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‘I can't push any more . . . Emily moans as her body begins to relax, the contraction fading. ‘I'm finished. I can't do this any more.'

‘Don't waste your energy on talking.' Murray looks down at the marks on his arm where Emily has loosened her grip with her fingers. ‘Come on, love, squeeze my hand, take another breath and push. You can do it.'

Emily grimaces and closes her eyes and pushes and I can see the top of the baby's head.

‘Pant,' I tell her as I attach the ventouse and apply suction, explaining what I'm doing as I go along. The baby's head is swollen and ominously blue rather than purple. Birth can be – and usually is – a wonderful, positive experience for all concerned, but this one might be one of those occasions when it isn't. I ignore Murray's white face and focus on getting the baby out.

‘Now push again. Harder than last time,' I urge her.

‘I can't.' Emily seems exhausted, shattered by the
effort and shock of what has proved to be a rapid labour.

‘You have to,' I say a little curtly, knowing what Emily doesn't, that the cord is loose around the baby's neck, but getting pinched as its shoulders pass along the birth canal, causing the baby's distress. ‘Push as if your life depends on it. Emily, please, listen to me.'

‘Oh no,' she wails. ‘It's all going wrong like the last time.'

‘Emily, just shut up! Trust me. One more push should do it.'

Emily succumbs to the next contraction and pushes and I'm waiting with bated breath when out comes the baby's head, then the shoulders, followed by the rest of its body and a gush of fluid. I catch her – it's a girl – in a towel and, watching her the whole time and praying for some sign of life, I place her on the mat on the side table in the fractured light of the storm lantern.

I rub her mottled skin, trying to stimulate her to breathe, while checking for a heartbeat – there is one bumping faintly beneath my fingertips – and fumbling for the Ambu bag on my trolley, as well as keeping an eye on the seconds that are ticking away all too quickly.

Just as I open my mouth to tell Murray to call an ambulance, the baby screws up her face and opens her mouth to take her first gulping breath, and a second and a third, before expanding her lungs to their full extent and letting out a pitiful cry, at which Emily cries with relief and exhaustion, and Murray cries, and I want to cry too, but I can't because I'm supposed to be the professional here.

At five minutes, the baby's Apgar score is up to seven from five and I'm happy to hand her still damp and covered in the vernix that looks like shea butter, over to Emily to meet her new daughter.

‘Congratulations, you and Murray have the most beautiful baby girl.' It's what I say every time – some babies are more beautiful than others and this one is absolutely gorgeous. I can't wait to have a proper cuddle.

Emily sinks gingerly onto the sofa as she holds the baby to her breast.

‘What's that lump on her head?' Murray asks.

‘The chignon? It's from the suction cap I used to assist the delivery. Don't worry – it will go down within a couple of days.'

‘Are you sure?' Murray says.

‘It will be fine.'

‘Only Lily had a mark on her head . . .' I notice how Murray swallows hard, keeping his eyes fixed on his new daughter. Emily reaches out and touches his arm.

‘Oh, Murray, I'm so sorry,' she murmurs. ‘I wish . . .'

‘I know, love. Seeing this baby brings it all back, somehow.'

I stand back, a lump in my throat, as they recall the baby they lost.

‘It was my fault,' Emily says.

‘We've been through this over and over.' Murray's tone is rough with renewed grief. ‘It was a risk we took for the farm, for our family. We'll never forget her, never stop loving her, but we have a new baby and Poppy to concentrate on now.'

‘I know,' Emily sighs.

My heart goes out to them. Not only did Emily dismiss my advice, she trained as a nurse before she married Murray, so she should have known better than to work with the sheep while she was pregnant. She lost the baby through an infection caught from delivering lambs. This time, she's been ultra-careful.

She kisses her daughter before looking up at her husband. ‘Thank you, darling. I'm sorry I yelled at you.'

‘It's all right,' he says ruefully. ‘You bit me the last time. This time, you cut off the circulation to my hand. I can still feel the pins and needles.'

‘That's good, then – that means your hand isn't going to fall off.' Emily turns to me. ‘Thanks, sis. I couldn't have got through it without you.'

‘Thank you for asking me to be here,' I say in return, my eyes burning with tears of relief and happiness. ‘I wouldn't have missed it for the world.'

