The fact that several young wives in the congregation were expecting babies served as a constant reminder to Jane of the age gap—and her own failure to conceive. One of them, fairly new to the parish and unaware of the sacrosanct nature of Brian’s Saturday day off, had rung the doorbell late in the afternoon. ‘Oh, hello,’ she’d said brightly to Jane. ‘I was hoping to have a word with Father Brian. About the christening, you know,’ she’d smiled, indicating her bulging middle, all the more evident because her coat wouldn’t button over it. ‘It won’t be long now.’ Jane had not managed to be very gracious. ‘It’s the vicar’s day off,’ she’d said. ‘He can’t be disturbed. And,’ she added tartly, ‘it’s customary to wait until after the birth before planning the baptism.’ After that, reminded that she must be getting close to the point in her cycle when she would ovulate, she’d gone to take her temperature and had discovered that it was up a notch, indicating that the time was right.
