Jasper looked up at the clear, starlit, advent sky. A sharp north easterly had blown away the relentless gloom of the past fortnight and he gladly breathed in the nipping December air. He thought of the fingerless gloves he’d left behind at the church after rehearsal the previous evening. He would miss them this morning and considered for a moment passing the vicarage to see if they could be retrieved. Although without any religious conviction, Jasper Marlow was a first-rate organist. The product of a cathedral school education, he was an obvious recruit for the parish Christmas celebrations. Initially, he’d been angry with his sister for volunteering him – it had been several years since he’d last played – but there was no denying the tingle of satisfaction once the rust had been shaken off and his fingers had learnt to dance again.

Jasper hopped onto his Post Office bike and set off along the lane, great clouds billowing from him as he climbed the gentle South Downs slope towards the crossroads for a final rendezvous. He’d enjoyed his month as a Christmas Relief Postal Worker. There was a soothing rhythm to the daily repetition that Jasper found comforting.

Barry was late not for the first time. Jasper watched the sad flock of sheep in the field opposite as he regained his breath. In his childhood these hills had been brimming with livestock. They seemed somehow out of place now, ornamental. The crisp silence was broken by the grating rasp of Barry’s van, a grubby red beast of burden weary from years of toil. Jasper slid open the side door and threw his bike into the back.

‘Cold one for your last day. Hope you’ve got your thermals on.’ Jasper smiled at Barry’s chummy good humour. Although predictable, it was always generous and absent of any malice for which Jasper was grateful. As they trundled along towards the sorting office, Barry regaled Jasper with an impassioned account of the many injustices at the football match he’d attended with his son the night before. But Jasper wasn’t listening. However hard he tried to engage with wild theories of match fixing and shadowy Chinese gambling syndicates, Jasper’s mind would spool inevitably backwards. Backwards exactly twelve months.

********

What a thing of black velvet beauty is a pint of Guinness. ‘Let it to settle for a minute.’ Accepting his instruction, Jasper could only marvel at the care taken by the earnest young bartender in producing such perfection and struggled unsuccessfully to think of the last time he’d felt such satisfaction at a job well done.

Drinking at lunchtime was fairly common when he first started out. Actively encouraged at some firms, it was practically part of the job description at Blackfriars Holdings where Jasper had spent a dozen fruitful years. Workplace culture had of course changed in more recent times thanks in no small part to the greater prominence of female voices, but since the pandemic, Jasper had embraced a perverse return to old habits. What began as a deserved reward to himself, as he saw it, for his increased productivity soon became an amusing transgression. After all, no one smells your breath on a Teams call.

Back in the office the sobriety of the morning had given way to a riot of Saturnalian festivity as the drinks flowed freely whilst younger members of the team belted out Christmas standards on the karaoke machine. Jasper spent an hour idly deleting emails before signing off for the year with an awkward rendition of Fairytale of New York accompanied by Yvette, his senior partner both in years and rank.

The afternoon train from London Bridge was bulging with workers departing early for the holidays. Jasper had to content himself with his least favourite seat, the dreaded backwards facing middle of three. The usual symphony of public-private telephone conversations was punctuated by a disconcerting percussion of wheezes and coughs. Jasper fumbled aimlessly inside his coat for a mask; fully vaccinated and the veteran of two bouts of covid he’d long since given up on face coverings. The wretched tangle of fabric and elastic that he eventually found was so misshapen as to render it useless. He turned instead to social media for distraction and was instantly rewarded. After a couple of miserable years at university, Abby had decided to take a year out to travel. Greeting Jasper on his feed was the smiling image of his daughter with boyfriend Ned and a surly looking rickshaw rider. Whilst every new post brought much welcome comfort and joy, they were also reminders that this would be their first Christmas without her, something Jasper was doing all he could to forget.

With the last of the south London suburbs well behind them, the carriage fell into a sleepy quiet as the line picked its way through the East Sussex Weald. Like a well-trained dog, Jasper woke barely two minutes before they drew into Robertsbridge. As he crossed the desolate car park, he felt a yearning ache for Shelagh to be there waiting patiently with Abby safely strapped in on the back seat. He rarely called his wife these days – texting was far more suited to the humdrum exchange of low-level information and anything important could wait – but right now, as he stood alone enveloped in the murky winter gloaming, he felt an overwhelming need to hear her voice. He pulled the phone from his pocket, looked down at the blank dead screen sitting lifeless in the palm of his hand and for a crushing moment Jasper thought he was going to cry.

