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worries were completely brushed aside by two of Gerry’s Dutch colleagues. As Gerry was voicing his concerns, he was interrupted by young Robin enthusiastically chipping in: ‘Fantastic! Two for the price of one!’ The lovely Aernout just looked at Gerry and revealed, ‘I’m a twin,’ in a ‘so-what’s-the-problem?’ kind of way. Suddenly our concerns seemed, if not misplaced, at least excessive.
    All the same, my second pregnancy was nothing like the first. Obviously, with Madeleine to look after and entertain, there was definitely no sneaking off for a little rest, for a start. More significantly, I felt very different physically, even in the early weeks. During the second month, I craved high-fat foods. I don’t know how many text messages Gerry received begging him to get me some chips on his way home. The thought of so much fat is quite repulsive to me normally but at the time my body was telling me I needed it. Gerry and my friends will testify that any combination of the words ‘Kate’ and ‘hunger’ represents a kind of emergency at the best of times, but at this stage of my pregnancy there seemed no limit to the amount of chips, sausage rolls, pizzas and Mars bars my body cried out for.
    It was just as well, as things turned out, because for the next five or six weeks I was completely poleaxed by nausea. I can remember doubting I’d ever be able to go through this again, which, given my overwhelming desire for a big family, is a measure of just how awful I felt. I couldn’t eat and even swallowing a sip of water was a struggle. The smell of food – even the very mention of food – provoked a strong physical reaction. I would hear Gerry calling to Madeleine, ‘Would you like some potatoes and broccoli?’ and I’d roll into a ball with my hands over my ears.
    Consciously or not, we all feel better when we can see those close to us being properly nourished. I know how satisfied I feel when my children scrape their bowls clean. Gerry found my problem very difficult to ignore. He was worried about me and about the babies and I’m sure he missed the three of us sitting down together and sharing a meal. But there was nothing I could do about it: my body simply wanted to be still and to be left alone.
    Another concern was a persistent lower pelvic pressure and discomfort that came on only sixteen weeks into my pregnancy. I remember walking around Amsterdam for the next eight weeks with my hands cupped under my bump like a truss, trying to alleviate some of the weight, while at the same time occupying a very energetic toddler. Considering how normal I’d felt during my first pregnancy, I was a little worried, but only a little: the end result was going to make these trials more than worthwhile, after all.
    However, it was not long before things took a more dramatic turn. At twenty-four weeks, a transvaginal ultrasound scan to measure the cervix (the shorter it is, the greater the risk of the mother going into premature labour) revealed that mine had pretty much reduced to nothing. I was immediately put on to a trolley and admitted to a ward, where I was to remain on bed rest to reduce the gravitational pressure. The tears flowed, initially not so much because of the risk to my pregnancy but because I was distraught at the prospect of being parted from Madeleine.
    ‘If your babies come now,’ the specialist told me bluntly, ‘they die.’ Perhaps his English did not stretch to the expression of empathy or tact; perhaps the Dutch bedside manner is just to tell it like it is. Either way, once the seriousness of the situation sank in, so did the fear, and my prayers increased in frequency. Thankfully, my dad was staying with us at the time and was there to give Gerry a hand taking care of Madeleine. After five days of immobility, my condition improved and I was allowed home on the proviso that I did no more than I’d been doing in hospital. Nothing, in short. So from then until the babies were born we