LITMIR.BIZ

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started to make love to a schedule, noting the days when Estelle was supposed to be most fertile.

      Doctors’ appointments and hospital appointments began to fill up their calendar. Benedict felt grubby as he sat in a small cubicle with a porno mag in one hand and a plastic cup in the other. But this was nothing compared to the invasive tests that Estelle underwent. She had sample tests and scans and blood tests, a hysteroscopy and a laparoscopy. Benedict stood and watched her disappear into rooms and behind curtains, and coming around, groggily, from her operations.

      And the results were always the same. Nothing. Unexplained infertility.

      Estelle started to look at the pregnancy tests in private, with the bathroom door locked. When she came out she was quiet and her cheeks were streaked with tears.

      They still went out for walks, their pub lunches together, on holiday, to gigs over in Applethorpe. Benedict worked in the jewellery shop and Estelle started to paint.

      They went through three rounds of IVF, which failed. The process gave Estelle excruciating headaches and made her feel lethargic, but she was determined to try again. Benedict sold his Ford Focus to pay for another go, but that didn’t work either. There was nothing in the bank and the only thing left to sell was the house. They put it on the market for a year but prospective buyers deemed it old-fashioned, too much work to do.

      Benedict and Estelle started to count the years, not celebrating the anniversary of when they met or married, but in terms of how long they’d been trying for children. ‘It’s been three years, since we first started’… ‘It’s been five years now’… ‘I can’t believe it’s coming up to eight.’

      Until they both, sadly, agreed that it wasn’t ever likely to happen.

      There were strangers missing in their relationship who had never been real. They had invented ghosts and pinned their hopes and futures to them. Benedict and Estelle had fallen in love with children who would never be.

      Benedict had thought only of being a father and, without that dream, he felt lost, like he was only a husk of a man. What was his identity now? Being a jeweller or husband wasn’t enough. He needed to be a parent.

      A silence settled in the Stone household, like a fine layer of dust, coating everything.

      When she was made redundant from the accounts department at Meadow Interiors, Estelle set up their spare bedroom as a studio. As her confidence grew, she started to walk on the moors on her own, with her sketchbook and paints. She travelled to York to buy new brushes and only told Benedict when she got home. She retreated to her studio for hours at a time.

      Last Christmas, Benedict looked out of the dining-room window at the gem tree. It was coated in snow and children were laughing in the street, building a snowman. He swallowed and held his back straight. A deep longing welled inside him. ‘I think it’s time that we thought about adoption,’ he said. ‘There’ll be a child who needs us, out there somewhere.’

      Estelle stood beside him. She reached up and leaned on his shoulder, as she had done the first time they met. She didn’t speak for a long time. ‘I’ve thought about it,’ she said, in a quiet voice. ‘This isn’t about raising any child. It’s about us having our own.’

      ‘It would be ours. Not biologically, but we have so much love to give.’

      Estelle shook her head. ‘I don’t want to adopt.’

      ‘Why not?’ Having a family was all they had talked and dreamed of. How could they even contemplate a future without it?

      ‘It would be a stranger’s child. Not really ours.’

      ‘I looked after Charlie when my parents died…’ He tried to wrap his arms around her but she squirmed away.

      ‘You had no choice. And your brother broke your heart…’ Her words trailed off.

      Benedict stared out of the window. ‘That’s different.’ He’d never told his wife what happened between him and Charlie all those years ago. Or why his brother left. He wanted a family with Estelle, and he wouldn’t mess up this time. ‘This isn’t about Charlie. This is about us,’ he said, though he felt desperation tug inside him. ‘Please let’s consider adoption.’

      ‘I have done, Benedict, but I feel that this isn’t about you and me, and our family, any longer. It’s about you wanting a child. Any child.’

      ‘It’s not like that.’

      ‘It feels that way. We need to accept that we’re not going to be parents, and to plan a future for just the two of us.’

      ‘But I can’t…we can’t…’

      ‘We’ve got to learn how to.’ Estelle hung her head.

      In the darkness, Benedict stared out at the snowy gem tree. It looked like its legacy, of the Stone children hanging gemstones into it, was about to end. Unless he could persuade Estelle otherwise.

      After thinking about his wife, Benedict wanted to be alone for a while. When he and Gemma reached Stone Jewellery, he took all the money out of his pockets and told her to open her hands.

      ‘What for?’ she asked.

      ‘If your purse is missing, you’ll need some cash. You haven’t brought many things with you.’

      ‘I don’t need them.’

      ‘Well, go to the Deserted Dogs charity shop, anyway, to see if there’s anything you like. They raise money to help unwanted dogs in the area. It’s opposite the community centre. Look out for a large red-brick building with a big “Closed. Keep Out” sign on the door.’

      ‘Why “Keep Out”?’

      ‘The roof is caving in and the council don’t have the funds to pay for a new one. It’s a shame because it was sort of a village hub for things like yoga and baby groups.’

      ‘That’s real sad. What are you going to do?’

      ‘I’ll go into the shop, to do a few jobs. You can buy us some nice lunch, too.’ His stomach gurgled at the thought of a chunky chocolate cupcake. ‘Now, put the money in your pocket so you don’t lose it…’ He paused, realising this was something he used to say to Charlie.

      ‘Don’t forget that I travelled from America. On my own.’ Gemma gave a withering sigh. ‘I am capable.’ She stared around herself hesitantly.

      ‘Are you okay?’

      ‘Yeah. It’s a new place. I don’t know anywhere yet.’

      ‘It’s a very small village.’ Suspicion edged into Benedict’s voice. ‘I thought you went to Paris…on your own.’

      ‘Yeah, well…’ Gemma glared at him and scrunched up the money in her fist. ‘Paris had a big tower, as a landmark.’ She looked down the street again. ‘You go and do your own thing, Uncle Ben. And I’ll go and do mine.’

5. Amazonite

       integrity, calming, aligning

      The shop door scraped against a wodge of leaflets on the doormat. Picking them up, Benedict saw they were all the same. Four grainy faces glared back at him. Rock band, Restore the Hope, was playing a warm-up gig in Applethorpe before their UK tour. Benedict cursed and folded the leaflets in half.

      Another leaflet had drifted farther into the shop, and he stooped down, immediately recognising one of Estelle’s paintings of the moors. He read the white words:

      Lawrence Donnington presents a preview of ‘Moorland Escape’ by Estelle Stone at Purple Heather Gallery, Noon Sun Village 6.30–8.30 p.m., 28th October

      Benedict’s heart dipped. He didn’t know about this. Why hadn’t she told him about her exhibition? Was

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