Least Said (32 page)

‘Sweetheart,’
he
pulled
me
into
his
arms,
‘you’re
not
being
silly,
but
it
is
very
early
days
of
us
seriously
trying
to
conceive.’

‘I
know,
I
know,’
I
murmured,
relishing
his
closeness
and
his
love,
‘but
I’d
so
hoped...’

‘We’ll
just
have
to
try
harder.’
I
heard
a
chuckle
in
his
voice.
‘I
think
I
can
live
with
that
or
if
you’re
worrying
about
my
low
sperm
count
–
even
though
we
eventually
conceived
Will
without
any
help
-
we
could
get
it
checked
out
again
and
take
some
advice.’

‘Really?’

I
could
feel
my
tears
drying
and
my
face
becoming
one
big
beam.

‘We’ll
do
whatever
it
takes,’
he
promised,
‘go
for
more
tests,
accept
fertility
treatment
if
necessary.
We’re
both
a
bit
older
now
and
we
both
know
that
can
affect
fertility,
too.’

I
was
thrilled
with
this
huge
turn-around
in
Jon’s
attitude.
Given
his
reluctance
in
the
early
years
of
us
trying
to
conceive,
I’d
seriously
expected
him
to
flatly
refuse
any
advice
or
treatment
on
the
grounds
that
he
had
fathered
Will
without
any
help.

It
was
only
later,
when
William
had
finally
been
persuaded
up
to
bed
after
sharing
every
little
detail
of
the
lovely
time
he’d
spent
with
Lucy
and
her
children,
that
my
thoughts
turned
to
the
difficulties
and
dangers
that
might
arise
once
we
came
into
contact
with
the
medical
profession
again.

We
hadn’t
hung
around
after
the
low
sperm
count
result
bombshell
had
been
dropped
on
us
all
those
years
ago.
In
fact,
Jon
had
stormed
out
of
the
doctor’s
office
immediately
after
we
were
given
the
news,
flatly
refusing
to
discuss
the
matter
at
all
-
not
with
me,
his
own
wife,
and
definitely
not
with
any
member
of
the
medical
profession.
So,
what
if
–
and
I
shuddered
at
the
thought
–
the
result
had
shown
that
his
sperm
count
was
so
low
that
the
chance
of
us
conceiving
without
intervention
was
virtually
impossible?
Such
information
was
bound
to
open
up
all
kinds
of
questions
concerning
Will’s
conception?
I
knew
I
just
couldn’t
risk
it.

Now
that
Jon
had
made
up
his
mind
to
deal
with
any
problems
we
might
currently
have
with
the
level
of
his
fertility
head
on,
he
seemed
keen
to
get
started,
as
soon
became
apparent
as
he
spread
butter
on
his
toast
with
a
lavish
hand
the
following
morning.

‘I’ve
been
thinking,’
he
said,
and
I
could
tell
he
was
making
every
effort
to
inject
a
note
of
eagerness
into
his
tone,
despite
this
being
a
subject
he
had
always
found
difficult
to
deal
with.
‘We
should
make
an
appointment
at
the
surgery
sooner
rather
than
later
–
get
this
baby-making
show
on
the
road.’

‘Are
we
going
to
a
baby-making
show?’
Will
piped
up
round
a
mouthful
of
Cocoa-pops,
looking
very
interested.
‘Will
it
be
at
the
Pavilion,
like
the
pantomime
at
Christmas?’

I
threw
Jon
a
look
and
shook
my
head.
‘Daddy
was
just
joking,’
I
said
quickly,
‘but
we
might
go
to
see
The Lion King
at
the
proper
theatre
in
London
before
you
go
back
to
school
–
if
you’re
a
very
good
boy.’

He
was
immediately
distracted,
and
I
indicated
to
Jon
by
rubbing
my
fingers
together,
that
his
thoughtless
remark
was
going
to
cost
him.
He
just
grinned
sheepishly
and
shrugged
his
shoulders.

‘I’ve
been
thinking,
too,’
I
said,
‘that
there
are
probably
a
lot
of
things
we
can
do
for
ourselves
before
we
resort
to
medical
intervention.
You’re
right
that
it
is
early
days
and
I
was
probably
expecting
far
too
much
for
it
to
happen
right
away.
I’ll
do
some
searches
on
the
internet,
look
for
natural
ways
of
aiding
fertility,
and
try
to
be
patient.’

Despite
Jon’s
apparent
eagerness
to
take
medical
advice,
I
thought
he
looked
relieved.

‘We
should
think
back
to
when
Will
was
conceived,’
he
said
as
he
kissed
me
goodbye
on
the
doorstep,
‘because
something
obviously
worked
back
then
and
it
could
do
again.’