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baby.’
    â€˜Yeah.’ She bites her lip. ‘I’ve been lucky – Dad went ballistic when he found and Mum wasn’t happy but she’s calmed down now.’
    â€˜So, was this pregnancy planned?’ There’s a question on my booking-in sheet about asking the pregnant woman if she’s ever had fertility problems – I skip it when Rosie confirms she fell pregnant while on the Pill.
    â€˜I tried the implant,’ she says, ‘but I didn’t get on with it. Don’t start going on at me about . . .’ she raises her hands and holds her forefingers and middle fingers straight like rabbit’s ears, bending them to indicate inverted commas, ‘the options. I want this baby more than anything.’ Her eyes grow bright with sudden tears. ‘It’s been awful. My mum told the dad’s mum that she’d make sure I got rid of the baby, and when I said I wasn’t going to get rid of it, she told her she wouldn’t let the dad or his family have any contact with the baby.’
    â€˜It must be very difficult for you,’ I say. ‘The last thing you need is to be in the middle of a family feud. You must let me know if you want any support.’
    It’s a personal and sensitive question, but I ask her if the baby’s father is supportive of the pregnancy.
    Rosie falls silent for a while before responding: ‘My boyfriend ended it when I told him.’
    â€˜I’m sorry.’ I try to put myself in the place of an eighteen-year-old boy who’s just been told his girlfriend is pregnant. I can imagine his sense of panic and fear of responsibility.
    â€˜He can do what he likes. I don’t care any more,’ Rosie says, but it’s clear from the vehemence of her denial that she does.
    â€˜I understand that it’s tough now but, for what it’s worth, think about keeping him in the loop about what’s going on. You never know when you might need each other – not as boyfriend and girlfriend, but as parents.’
    â€˜Mum says I shouldn’t have anything to do with him.’ She smiles suddenly. ‘Not that I’ve ever taken any notice of what my parents say.’
    â€˜Let’s concentrate on you and the baby. You two are VIPs. If you’d like to make your way over to the scales we’ll check your weight, height and the size of your bump. Do you have a bump yet?’
    She looks down. ‘Not yet, but my boobs are killing me.’
    â€˜That’s perfectly normal,’ I say, as I put on gloves to test the urine sample that Rosie’s brought along with her. That’s all normal too, apart from some grit at the bottom of the pot. I take a closer look – yes, I’m a midwife, it’s what I do – and find that it’s green and sparkly. ‘All is well with the sample, except for the fact that you seem to be passing glitter,’ I say, amused.
    Rosie blushes. ‘I’ve got my Christmas knickers on. Mum said I should wear decent underwear for my appointment.’
    â€˜My gran says I should wear clean pants at all times, in case I end up in A&E.’
    Rosie smiles for a second time.
    â€˜Here’s my phone number.’ I hand her one of mycards. ‘If you ever need to talk, or have anything you want to ask me, no matter how stupid it seems, call me.’
    â€˜Thank you. You’re pretty cool for . . . an older person.’
    â€˜Thanks, but I’m not that old,’ I say dryly.
    â€˜What I mean is that I’m glad you’re going to be my midwife.’
    â€˜That’s good, because we’re going to be seeing quite a lot of each other in the next few months. I’ll see you at the next appointment. Make sure you bring the pics from the scan with you when you get them – I can’t wait to see this baby of yours.’
    â€˜I will,’ she says, getting up. ‘Goodbye.’
    Having seen Rosie and completed six more