Her Melting Point

Expect, or Not to Expect

The door flew open seemingly a millisecond later.

"Oh, you aren't Robbie," a young woman said and looked Jackie over.

Jackie pulled a polite smile onto her face.

"Hiya! I'm Jocelyn Burns, I'm your neighbour. I'm looking for Mrs. Svensson."

The woman in front of her looked in her twenties, but perhaps it was just her dainty stature, no make-up, and her ginger hair pushed off her heart-shaped face with a jolly polka-dotted scarf - as well as her neat little pregnant stomach - that were giving her such a youthful appearance.

"That's me." The woman grinned. "And you're Jackie. You're the one Alexander was helping yesterday! Come in, come in."

She beckoned Jackie inside.

"I wouldn't want to intrude," Jackie muttered. "I just wanted to thank you for all the linens, and–"

She was now standing in the door alone, and Mrs. Svensson's cheery voice rang inside, "Are you coming?"

Jackie dragged herself in.

"I wanted to give you a basket, as a thank you for welcoming me in the village," Jackie tried again.

The tiny sitting room she walked in was cosy, tastefully furnished in the Scandi style, with an obvious focal point - a gallery wall above the fireplace.

Jackie froze with her mouth open, staring at the two central photographs, surrounded by art prints, tasteful knickknacks, and what appeared to be a collection of souvenir spoons, mounted on a piece of driftwood.

The first photo showed Mrs. Svensson and her partner, clearly at their wedding, dressed in 1950s outfits. Jackie recognised the man right away. She'd only seen him a few times, when he'd visit the county during his studies in a seminary; but Oliver Holyoake, the youngest out of the Holyoake brothers, was impossible to forget.

The second piece was a poster of a metal rock band named The Devil Gate Drive - probably after Suzi Q's song, Jackie thought - featuring Mrs. Svensson, a bass guitar in her hands; leather trousers and a top, which was more of a bra than a shirt; her curls, dyed stark black, swooshing in an impressive headbang.

"I started the kettle," Mrs. Svensson said, reappearing from the kitchen. "You don't have to stay if your townie programming hasn't been overwritten by the Fleckney ways yet. But I'd love some company."

Jackie tore her eyes off the poster and turned to her host.

"Oh, is this for us?" Mrs. Svensson pointed at the basket.

"Yes, yes, it is." Jackie took a step forward, but then hesitated. The young woman seemed ever so slight. Jackie lowered the cargo onto an ottoman between them. "Oh, and sorry for the wine, Mrs. Svensson. I didn't know about the–" She made a vague gesture somewhat in the direction of the woman's midsection.

"The foetus?" The younger woman gave out an amused chortle. "There's no way you could be insensitive about this." She patted the top of the stomach. "I've been calling them Cadger Badger. As long as you don't coo, call it a 'precious bundle,' or ask to touch me; we're good. And it's Ulla, please."

"Ah, 'cadger' makes sense," Jackie answered with a laugh. "My sister called hers a 'bloodsucker,' because she developed anaemia during her pregnancy."

"Tell me about it," the one called Ulla groaned and rubbed her lower back. "And it's going to be a gigantic Holyoake baby. I can't wait to be done."

Jackie, of course, wondered when that would be, but refrained from asking, since the young woman clearly had healthy boundaries when it came to her expectant state.

"I've been sober for a few years anyroad," Ulla said and stuck her nose into the basket. "And my partner is a ridiculous lightweight. We might just use it in spagbol if it doesn't offend you."

"Not at all," Jackie hurriedly reassured. "I just picked up a random bottle. Whichever label looked the best," she lied.

In their last year before the divorce, Gabe had suggested they went on a trip, to 'reawaken the spark,' as he put it. They'd gone to California for a fortnight; and there, it turned out that he'd signed Jackie up for a culinary course and a five day wine training with the Wine & Spirit Education Trust. Jackie had hated every minute of it; but as inadequate as she was as a human being, there was one thing she never failed at - being a student.

"Oh, shortbread!" Ulla cheered and plucked a pretty bag out of the basket. "You shouldn't have, and so on, and so forth, of course; but if you don't mind, I'm skipping the social dance, and we're having an ace tea party."

Jackie laughed. "God, yes, please."

"Come to the kitchen!" the redhead hollered, grabbing the basket and disappearing in the direction of the already whistling kettle.

Jackie followed.

The kitchen - just as, seemingly, the rest of the cottage - had been recently remodelled and renovated; but at the same time it felt lived-in and was giving an expression of a happy household. There were more photos on the fridge - more Holyoakes, dark-haired men and ginger women; children; dogs; the picture of the cottage's inhabitants, somewhere Nordic, on their honeymoon, judging by the 'Just Married' sign attached to an old Honda's boot.

"You're the new Headmistress, aren't you?" Mrs. Svensson said, pouring water in two large mugs over the builder's teabags. Jackie gave out a relieved exhale. She was too exhausted for anything more posh. "My due date was yesterday, so I won't be teaching in September; but when I'm not hosting a parasite, I'm the Head of the Music Team in the Comprehensive."

That's when it clicked in Jackie's brain.

"So, Oliver is the vicar! And you're the Director of the Fleckney Choir and the Music School!" she exclaimed. "I was advised to follow the county's social media, but–" She bit her tongue.

"But reading an article about fertilising one's petunias, written by a vicar's 'trouble and strife,' isn't quite your cup of tea, innit?" Ulla asked cheekily. Jackie nodded, blushing in embarrassment. "Good," Ulla deadpanned. "I'm glad to hear that. You do seem pretty... sane. Hopefully, you're still in charge of the school when it's time to send Cadger Badger to the education mines. Do you sing, by the way?"

Jackie hid behind her cup.

"Is that a 'no?'" the Reverend's wife insisted.

"I do," Jackie said quietly. "A bit."

"Brilliant. I need another soprano." Ulla bit into an artisan Jammie Dodger that Jackie had picked up in a charming bakery called Cornflower & Sparrow. "If I don't pop before the weekend, could you stop by for an audition?"

"I'm a contralto," Jackie said.

"Leave it out! For real?" The young woman gawked at Jackie.

"Yeah, I'm stocky, as you can see. Built like a proper Scotch whisky barrel," Jackie supplied her usual self-deprecating joke. "I also did endurance swimming in my youth. I'm very low."

The choir director's eyes glossed over. "Oh so many possibilities! Bugger, I hope Cadger Badger stays put for a bit longer. I could do so much with the addition of a contralto!"

At that moment A Hard Day's Night of the doorbell chimed through the cottage.