‘Baby, say hello to your Auntie Zara.'

‘Hello, niece.' I reach out and touch the baby's cheek. With Murray's hair and Emily's nose, she's a real cutie. Silently, in the flickering candlelight, I wish her a long and happy life. ‘I wonder what Poppy is going to make of her new baby sister,' I begin, after I've taken photos of the three of them together.

‘I dread to think,' Emily says with a small smile. ‘I hope Mum's convinced her to give the baby a chance. I'm afraid she's going to be really jealous. She's been an only child for four years. It's going to be hard for her to adjust.'

‘I'll get the phone,' Murray says. ‘We'd better not keep your mum and grandmother in suspense any longer. As soon as you've let them know, I'll call my side of the family and give them the news.'

‘Gran's been calling all day. If you look at my phone, you'll find hundreds of voicemail messages.' Emily smiles. ‘Zara, can you put her out of her misery? I'm not sure I have the energy left to speak to her right now.'

‘One of us will bring her to see you,' I say, sympathetic to my sister's opinion, ‘but we won't let her stay too long.' I know very well what she's like. There are times when she can't stop talking. I contact Kelly to let her know she isn't needed this time.

‘I could have done with you here,' I tell her, explaining out of my sister's earshot what happened. ‘I so nearly misjudged it . . . I'd never have forgiven myself—'

‘It was a successful outcome, though,' Kelly points out. ‘You should be proud of yourself. I wish I'd been there.'

‘Have there been any other calls?' I ask. ‘I haven't been answering my phone.'

‘Just one, Celine, and I've sent her off to see the emergency doctor for antibiotics for a possible UTI.' I know Celine well – her pregnancies are never straightforward. ‘Tell Emily I'll pop in for a cuddle when I'm passing. I'll see you at work tomorrow, Zara.'

‘Unless another of our ladies decides to go into labour tonight.'

‘All's peaceful, so I'm quietly optimistic that I'll be able to have dinner, take a bath and slip into my PJs without being disturbed.' Kelly is five years older than me, in her mid-thirties, with a husband and two kids. ‘Bye, Zara.'

I wish her goodnight and wait for Mum who, in spite of the weather, turns up in less than twenty minutes, which means she must have driven like a demon taking the longer route to avoid the landslip. We've barely had time to boil the kettle on the range when she and my niece arrive, Poppy stumbling indoors, dressed in a red pinafore, woolly tights and shiny purple wellies, and carrying a fluffy black and white toy cat.

‘Mummy's had the baby,' Murray says, gathering her up, wellies and all, into his arms and resting her on his hip.

‘We heard her crying all the way from Talymouth.' Mum smiles warmly. She's almost sixty and wrapped up in a grey turtleneck sweater, flowing lilac cardigan and wide-legged trousers in an attempt to disguise the fact that, like me, she's a few pounds overweight. She tucks a curl of her bob of ash-blonde hair behind her ear.

‘We didn't hear her.' Poppy frowns and shakes her golden ringlets of hair. ‘I didn't hear a baby.'

‘Oh, you are wearing your grandma out with all your arguing, Poppy. Emily, you are such a clever daughter.' Mum moves across to the sofa and embraces my sister and the baby and I feel a sharp pain in my chest, a pang of love and envy combined.

‘Where's Dad?' Emily asks.

‘He's coming up to see you all later. He's been held up in that traffic coming back from the cash-and-carry, and I told him I couldn't wait a moment longer to see the baby It's been the longest nine months ever. Now Poppy, come and see your new sister. Have you got her present, the one you're going to give her to welcome her into the world?' Mum continues.

Murray holds Poppy so she can see the baby up close, but Poppy isn't impressed.

‘Mummy, I don't want a sister.' She clutches the toy cat to her face.

‘I thought you'd be pleased,' Murray says. ‘You said you didn't want a brother.'

‘I want a kitten.'

Murray laughs. ‘You know Mummy can't have kittens.'

‘Or a snake. Mummy, send it back. Put it back in your tummy.'

‘Mummy can't do that.' Mum reaches up to stroke Poppy's head. ‘There isn't room for her any more.'

‘You must give her away. Auntie Zara hasn't got a baby. She can have her.'