Over the years Shelagh had been Jasper’s constant lift in the morning and home again most evenings. Keenly aware of the debt he owed his wife, Jasper was nothing but supportive when she suddenly announced she was quitting her post as a dedicated and highly valued art teacher at a prestigious girls' school. The pandemic had left her, like many, questioning the value of her time, and she was now happily running a thriving ceramics business from a workshop behind the local craft brewery leaving Jasper to make his own commuting arrangements.

Horses enjoy three-hundred-and-fifty-degree vision. Coming out of the sharp left-hand bend whilst fighting to avoid the imposing chestnut stallion, calm and motionless in the middle of the road before him, this shred of equine trivia flashed through Jasper’s mind. Why hadn’t it seen him, or heard him even? Perhaps it was deaf. With thoughts colliding like atoms, Jasper somehow managed to avoid the majestic animal only to be confronted by two headlights, full beam, approaching at speed towards inevitable impact. Whenever he later replayed this moment, Jasper could only conclude that it was by some metaphysical miracle that a head-on collision was avoided, that the two vehicles must have been of the same polarity and consequently, like magnets, repelled one another.

Eventually, Jasper opened his eyes. Very occasionally he’d wondered if air bags could be relied upon, and now as he gazed down at the flaccid nylon sack in his lap, he had his answer. Satisfied he’d sustained no discernible injury, he prized open the door and gingerly eased himself to his feet. He’d come to a halt on the grass verge between the woods and the edge of the road with the front half of the car buried within the foliage of a large rhododendron bush. The suspended silence was eventually broken by a puff of breath and a light shuffling on the damp tarmac behind him. Jasper swung round to meet the inscrutable gaze of the horse. They stared impassively at each other, every passing moment a tacit acknowledgment of their shared responsibility, before the stallion turned sharply and was away.

Only after the clack of hooves had at last receded was Jasper aware of another more ominous sound. A sickening ache throbbed in the pit of his stomach as he strode inexorably back towards the siren call of the distant song. As he rounded the bend, Jasper finally recognised James Brown’s unbridled celebration of Living in America, a surreal underscore to the hellish scene that lay before him. The small white van he’d so narrowly avoided was now clasped to the immoveable trunk of a mighty English oak. The back doors gaped wide open, and a set of golf clubs lay strewn across the ground.

Jasper felt the adrenaline surge through his body. He called out hesitantly from what felt like a safe distance. ‘Hello?’ His dread voice hung unanswered in the still air. As he stepped tentatively forward, he glimpsed various lengths of piping and other plumbing supplies within the back of the van. The first thing he noticed when he peered into the cab was a small red and white pennant hanging from the rearview mirror, carrying the familiar graffiti scrawl of Solidarność. In the passenger side footwell, he could just make out the moulded contoured edge of a child’s booster seat. A pair of track suited legs lay motionless under the steering column. They belonged to a clean-shaven man of about thirty-five years, slight of build with pointed features, his face cast for eternity in wide-eyed peaceful repose. Jasper’s hand felt the dead mobile through his jacket pocket. His next thought was of the mulled wine he'd accepted on his return to the office on top of the lunchtime Guinness. But that was over two hours ago. He thought of the stallion roaming free out there in the darkness, and without another moment’s hesitation, he was walking purposefully back towards his car. Less than ninety seconds later he had reversed back on to the road and was on his way.

One of the advantages of living in the sticks is the relative scarcity of surveillance. Other than the camera at the station car park, which everyone locally knew hadn’t been working for weeks, the only way Jasper could be linked to the scene of the accident was either the speed trap about a mile farther up the road – which most definitely was in operation last July when it captured him at three miles an hour above the limit – or a passing car. So when he turned off at the next junction, Jasper let out the faintest sigh of relief. Now safely concealed within the comforting curves of the narrow country lane that, although longer in distance, would deliver him to less than a hundred metres from his house, he knew the chances of being traced were next to zero. He also knew that keeping this dark episode from Shelagh would destroy him. He resolved to share everything. But whilst attempting to persuade himself that honest transparency was the noble path, he couldn’t escape the nagging reality that by telling all he would also be implicating his wife in a potential cover up.

