Anne looked out over the cliff-tops as she washed the dishes, but she wasn't seeing the view. She was seeing the letter - the one that had arrived that morning, the one from which she could only remember one word, a word which she could almost see, its giant red letters dancing across the internal screen of her mind - POSITIVE.

How was she going to tell Jim? Only two days ago he had been saying how much he was looking forward to Meg getting old enough to fly the coop, how much he was looking forward to them having some time on their own. How was she going to tell him that, at the age of forty-four, she was going to be a mother again?

She wondered when it could have happened. Taking the pill was one of the things she was scrupulous about. Every night before bed - the packet placed in a prominent place in the bathroom to remind her.

"Anti-babies" Jim called them. "Have you had the anti-baby?" he would ask at bed-time, every night without fail. Well, almost every night.

It must have been her birthday - that was the last time she had forgotten to take her pill. Both of them had been drunk. Too drunk to take precautions, not drunk enough for the dreaded brewer's droop to have occurred.

It was ironic really - at his last visit the doctor had told her that her chances of fertility were so low as to be negligible. At the time it had seemed a liberation, a chance to escape the heavy-bodied curse of the pill. But her body had betrayed her, much in the same way that it had done with Meg all those years before.

She could still remember Jim's reaction then: "What do you mean - pregnant? How did that happen?" At that moment he had looked like a confused schoolboy, his lip stuck out in petulance. She had almost walked away from him then, left the island and scurried back to her mum's cosy suburbia.

Instead she had tried to be flippant.

"Well - you put your dick inside me, waggled it about a bit, and there it was, a baby. Didn't they teach you anything at school?"

And then she had burst into tears, unable to contain it any longer. There had been a long moment when they were apart - only by a foot, but it was like a gaping chasm between them. Jim was the first to move. He had held her tight, and everything had been all right again. She hoped he would take it as well this time.

The main thing she was worried about was having to leave the island. She loved this place, loved the peace and tranquillity of it, but it was no place to bring up a youngster. The nearest school was 100 miles away, the nearest family was twenty miles away, and it sometimes took six hours for the doctor to answer an emergency call - six hours too long in the event of a real emergency.

They had got away with it in Meg's case - their youthful exuberance and zest for life had blinded them to the dangers. It had been difficult, but they had coped, taking turns with the nightly floor walking. But now they were older - a bit wiser and a lot more careful.

Except when it came to taking precautions. Heavy tears ran down her face, falling to mingle with the washing up water, and she wasn't sure whether they were tears of joy or tears of sadness.

She noticed she had finished the washing up, but she didn't remember doing it, and was surprised to look down and see an empty bowl - she had been lost in a world of diapers, sleepless nights and hectic days. Was she up to it?

She realised that she had come to a decision while washing up. Jim need never know. All she needed was an excuse to get to the mainland for a bit, find the right clinic, and then it would be heigh-ho back to the island, back to sanity. Again tears threatened to push themselves out, but she forced them back. Strength was what was needed here, and she had found over the years that she had it in abundance.

The house was quiet, only the occasional rattle from the cellar breaking the silence. At least Meg was helping out with the chores now. It hadn't been that long ago that the girl was going through the usual teenage trauma - the tantrums and arguments made worse by the fact that there was no one of her own age around, no-one to back her up in the endless rows against stubborn parents.

Nowadays she had settled down, and Meg hoped that the blossoming relationship with Duncan would come to fruition. Even though he was almost old enough to be Meg's father he seemed to have his head screwed on the right way.

She stood for a while, just drinking in the peace and quiet of the house. This was how she liked it - no tourists, no customers, just her and her house.

She couldn't remember when it had become "her" house rather than "their house", but that was how she now thought of it - her small place of sanity in a mad world. When she watched the nightly news she was increasingly glad that they had chosen to stay here.

It had been like a dream come true all those years ago when they had got the job.

"It's only for a six month trial period," the man had said, and she had seen the look in his eyes. He didn't believe that two hippies, however cleaned up they might be, had the necessary strength for the job.

But they had proved him wrong. Oh, it had been hard at first, but not as hard as the winter they spent in the tent.

She smiled to herself as she remembered "the old days". That's how both she and Jim thought of them. Not "the good old days". No, there had been little good about them.

If they hadn't genuinely loved each other they would never have survived. But there had been something comical about Jim sneaking off in the middle of the night to milk John Jeffries' cow. Old John had been on short milk rations all winter, and he never twigged.

Sometimes, in the bar, when she had to put up with the farmer's boorish behavior, she was tempted to tell him. But it remained their little secret, something to giggle over in the depths of the night.