‘Auntie Zara doesn't want a baby at the moment.' My sister looks at me, her expression one of apology, knowing how much I wanted a baby with Paul. ‘Besides, Daddy and I wouldn't dream of sending the new baby – or you for that matter – to someone else. We're going to be one big happy family now.'

‘No,' Poppy squeals.

‘Pops, give the toy to your baby sister,' Murray says.

‘Nooooo!' Still hanging onto the cat, Poppy sticks
her fingers in her ears and starts kicking out at her dad. Murray puts her down and she collapses onto her bottom, crying inconsolably.

‘Leave her for a minute,' Murray says when I move to comfort her. ‘She'll calm down.'

I wish them luck, I think. They'll be needing a visit from Supernanny before they know it.

‘Have you decided on a name?' I ask.

‘We were going to ask Poppy to help choose,' Emily says, ‘but considering the circumstances, I think it's better that we don't. I can't imagine what she'd call the baby.'

‘I can,' Murray says dryly. ‘I'd lay bets on a particular bodily function.'

‘Well, I still like Daisy,' Emily says.

‘I'm not so sure about that one,' Murray responds. ‘It's the kind of name you'd give to a dog.'

‘She looks like a Daisy,' Emily says, looking wistfully at her husband.

‘I thought we'd decided on Esther for a girl.'

Emily tips her head to one side. ‘Oh, Murray, please . . .'

He smiles and sighs, ‘Anything for you, my darling. I suppose Daisy isn't too bad, as it goes.' I think Murray's so relieved that both mum and baby are well, that he'd agree to anything right now.

‘I think it's the perfect name for a wonderful new grandchild,' Mum says. ‘Poppy, come with me and we'll phone Great Grandma to tell her the good news.'

‘Bad news,' Poppy interrupts. She scrambles up
from the floor, runs to her mother and clambers onto the bed before trying to whop the baby with the cat. Murray restrains her.

‘Come here, Poppy,' Mum says. ‘You can help me cook the tea for everyone. What did we buy at the butcher's?'

‘Sausages,' Poppy says, more cheerfully.

‘Come on then. Hurry up. I expect Zara has things to do here.'

‘I want Daddy to come with me,' Poppy insists, but Mum takes her firmly by the hand and almost drags her away.

‘Sometimes Poppy makes me wonder why we went ahead and had another one,' Murray sighs.

Emily reaches out her hand to him. ‘She'll come round eventually.'

‘Let me recheck Daisy, then you can give her a cuddle while I have a look at you, Emily. You're going to need a couple of stitches this time.'

‘Do you really think I'm going to let you sew me up by candlelight?' She says lightly.

‘It'll be okay, I promise. Unless you'd prefer me to call Kelly and ask her to do it.'

‘No, let's get this over with.'

Later, after Dad arrives to greet the baby, Emily insists on taking Daisy downstairs to the warmth of the kitchen where we sit at the table by candlelight while Mum dishes up sausages, boiled potatoes, carrots and lumpy gravy, evidence that the cooking gene skipped a generation in our family. Emily perches on a cushion while the baby feeds at her breast. Poppy
is now more curious than antagonistic as regards her new sister, especially since Murray has run through a long list of reasons why a sister is better than a kitten. Poppy seems pleased that the baby will have nappies, whereas a kitten would have to have a litter tray, or ‘stinky box', as her dad describes it.

While we're chatting, the temporary shepherd who's filling in for Emily strolls into the kitchen from the utility room at the side. His brown hair is windswept and his face clothed in stubble. In his early twenties, he's tall and incredibly fit, in more ways than one, and he's wearing a beanie hat, a tatty waxed jacket, moleskin trousers and workman's boots. He carries a tiny lamb with a speckled face tucked under one arm and I can't help thinking how cute the pair of them look as he walks across the kitchen tiles leaving a trail of muddy footprints.

‘Hey, Lewis, leave your boots at the door,' Emily scolds. ‘How many times?'

‘I'm sorry. I'll mop up.' He looks a little sheepish as he unlaces his boots with one hand, keeping the lamb close to his chest with the other, and removes them, scattering straw from his socks. ‘I'll sweep first,' he adds with a rueful smile.

‘This is a house, not a barn, in case you hadn't noticed,' Emily goes on lightly.

Lewis stops and stares. ‘The baby – she's arrived! That was quick.'