The sight of Shelagh’s car sitting neatly in the corner of the drive would normally be the cue for a gentle dopamine rush, especially with the additional stimulus of twinkling fairy lights and a wreath of fir under the porch. No such fix this time.

Jasper carefully closed the front door and without removing his coat passed straight through the house to the kitchen where he was greeted by the rich baritone of Bing Crosby floating lightly from the television. A recently opened bottle of Merlot stood invitingly on the counter next to two empty goblets. As he dropped the car fob into the small dish on the dresser, he heard his wife’s measured footsteps on the stairs; by the time she appeared in the kitchen doorway he had charged both glasses and was ready for his confession.

‘I’ve booked us a table at Midpoint.’ This was a surprise to Jasper. In the unstated division of their marital labour making restaurant reservations tended to be his responsibility.

‘Oh. What time?’

‘Seven.’ Shelagh could read her husband’s mind as he glanced down at the drinks. ‘We’ll get an Uber.’ She kissed Jasper softly on the cheek whilst deftly relieving him of one of the glasses that had become a little too tightly fixed in his grip.

‘I’ve something to tell you.’ he uttered.

‘Me too.’

Again, Jasper was sidestepped. At first, he put this simply down to his own unease, but as he carefully scrutinised Shelagh’s face, he became aware of a puffiness around her eyes that betrayed her now obvious distress.

‘What is it? What’s wrong?’ In the agonising silence that followed, Jasper experienced, for the second time in less than an hour, his entire being drown in a tide of fear.

‘It’s come back.’ Shelagh’s delicate Celtic voice was now an instrument of pain delivering the most devastating gut punch imaginable. ‘I saw Professor Hodgkinson this afternoon. It’s spread. It’s in my bones.’

Jasper and Shelagh were now locked in their own closed dimension, a covalent bond made manifest through their shared humanity, husband and wife, man and woman, two people as one bound by their mutual love.

‘How long?’ he whispered.

‘Three months. Tops.’

All Jasper wanted was to tell Shelagh it was going to be alright. He wanted it to be East Dulwich in their two bed Victorian terrace with Abby singing in the highchair. He wanted it to be the tiny bar just off The Ramblas in Barcelona when he first set eyes on the radiant artist sitting in the corner and the Earth’s vibrations changed frequency forever.

‘Now, I want you to promise me one thing. We’re not going to spend what’s left of my life in misery. Okay? No misery. No self-pity. Promise?’ Jasper nodded unconvincingly, and Shelagh wiped away the tiny rivulet that was snaking its way down a small glen in his face.

‘This is the wrong way round. I should be comforting you,’ he mumbled. Shelagh smiled and for a moment the world seemed okay again. ‘Anyway, enough about me. What was it you wanted to tell me?’

Jasper peered into the dark unfathomable depth of Shelagh’s eyes, darker than the stallion’s, eyes he’d fallen into over a quarter of a century ago, eyes that absorbed all of him, that celebrated his joys and forgave his weaknesses. ‘It doesn’t matter. It’s not important.’

********

Between them, Jasper and Barry had worked out an efficient daily routine that took in a seafront drop-off at the start of the round and concluded at the Rose and Crown car park on the charmless postwar estate at the town’s edge, where Jasper would swap back a large red delivery trolley for his bike, leaving Barry to enjoy a lunchtime pint with fellow posties Mel and Raj.  To mark Jasper’s last shift and the final delivery before Christmas, Barry was insisting he join them for a valedictory drink. ‘No excuses now. I’m not taking no for an answer.’ Jasper had grown fond of Barry and didn’t want to disappoint his new friend, but not since that fateful day twelve months ago had he set foot inside a pub. He’d continued to join Shelagh with a glass of wine over dinner whilst she was still able, but as far as public houses were concerned, Jasper was in self-imposed exile. He nodded wryly. ‘Okay. See you at lunchtime.’ ‘That’s the spirit,’ chuckled Barry as he pulled away.