A further rattle of bottles from the cellar brought her back to the present.

She glanced at the clock and was surprised to find that the morning had almost gone - she might not remember doing the washing up, but she had certainly taken long enough about it.

Jim would be back soon, stinking from cleaning out the septic tank and demanding "munchies". Well he was just going to have to make do with what came to hand - she was in no mood for slaving over a hot stove.

She went to the cupboard, and discovered that she had some work to do anyway - the vegetable rack was empty. She was sure that she'd had some carrots the night before. And then she remembered Jim's midnight snack.

Her husband was an inveterate carrot eater; so much so that Meg had nicknamed him Bugs. That had been years ago, but the name had stuck. Sometimes she thought Jim played up to it a bit too much, but even she had to admit to fits of laughter when he cuddled up to her in bed and whispered "What's up Doc?" in her ear.

She signed as she picked up her wicker basket from beside the sink. It wasn't that she minded her little visits to the vegetable plot - just that some days, like today, she wished she had someone else to do it for her.

That feeling passed as she made her way down the garden. The sun was glinting off the sea and white clouds scudded playfully across the sky. Down here in the garden there was only a gentle breeze, just enough to rustle the rhododendron bushes. She noticed that the grass on their small lawn was getting long again. Jim would have to be bullied into getting the lawn mower out.

She passed through the arch of rambling roses and into the vegetable plot, a small walled garden some thirty feet square, open at the far end with a stunning view over a small strip of greenery to the cliffs falling down to the sea.

When they'd first arrived this had been a proper garden, all dwarf conifers and fancy heather, slightly gone to seed, complete with a stagnant pool and a heavily mildewed bench.

It hadn't taken them long to realise that the practicalities of life didn't allow for such luxuries, and together they had dug it into a vegetable patch. Nothing fancy - just the basics: potatoes, carrots, onions, cabbage and sprouts.

Jim made several attempts to build a greenhouse but they all ended in failure, sometimes due to inclement weather, but often due to Jim's ineptitude with any kind of tool - except, apparently, for the one he kept inside his trousers. Tears threatened to spring at the corners of her eyes.

She shook her head, hard, and anyone watching would have thought she was having a mild fit.

"That's it," she whispered. "No more reminiscing." She felt hot and heavy, like she usually did on the day before her period started. This time the feeling wasn't going to go away the next day. Sometimes she wished that there were no such things as hormones - they only got in the way.

She spent the next ten minutes trying to find some vegetables that were edible. It was getting near the end of the season, and a lot of their produce was beginning to rot in the ground which was always wet no matter how dry the summer had been. Luckily she had stocked the freezer during the good months, so she wasn't too perturbed.

Jim wasn't going to like it though - they were definitely short of carrots. Old Bugs was just going to have to find something else to nibble on during the long winter months.

She giggled at her own double entendre, then stopped suddenly as a sudden noise rasped nearby. Yes. There it was again - a harsh scraping, as if someone was climbing on the outside of the wall.

She wasn't frightened. Not yet anyway.

"Is that you Jim?"

The noise stopped, and the garden was silent, the air suddenly heavy and oppressive.

"Come on Jim. Stop playing silly buggers. There'll be no carrots for Bugs tonight."

Jim was always playing jokes, creeping up on her when least expected and frightening the living daylights out of her. It was something she had got used to a long time ago, and something she didn't think he'd ever grow out of, no matter how often she scolded him.

The noise started again, louder this time, and Anne started to back away, moving for the entrance, not noticing that she was trampling on the last decent patch of cabbages.

"Right. That's it," she shouted. "Sod you and your stupid games."

The noise became frantic, as if something was scrambling for purchase, and there was a deep coughing - a noise which really terrified her and caused the hair to stand stiff at the nape of her neck - she didn't recognise it as a noise Jim was capable of making.

And then the smell hit her, a rancid rotting odour. She backed off further, and screamed when she hit a warm body. She was still screaming when she turned into the arms of her husband.

"What's all the shouting?" Jim said. She screamed into his face.

"You bastard. You complete bastard," she pummelled her fists against his chest before falling, weeping, against him. She only stayed there for a second though, forced away from him by the smell rising from his clothes.

"God. You stink. You could at least have had a wash."

Jim grinned, that slow sheepish grin which always made her stomach tumble and left her feeling like the giddy schoolgirl she had been when they first met.

"Yeah," he replied. "The tank was a bit ripe this time. I think John Jeffries must have been farting in it again."

