' she says through gritted teeth as she bears down. ‘I can't push any harder.'

Come on, baby, I say inwardly, wishing Kelly was here with me to make the decisions, because I'm wondering if I can trust myself, if – as my supervisor suggested – I'm too close to my sister to make rational decisions over her care. I thought I could do it. I really thought I could, but I'm beginning to have doubts and this is really the wrong time . . .