Jasper sighed as he watched the van disappear before making his way to Charnwood, an elegant mid-nineteenth century villa in the old town that was the first address of his round. As he weighed his predicament, the succession of front doors and letter boxes that had become so familiar to him in the past month now served as an unwelcome countdown. He reached for his AirPods and found solace on his playlist.

Bedřich Smetana had endured not only complete deafness but the tragic loss of his first wife and three daughters by the time he composed Má vlast, a work of exquisite beauty and a triumph of the human spirit in the face of immense personal suffering. Having dutifully honoured his promise to Shelagh, Jasper had descended into a spiral of despair in the nine months since her death. Professor Hodgkinson’s prognosis had turned out to be lethally accurate; Shelagh died in the last week of March. True to character, she’d defiantly set herself a series of adventures that began with a New Year’s trip to Reykjavík to see the Aurora Borealis from the therapeutic comfort of a geothermal pool and culminated in a precious last visit to Florence where they spent a final St Valentine’s Day together lost in the glorious Uffizi gallery. But by suppressing his impending grief, Jasper had subsequently found himself cut adrift in a vast sea of anguish that showed no sign of abating. And of course, Jasper’s pain was a two-headed serpent comprised not only of loss but guilt as well. For somewhere, possibly even behind one of the doors that he visited each day, a child was preparing for a second Christmas without a father no closer to understanding the cause of their grief than perhaps a tenuous connection with an untethered horse.

Abby too was preparing for a second Christmas of change. Shelagh and Jasper had decided not to break the news to her until their return from Iceland when Abby and Ned would be finishing their stay in Phuket. Despite Shelagh’s protestations that there was no immediate need for panic, Abby was naturally insistent on getting the first available flight back to the UK. Once home she set about making herself useful, willingly taking on the role of quartermaster and chef de cuisine. Although from an early age she’d displayed considerable talent in the kitchen, it had never been anything more than a pastime, less still a serious consideration as a future career but proximity to death will throw life’s priorities into sharp relief. A week after Shelagh’s funeral, Abby announced, in a fitting tribute to her mother’s impulsiveness, that she would not be returning to university but had instead enrolled herself into culinary school in Cork. When, in November, she confided that she’d be working over Christmas – the prospect of the two of them solemnly attempting to honour their festive traditions being too unbearable – Jasper experienced an overwhelming sense of relief. She was settled in Ireland with a new group of friends and deserved whatever happiness she could find, a happiness certainly that was beyond his gift to bestow. He would visit for new year; an arrangement that suited them both.

Set on a busy main road, the Rose and Crown was a large unremarkable pub. Patrons were greeted on arrival with improbable invitations to sample exceptional cask ales and fine wines as well as dine from an extensive grill menu. But despite the faux pastoral styling, it served its community well, boasting successful darts and quiz nights as well as midweek daytime bingo. Jasper heaved his trolley into the back of the unlocked van sitting obediently in the car park and steeled himself before stepping inside. He spotted Barry, Mel and Raj at the corner table on the far side of the bar enjoying a generous portion of onion rings served on what appeared to be a large silver horseshoe. ‘Jasper!’ Barry vigorously beckoned him over. Jasper decided to take the initiative and swallowed back any lingering anxiety.

‘What’s everyone having?’

‘No. Put your money away. We’ve got a very healthy late box this year. Thanks mainly to yours truly.’ Embracing the role of mine host with characteristic enthusiasm, Barry stuffed a twenty-pound note into Jasper’s hand. ‘Same again here, three lagers, and whatever you’re having.’

The bar was busy for a lunchtime with a couple of office parties adding to the already healthy flow of senior regulars. As he waited to be served, Jasper noticed a watery looking pint of Guinness sitting glumly on the counter next to him that had clearly been carelessly spilled by the barman. Any remaining awkwardness he was feeling about ordering a pint of the non-alcoholic vegan beer quickly departed.

