She wanted to have a baby, knew who the father should be, and didn't see why anyone else had to be consulted. 1954 had been and gone, after all, but her mother didn't see it that way.

   "But you can't just go and get pregnant, dear. You've got no idea what's involved in bringing up a child. You can't possibly do it on your own."

Every time her mother rang up she turned the conversation towards child rearing, so after a while Shelley stopped answering the phone; let the machine get it, or let Pam get it, and Pam'd put her left hand on her hip, so Shelley would know it was Mother, and she'd shake her head, no, sometimes miming drinking beer ("She's gone down the pub, Mrs T.") or coffee ("She's gone up the caf‚ with Karen, Mrs T.") or some other thing. One day, she hoped, her mother might take the hint.

She wanted to have a baby, knew who the father should be, and didn't see why anyone else had to be consulted. 1954 had been and gone, after all.

Early in autumn she approached the prospective father. She'd known him a decade or so, and he'd always been a loyal and reliable friend. They'd even had an affair, briefly, soon after they'd met, but then he'd been posted to Darwin and after he came back she felt shy, so she didn't renew it, even though she knew he was still interested.

She wanted to have a baby, she told him. She'd like him to be the father, she said. She paused, suppressing the fidget, suppressing the urge to persuade. He had to be willing or there'd be no point. He mulled it over, asking practical questions. She tried to answer calmly but knew she sounded breathless and too eager. She blushed. He saw the blush, held out his arms. She needed the hug, the reassurance that he still found her attractive.

She was going to have a baby and there was nothing anyone could do about it. Her mother turned up unexpectedly when she was six months gone. She'd just cleared the letterbox and was standing in the front yard, tearing open a letter from the hospital.

   "I see you've decided to go ahead with that stupid idea. Well, don't expect any help from me. You could have married that nice Martin chap a few years ago, but no, he wasn't good enough for you. You could have married him and had babies, but no, you had to go and get pregnant and not a man around to help you. Well, don't expect any help from me."

Shelley told her mother where to go. She'd wanted to for several years, and it felt rather too good to use that kind of language on her mother at ten in the morning with the whole of the cul-de-sac to hear.

She was going to have a baby, any minute now. She concentrated on her breathing. 1954 had been and gone, after all, so there was no point in playing the helpless female.

She was going to have a baby, any minute now. She held out her hand and Greg was there, officially as a supporting friend, unofficially as the father. They'd agreed he'd never be named, formally or otherwise. It suited them that way.

She was going to have a nervous collapse any second now. The baby was screaming, the phone was ringing, the washing machine had broken down, the microwave had broken down, the cat had been sick on the clean nappies, the guy from the estate agents was due any minute to do the annual inspection, and she wasn't even dressed yet.

She ran to the baby's room, looked down on her child. Shut up shut up shut up shut up shut up shut up she thought at it, then corrected herself. Her. She's a her, not an it. The cat's an it. My baby's a her... God, I'm going mad. The doorbell rang. She was going to have a nervous collapse any second now.

She was going to have another baby, and that was all there was to it. She'd survived the early years of the first one, so why not? She didn't approve of siblingless children. She'd been one herself, had hated it. Money no object, so why not? Greg had been quite happy to do the honours, and her mother still wasn't speaking to her, so all was well with the world. She was so much more confident these days she'd even taken up formation sky diving. She was going to have another baby, and that was all there was to it.

She was going to have another baby, any minute now. Greg couldn't make it this time. He'd been posted to Darwin again. 1954 was well in the past, so she asked for an epidural. She wasn't stupid. She thought of little Samantha, calming herself, regulating her breathing, paying close attention to the midwife's instructions. Pant, pant. Now breathe. In. Out. Deeply. Calm. Nearly there.

She was going to have another baby, and everything would be all right. crowning, someone said, and for some reason she thought of Trisha, her instructor, saying, "When you fall, form E!", E being a formation they could do fine on the ground but had trouble with in the air.

Samantha came along to some of the practices, giggling and clamping her little hands over her mouth as the flying-suited ladies, on their tummies on big skateboards, practiced grabbing each others' wrists and ankles, elbows and calves, spinning and zooming around, laughing their heads off while Trisha tut-tutted...

Thinking of E helped, and her son was born. She smiled at him, and he stared brightly back. She felt fine, much better than last time.

The rest of her life could only get better.