Barry was now used to regularly fumbling for suitable suggestions to keep her mind off the blindingly obvious. She could take up singing again or maybe even teach singing, anything. Something. But Pat vowed the next time she sang another note would be to her little boy or girl as he or she fell asleep in her arms. That was her dream now. Tiny amounts of royalties trickled in from past album and single sales, with Pat and Barry managing to pay off the mortgage for their house in Essex, satisfied they’d at least have a permanent roof over their heads, come what may when they had children, if they had children. Barry settled into a lower-paying job after becoming newly qualified, with everything feeling settled and “right” as they waited for “it” to happen. Knowing, hoping, wishing it would. One Saturday morning, an unexpected surprise, in the form of a brown windowed envelope and airmail stamp, flew onto their doormat. “Oh my gawd, Barry!” Pat’s South London accent heightened at the shock of it all.