Having survived a good-natured interrogation from Barry about applying for the advertised position of full-time postal worker, Jasper settled back into the pub environment with surprising ease and was able to construct, in a seamless combination of truth and fiction, an attractive and entirely plausible response to enquiries about his plans for Christmas from Mel and Raj, which included of course the concert that he was performing in that evening. It was only when he heard himself explaining the differences between playing the piano, a single keyboard percussion instrument, and the multiple complexities of the woodwind organ that he realised he’d probably lost his audience. Barry had already bailed and was at the bar ordering more drinks, and with Raj and Mel wearing the polite expressions of captive prisoners, Jasper quickly moved the conversation on. He was genuinely interested to learn about Mel’s plans to spend time over the holidays in west Wales where her wife had inherited a cottage earlier in the year, and he fully understood when Raj announced his exit as his son was returning from his first term as a medical student at Oxford and he had to meet him at the station. It only occurred to Jasper after Raj had gone that this was, in all likelihood, another slice of creative truth-telling; most university students had returned weeks ago. No matter, Barry had returned gleefully brandishing a handful of bingo cards, and the three remaining companions prepared to contend for the five-hundred-pound Christmas jackpot.

Dave Durkin had enjoyed a picaresque career. He left school in 1978 with a single O’ level in Maths and began his working life in the family baking business. Although he enjoyed the regular pay packet, knowing the difference between a split tin and a cob held little interest to Dave, and as soon as he turned eighteen, he put his talent for numbers and a natural gift of the gab to profitable use as an apprentice with local bookmaker Ray Pratt. Things went well for several years until Dave was accused of sharp practice; though it was never proven, Dave and Ray parted company by mutual consent. Far from discouraged this unfortunate episode was the cue for Dave’s entry into the world of entertainment. He spent the summer of 1985 working his first season at Butlins holiday camp in Minehead where he split his time between the Gaiety Theatre, hosting the various talent contests and variety shows, and the Beachcomber bar where he became an uncommonly polished bingo caller. By the early nineties Dave had joined Gala Bingo and steadily rose through the ranks becoming Regional Manager in 1996, but on millennium eve, he was once again forced out under a cloud of unsavoury accusation. His third career coming, this time in hospitality, finally provided him with the grand palette upon which to apply his many talents; at the Rose and Crown he was darts captain, quiz master, bingo caller and master of all he surveyed. ‘Eyes down for a full house,’ intoned Dave with his pure, flat Brummie vowels.

The only time Jasper had ever played bingo was at the Student Union bar at Bristol. He remembered it as a fun diversion from the tedious business of a ten-thousand-word dissertation on the House of Medici; but here, all these years later, the tantalising high stakes tension of striking off numbers accompanied by the extraordinary call-and-response ‘bingo lingo’ – whose origins were nearly as old as the Renaissance itself – turned the next hour into a compelling, almost absurdist experience for him.

Emotions were running high as the final card approached its climax. Jasper had thus far enjoyed little fortune, but he was now on the cusp of an unlikely victory, just one number away from the grand prize. Dave Durkin, sensing the mounting drama, allowed his hand to hover momentarily above the lever before releasing the next ball from the torrent of air within the machine. He theatrically leant in close to the microphone and dropped his voice.

‘Fifty-two.’

‘Danny La Rue!’ returned the congregation.

Jasper’s eyes widened in astonishment. That was his number. He’d done it. He’d won. ‘House!’ he bellowed in perfect unison with a female voice from several tables away. At that very same moment, a travelling fishmonger burst through the front door holding an enormous basket laden with crustacea. ‘Crabs, cockles, mussels,’ he chimed out in a perfect Geordie brogue. Confusion reigned. Dave Durkin was ruffled, his composure momentarily shaken by the high stakes and unexpected intervention. ‘Who...Who was that?’ he stammered.

‘Here, it was me.’ Jasper was now standing with his card held high above his head. Meanwhile Hazel, his adversary, was already making her way determinedly towards the front.

‘Get up there.’ Barry forcefully shoved Jasper forward. Pitched in a winner takes all, five-hundred-pound foot race with a septuagenarian pensioner, Jasper strained to make up the lost ground in this bewildering reality. Pandemonium broke out as both breathless competitors simultaneously slammed their cards down hard on the table.