That was all it took - the tears turned to giggles, and soon they were both holding each other as their shoulders heaved in time. It wasn't long before she had to push herself away.

"You really do stink you know. Get back to the house and get changed. That smell will linger in the bar all night if you're not careful."

Jim grinned again. "I don't suppose old John will notice any difference."

Old John was renowned for the killing power of his eruptions, and he made a point of noting them. Jim reminded her of the fact by scrunching up his features and impersonating the old farmer.

"Hello arse - I thought you were dead."

That brought another fit of giggles, but when Jim moved to hug her she pushed him away - the smell was just too strong.

"Get away with you," she said, landing a hard pat on his backside as he turned to go. As she left the garden she had one last look at the wall, but there was no recurrence of the noise. Maybe it had been Jim after all. She'd forgive him, this time.

By the time she got back to the house Jim was already in the shower. She could hear the old plumbing rumble and creak, but she wasn't complaining - at least it drowned out Jim's singing. Her husband had one of the worst singing voices she had ever heard - he was lucky if he ever hit one right note in the course of any one song.

She was at the sink, washing the vegetables, when she felt Jim press against her back.

"I'm nice and clean now," he whispered in his best sex maniac voice. "How do you fancy coming upstairs and making me dirty again?"

She turned into his arms, then just as quickly pushed him away again.

"You might have washed - but you're still wearing the same Tee-shirt."

He gave her the sheepish grin and looked over the top of his sunglasses at her. That was another thing she had never managed to wean him off. A Deep Purple Tee-shirt and mirror shades were so much a part of what he was that she couldn't imagine him without them.

What was he going to be like when he was seventy years old, sitting in his rocking chair, still with the shades, still screaming along to the old albums? She hoped she was around to see it.

She pushed him further away.

"Go now. Go and sort out the till or something. We'll be opening up soon."

He was still grinning.

"And who are you expecting? There'll only be old John - and we're still giving him "tic remember?"

She remembered well enough. It was one of Jim's weaknesses - he allowed John Jeffries almost free access to the bar. Maybe he was guilty about the milk all those years ago. The thought brought back her earlier musings.

"Jim," she called, and was amazed to hear the trembling in her voice.

He must have caught it as well, for there was concern on his face as he turned back to her. She studied his face closely, seeing the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the greying hair at his temples. Suddenly it wasn't so difficult to imagine him as an old man.

And what would another child do to him, to both of them.

She had been about to tell him, she would have told him just a second ago, but now she steeled herself again.

"What's up Doc?" he said, but she didn't reply, merely waved him away with her hand and turned back to the sink. She heard his sigh of exasperation as he went into the other room, and immediately felt sorry for him.

God she was a mess this morning. She quickly went to him and hugged him hard.

"I'm sorry darling," she murmured in his ear. "It's the bloody hormones again."

She hugged him harder before continuing.

"Get me a stiff vodka. I've got something to tell you."

This time she didn't get the sheepish grin - she got the raised eyebrow before he spoke.

"And about bloody time too. I've been tip-toeing round you all week. What is it? A bad case of the monthlies?"

She sat down hard on a chair.

"Just get me a drink. And make it a big one."

She hated to see him worried, but she was afraid it was going to get worse. When the drink arrived she took a large gulp. There was no easy way out now.

"I'm pregnant," she said, watching his eyes closely.

If there was any real joy there she didn't see it. What she saw was shock, at first, followed quickly by despair, and then a huge, false smile which didn't quite reach his eyes.

"That's wonderful," he said, and if she hadn't been watching him closely, she might have believed that he meant it.

"Is it Jim? Is it really wonderful?" She took a large gulp of vodka. If she was to steer this conversation in the right direction she was going to need all the Dutch courage she could get.

He got out of his chair round the table but she waved him back.

"Sit down would you. We need to talk about this."

This time it was him who took a shot of vodka.

"Come on Anne. What is there to talk about. You're going to have a baby - I'm going to be a daddy again."

He was trying to be flippant, and almost, but not quite succeeding. She knew him too well to be put off by his act.

"Yep. You're going to be a daddy again. No more restful nights. No more keeping the bar open till all hours for the regulars, months and months of changing nappies…"

He butted in.

"It can't be any worse than draining the septic tank."

But she wasn't going to let it go that lightly.

"No, probably not. But how do you fancy draining the tank every night for a year? How do you fancy spending every night walking the floors with a baby in your arms than having to do the chores the next day?"

She saw that she had confused him.

"We did it before, didn't we? He said. "It wasn't so hard."

