15th January
Sometimes I feel like all the men in this family have lived with a railway in their blood. My father-in-law, his father before him, even further down the linethey all worked for the railway in York, and I suspect the iron of the tracks runs deeper than any spoken word. And now, here I am, sitting at the family table in Leeds clutching a crumpled ultrasound printout, waiting for judgement as if Im on trial.
What have you contributed then? Margaret demands, tossing the print onto the kitchen table. Shes always stern, her eyes as sharp as frost on a November morning. Four generations of men driving engines, working the lines! And what do you bring?
I can barely manage to meet her gaze. Gently, I stroke my swollen belly. A daughter, I whisper, Well name her Florence.
Margaret grunts. Florence, she repeats, rolling the syllables around like stones in her mouth. Well, at least thats a proper name. But whos going to care? What will come of her?
Thomas, my husband, sits hunched over his phone, looking at anything but us. I reach for his hand, desperate, hoping for support. But he just shrugs.
It is what it is, he mutters. Maybe next time itll be a boy.
His offhand words cut deeper than he could imagine. Next time? Is this little girl just rehearsal for something better?
Florence arrives in January, tiny as a snowdrop, eyes wide and solemn, with a shock of dark hair that surprises everyone. Thomas turns up for the discharge from hospital, tight-lipped and awkward, a bunch of carnations dangling from one hand and a bag of baby grows in the other.
Shes pretty, he says, peering presumptuously into the pram. Looks like you.
I try to smile. But shes got your nose, and that stubborn little chin.
He waves a hand. They all look the same at this age.
When we get home, Margaret meets us with that tight, pursed look. Valerie next door asked if it was a grandson. I was almost ashamed to reply. At my age, having to fuss over dolls again
That night, as I sit by Florences cot, tears prick my eyes. I hold her close, trying to muffle my cry in her tiny warmth.
Thomas starts putting in endless overtime at the station. He fixes fences for neighbours, takes every extra shift he can get, muttering something or other about how a family comes at a price, especially now with a baby in tow. He hardly says a word when he stumbles in late, smelling of oil and tiredness.
Shes waiting for you, I tell him, as he passes by Florences room without so much as a peek inside. She lights up when she hears you walk past.
Im knackered, Annie. I need to be up at the crack of dawn.
But you havent even said hello.
Shes just a baby; she wont know the difference.
But Florence does. I see ithow she cranes her neck towards the door when her father walks in, then stares into space when he disappears.
Eight months in, Florence falls ill. It begins with a fever climbing to 38 degrees, then 39. The GP says to keep her at home, dose her with Calpol, see how she does. By morning, her temperature spikes at 40.
Thomas, wake up! Im shaking him, panic about to spill over. Shes burning up!
What time is it? he groans, eyes barely open.
Seven. I havent slept. She needs the hospital.
Isnt it a bit early for that? Lets wait till the evening. Ive got an important shift
For a moment, I dont recognise him. Your daughters dangerously ill, and all you can think of is work?
Shes not dying, Annie. Babies get ill all the time.
I call a taxi myself.
At the hospital, they take us straight to Paediatrics, suspecting complicated meningitis. The consultant says a lumbar puncture is needed, and that both parents must sign the consent form.
Wheres the father? he asks.
Hes at work. Hell come, I lie.
All day, I ring. Thomass phone remains dead. When he finally answers at seven that evening, my voice is shaking.
Thomas, its meningitis! They need your signature for the lumbar puncture. Where are you?
Im at the depotI cant leave, Annie, my shift isnt done till eleven and then Im meeting the lads at the pub
I hang up.
In the end, I sign the form alone. They wheel Florence off, tiny and fragile on the huge hospital bed, her hand closed around nothing.
Results tomorrow, says the doctor. If it is meningitis, itll mean six weeks in the ward, if not more.
I stay by her side all night, watching her chest rise and fall under the drip.
Thomas turns up at lunch the next day, stubbled and gaunt.
How is she? he stands in the doorway, uncertain.
Not well, I reply coldly. Still waiting for the tests.
What did they do to her? That thing
Lumbar puncture. They took spinal fluid for analysis.
He pales. Was it painful?