It was some minutes before calm was restored. Things had become heated and at one point threatened to turn ugly. To Jasper’s relief opinion appeared to be divided equally between those who were aggrieved at a smash-and-grab newcomer taking home the cash and others who clearly held an unspecified resentment towards Hazel. Dave Durkin finally took to the microphone. In all his years of calling he’d never seen anything like it, and as it was, after all, the season of goodwill, he declared them both winners and they would split the prize money. In a further gesture of conciliation, Jasper shrewdly announced that he’d put one hundred and fifty pounds behind the bar in acknowledgment of the unusual circumstances surrounding his windfall and wished all a merry Christmas.

But time was now the enemy. After all the frantic excitement of the afternoon, Jasper realised he was now unlikely to get to the church early enough for a final run-through before the concert. In fact, neither he nor Barry had properly thought through the logistics of this final day. Jasper would normally cycle from here but that would leave the Post Office bike at home with him. To his horror Barry, generous as ever, offered to run Jasper back in the van. This was unthinkable. He was at least three, possibly four pints over the legal limit. ‘No. Barry, that’s completely out of the question. You’ve had far too much to drink.’ But Barry wouldn’t be appeased. ‘You’re forgetting who you’re talking to. I know these lanes like the back of my hand. Anyway, I can’t leave the van here, can I? It’s against Post Office rules.’ Ignoring the obvious collapse in Barry’s logic, Jasper remained resolute. ‘No, Barry. As your friend I must insist you don’t drive.’ Mel returned from the toilets. ‘Mel. Please tell Barry he’s in no condition to drive the van.’ Mel’s nonverbal response was a master class in deadpan, which in Jasper’s opinion was far from helpful at this moment. ‘As you know, I’m performing in this concert this evening and I’m late, to rehearse at least. And Barry is offering to drop me off on his way home. He’s clearly way over the limit. I could get a cab, but I’m worried he’s going to drive himself anyway.’

As Mel considered the dilemma, she looked over to Barry who by now had lost interest in the debate and was ordering himself a tot of brandy courtesy of Jasper’s largesse. ‘Why don’t you drive the van? There’s enough time ,isn’t there, to get to Barry’s and then cycle back to your house? All you have to do then is arrange for him to pick up the bike in the morning.’ They both smiled forgivingly as Barry turned to them, raised his glass and sank the dram in one. ‘Thank you, Mel.’

Jasper cranked his way clumsily through the gearbox as they stuttered across the car park. Spotting a break in the traffic, he quickly released the clutch, and the van bolted out onto the highway. Despite the alcohol, Barry skilfully guided Jasper through the lanes in a shortcut that would save about ten minutes. As they rattled along, Barry, quite unprompted, revealed that in his youth he’d been a talented ballroom dancer. When he was fifteen, he and his partner Donna were the 1993 southern regional Latin champions, but two weeks before the national finals in Blackpool, he’d sustained a serious knee injury whilst on holiday in Lanzarote. By the time he regained full fitness, Donna had moved on and found a new partner and Barry never danced competitively again. By now their progress had been impeded by a Land Rover trailing a horse box that had pulled out in front of them. As Jasper followed at a cautious distance, the van’s headlights picked up brief glimpses of the hindquarters of a large horse within the box. The two men fell silent; each had retreated into their own respective past. After about a mile, the road forked. Thankfully the Land Rover went in the opposite direction, and they were able to speed up again. It was only then Jasper noticed that Barry had been crying. ‘You okay?’ he asked gently.

‘FUCK!’ Barry tensed as he pushed against his seat. Jasper’s eyes darted back to the road where a woman was standing in the beam of the headlights with her arms raised and outstretched. He pressed down hard on the breaks and the van skidded to a halt. No one moved for a moment, all three unsure what came next. Eventually, Jasper climbed out of the van and slowly approached the woman.

‘Please. Sir. I need your help.’ Her face, framed by a headscarf, wore all the fear and defiance of a hunted animal. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked. ‘My sister. She is having a baby. Please. She is this way.’ The woman gestured towards an open gate set in the tall blackthorn hedgerow. Besides the Arabic or possibly Afghan dialect, Jasper was immediately struck by the honesty in her voice. ‘I think there isn’t much time.’ she warned. He glanced at Barry who was now standing at his shoulder and without speaking the two men followed the woman into the field. Jasper noticed three spectral figures, statue still, emerging from the twilight ahead of them; he would never get used to the sight of Alpacas in the English countryside. ‘This is no place for birth,’ added the woman emphatically as tiny snowflakes, dry and silent, began to fall upon the freezing turf. ‘And on such a winter’s night as this.’