That made her angry.

"Oh yes it was - it was bloody near impossible. And you know it. And we're twenty-odd years older. How do you think we'll cope?"

It was several seconds before he replied, and when he did his voice was low, almost a whisper.

"So what are you saying?"

And suddenly the moment had come - the one she'd been dreading, the one she'd hoped to avoid. She had to have two attempts before her mouth would form the words.

"I'm saying that I think I want an abortion."

She was watching his eyes again, and this time it was anger she saw there, anger and hurt.

"Oh no," he said, barely audible. "No, no. We can't kill a child - not for any reason."

He was shaking his head, and it was as if he had forgotten Anne was there while he mumbled to himself.

"We can't, we just can't."

She knew it was going to come to this, but what she hadn't prepared for was the anger that flared in her.

"What's with all this "we" crap? I'm the one who's carrying the damned thing - it's my decision," she said, fighting to keep her voice under control, trying not to shout, aware that Meg was still in the cellar.

He mumbled something that she didn't quite catch, and she had to ask him to repeat it.

"I said, it's not just yours. It's mine as well."

That made her even angrier. She stood suddenly, almost overbalancing her drink.

"If you want the fucking thing so much, you have it.'

She left him sitting there with his drink and headed for the toilet. She only just made it in time before she lost her breakfast in one hot, heaving bundle.

Strangely she felt better than she had all day. The worst was over now. Either her and Jim came to an accommodation on the matter or they didn't. Either way she had told him. And she was going to have an abortion - of that she was now certain.

She was cleaning herself up when she heard the knock on the door. That in itself was a new thing. Neither her nor Jim had ever been bothered by the presence of the other in the bathroom. For him to knock now was an act of contrition, a request for forgiveness.

"Come on in," she said. "It's not locked."

As the door opened she tried to steel her heart for the confrontation, but when she saw his face her insides seemed to melt.

Jim had been crying and his eyes were red and puffy. He held his hands out to her, and she could see that his fingers were trembling.

"I'm sorry darling," he said. "I've been doing some thinking, and I guess you're right. We'll do whatever is best for you."

She went into his arms and soon they were both crying again.

"I hate it when we argue," she said, looking up at him through blurred eyes.

"Yeah," he replied. "But making up is fun isn't it."

She hooked a finger in the top of his jeans and, in a fair imitation of his sex-maniac voice, said "Come with me big-boy. I'll show you the meaning of the word fun."

Their lovemaking was as sweet as any had been over the past twenty years, and when they were spent they lay in bed, cradled in each other's arms.

She was on the verge of sleep when Jim nudged her.

"Honest darling. I meant it. We'll do whatever you want."

She turned so that she could see his face, cupping his chin in her hands.

"You're damned right we will," she said, and they both giggled. Suddenly Anne knew that everything was going to be OK or, if not OK, as good as could be expected in the circumstances.

She pushed him out of bed.

"I suppose you'll be wanting something to eat now?' she said. "That's the trouble with men - slake one of their desires and another one rears its ugly head."

"Talking of desires," he said, pulling back the sheets and climbing back into bed. "I don't think this one's slaked yet."

"Oh no you don't." She pushed him away. "You need a wash. It's not the tank you smell of now."

She got out of bed before he could grab her again.

"You go and wash. I'll make us something to eat."

She waited until Jim had finished in the bathroom before cleaning herself up. She could hear him singing as he made his way downstairs - discordant and off-key as usual, but a sure sign that he was happy. Anne was smiling as she finally made her way to the kitchen.

As she passed the trapdoor she heard the clink of bottles from below.

"Meg." She shouted, then louder when there was no response. "Dinner in half an hour."

There was a muffled "OK" from far back in the cellar that Anne took as a sign of assent.

She gave Jim a pat on the bum as she passed, but he was already engrossed in adding up the takings in the till. She wiggled her bottom and got a low wolf whistle, which was enough to be getting on with for now.

She started by peeling an onion that was so strong that she was forced over to the sink to escape its pungency. She had just started on the carrots when she heard a commotion in the bar.

Jim was shouting - nonsense words in a high pitched voice, and then there was the slam of the cellar trapdoor closing.

Turning around was like turning into a nightmare - there was something standing between her and the doorway, something that was man-shaped but not a man, something black that filled the space with its bulk. She could feel a scream build inside her and she wasn't sure if she could contain it. The thing began to move towards her, and at the same time she heard Jim screaming, a terrible sound but mercifully one she didn't have to endure long before the blackness of a dead faint took her away for a long time.