General anaesthetic. She didnt feel a thing.
He edges to her cot. Florence sleeps, her arm swaddled with the drip.
Shes so small, he mutters. I never really thought
I say nothing.
The test comes back clearjust a viral infection, complicated, but not meningitis. The relief nearly floors me. The doctor says were lucky. A day or so later, and it couldve been much worse.
Back home, Thomas is silent in the taxi. At the front door, he finally asks, Am I really that useless? As a dad?
I shift Florence in my arms, trying not to cry. What do you think?
I thought thered be plenty of timethat shes tiny, cant really know whats going on. But then, in hospital, with all those tubes I realised I could lose her. And that Id be losing so much.
She needs a father, Thomas, not just a man bringing home a pay packet. Someone who knows her name, her favourite things.
He hesitates. What are they?
Her rubber hedgehog and the rattle with bells. When you come home, she always crawls to the door, hoping youll pick her up.
He bows his head. I didnt know
You do now.
That night, Florence wakes with a thin, plaintive cry. Thomas reaches for herhesitantly.
May I? he asks, uncertain.
Shes your daughter, I reply.
He folds her into his arms. She presses her hand to his cheek, staring up with solemn eyes.
Hello, little one, he whispers shakily. Im so sorry I wasnt there when you were frightened.
Florence touches his face, her tiny hand clumsy and deliberate.
Daddy, she says, suddenly, clear as a bell.
For Thomas, its like the world has stopped. He glances at me in disbelief.
She she just said
Shes been saying it all week, I smile, Only when youre not here. I suppose she was waiting for the right moment.
That evening, when Florence falls asleep in her fathers arms, Thomas gently carries her to bed. She doesnt let go of his finger, her grip fierce even in sleep.
She wont let go, he murmurs, surprised.
Shes afraid youll disappear again, I answer.
He sits by her cot, unmoving, for half an hour.
Im taking the day off tomorrow, he tells me. And the day after. I want to get to know my daughter.
What about the extra shifts?
Well manage. Or live more modestly. Its more important not to miss these moments.
I wrap my arms around him. Better late than never.
Id never forgive myself if something happened and I didnt even know what her favourite toy was, Thomas says quietly, gazing at our sleeping little girl, Or that she could say Daddy.
A week later, when Florence is well enough, the three of us go out to Roundhay Park together. She sits proudly on her fathers shoulders, shrieking with laughter as she grasps at the tawny autumn leaves.
Look at those golden trees, Florence! Thomas points skyward. And can you see the squirrel?
Walking beside them, I reflect on how we almost had to lose everything to realise what truly matters.
At home, Margaret greets us with her familiar disapproval.
Thomas, Valerie says her grandsons playing football already. But yoursonly dolls and teddies.
My daughter is the best in the world, Thomas says firmly, placing Florence on the rug and handing her the trusty rubber hedgehog. And theres nothing wrong with dolls.
But the family linewhat about that?
It wont end. Itll just continue differently.
Margaret is about to argue, but Florence crawls over and lifts her small arms.
Gran! she says, beaming.
For once, Margaret seems lost for words as she collects Florence into her arms.
She can talk! she exclaims.
Our Florences very bright, Thomas says with quiet pride. Arent you, darling?
Daddy! Florence grins, clapping her hands with delight.
Watching this, I think that sometimes happiness only arrives after the hardest trials. That the deepest love is the kind that grows slowlythrough pain and the fear of loss.
At bedtime, Thomas softly sings Florence to sleep. His voice is rough and low, but Florence lies wide-eyed, listening.
Youve never sung to her before, I cant help but remark.
Theres a lot I havent done before, he says quietly. Now its time to make it right.
She drifts off, clutching his finger tight, and Thomas doesnt try to pull away. He sits there in the dark, listening to her breathing, recognising at last all that he nearly missed by not pausing to see what was right in front of him.
And Florence sleeps soundly, smiling in her dreams. Now she understandsher daddy isnt going anywhere.
Sometimes, it takes something almost being lost for good to wake up the brightest feelings in us. And tonight, I wonder: can people truly change when they realise what they stand to lose? After everything, I believe they can.