In a wooden animal shelter tucked into the corner of the field, a younger woman was crouched on all fours breathing deeply and rhythmically. Urgent words were exchanged between the sisters. ‘She says she can’t hold on much longer.’ The woman’s voice was now infused with a stridency that demanded action. ‘What’s your name?’ asked Jasper. The woman looked at him warily before answering, judging how much she could trust him with. ‘Ibtesam. This is my sister Nazlia. We are Syrian refugees.’

Jasper spoke with as much reassurance as he could muster. ‘I’m Jasper. This is my friend Barry. I live a few minutes from here. You can come back to my house, or we can take you to a hospital.’

‘No. No hospital.’ The fear returned. ‘I am a doctor. I can deliver the baby myself.’ Jasper nodded and wondered what horrors Ibtesam’s eyes had been witness to. But Nazlia was now becoming more distressed. ‘Let’s go.’ Barry gathered up the two holdall bags sitting next to Nazlia, and they made their way back to the van.

Jasper’s house was about three minutes away. As they hurtled through the lanes, Barry, who was in the back with the two women to ensure the trolley and bike didn’t cause any harm, was providing increasingly frantic updates. ‘How far are we? I don’t think she’s going to make it.’ Jasper swung the van into the drive stopping abruptly alongside Shelagh’s car – there was no welcoming wreath on the door or fairy lights round the porch this year. He ran round and slid open the side door. Nazlia was again on all fours, her bare calves protruding from the long black puffa coat she still wore. Ibtesam was reaching beneath the coat and encouraging her sister who let out a final anguished, primal groan, and there suddenly in Ibtesam’s arms was a tiny blue baby. ‘Your coat,’ she hissed. Jasper wrenched off his jacket and handed it to her. She wrapped it around the baby and began rubbing vigorously. Nazlia had turned herself around and was desperately questioning her sister. A world of tension melted away the instant they heard that first infant cry. And with it a new life had begun.

Jasper shoved open the front door and made straight for the blanket that was draped over the couch in the living room. Barry had followed him inside and was filling the kettle in the kitchen. ‘Where’s your scissors?’ He now spoke with a clarity that bore no hint of the afternoon’s festivities. ‘Upstairs. Bathroom cabinet.’ Jasper called back. ‘Grab some towels as well,’ and he made his way back to the van. Nazlia was now calmly holding her baby, bathed in contentment. ‘It’s a boy.’ Ibtesam stroked her sister’s hair. ‘He will be called Aayan. God’s gift.’

Barry returned laden with towels and a Pyrex measuring jug filled with boiling water and a pair of scissors. Ibtesam arranged the towels and then took the jug. She removed the scissors and held them towards Jasper. ‘His father is dead.’ Jasper accepted his task without question. In this moment all authority belonged to Ibtesam; she was the qualified doctor, and it was his role to support her. As he cut through the fibrous tissue of the umbilical cord, Jasper experienced an intense release. He could no longer feel the heavy shadow that had weighed him down, stalked him all these months. He reached to pick up Aayan. ‘May I?’ he asked Nazlia. She nodded her permission, and Jasper gathered up the tiny precious bundle and held him close. ‘Hello Aayan. Let’s get you inside.’

***

The church was almost full by the time Jasper finally arrived. In the vestry there was a palpable air of panic. Reverend Gill was in animated conversation with Jasper’s sister Helen trying to work out a hasty rejig of the concert programme whilst young choristers chattered excitedly as they pulled on their cassocks. ‘Oh, there you are, Jasper. We’d given up hope. Whatever’s kept you?’ Reverend Gill had a kindly voice but, on this occasion, with frayed nerves on one of her biggest nights of the year, even she was unable to conceal an accusatory tone. ‘Hope springs eternal, Reverend,’ smiled Jasper as he hung up his coat. ‘Have a good one.’ And without further explanation he took up his position at the organ, slipped off his shoes and prepared for the magnificence of Handel.