eBook Details


Kingfisher Sunday

Series: Days Gone By , Book 0.1
By: Ester Phillips | Other books by Ester Phillips
Published By: Chastise Books
Published: Oct 08, 2013
ISBN # 14079459
Word Count: 18,978
Heat Index
Eligible Price: $1.99

Available in: Adobe Acrobat, Mobipocket (.mobi), Epub

Categories: Romance>Drama Historical Fiction Woman's Fiction


Kingfisher Sunday (Days Gone By) by Ester Phillips - Romance>Drama eBook

A man struggles to connect with his new-born son.

It's September 1951 and Thomas and Evie Mitchell are about to become parents for the second time. Evie's joy at the birth of her son is marred by the apparent indifference of her husband. Thomas is still mourning the loss of his beloved daughter Jane and feels he cannot bond with another child. Will he be able to overcome his reserve and give his son a place in his heart?
Reader Rating:   0.0 Not rated (0 Ratings)
Sensuality Rating:   Not rated
September 1st 1951

Evelyn Mitchell gave the dark oak dining room table a final polish with a soft duster and stepped back to admire its gleaming surface. “Very nice.” She gave a nod of satisfaction. She then set a freshly laundered lace doily in the centre of the table and placed a china bowl of dried lavender on top of it.

Humming to herself, she began polishing the table’s matching chairs and then the sideboard, which housed the best dinner service. She dusted ornaments and photographs, rearranging them here and there, taking pride in a job well done.

Her husband Thomas frequently told her to employ someone to help with the housework, but she wouldn’t hear of it. The very idea of having someone in her home doing the work she was well able to do herself, made her uncomfortable. She had made clear her opinion on the matter. She was more than capable of doing her own housework, thank you. She did not consider it a task beneath her. What’s more she enjoyed it, just as she enjoyed cooking, baking and sewing.

Wagging a finger at him she had told him to stop his fussing and fretting and attend to his own business, while leaving her free to attend to her own. He had rolled his eyes and raised his hands, conceding defeat on the matter.

From the dining room Evelyn moved to the sitting room, polishing, dusting, plumping up cushions on the sofa and easy chairs. As she straightened up from this latter task, she gave a little gasp, putting a hand to her back. Just an ache, she told herself. She’d been overdoing it. The baby wasn’t due for another two weeks. A cup of tea and a rest with her feet up would soon put her right.

She made her way to the kitchen and filled the kettle with water, putting it on to boil. She cleaned out the teapot and put in fresh leaves before sitting down at the kitchen table to wait for the kettle to boil. She grimaced, leaning forward as far as her belly would allow to rub at her lower back. Thomas would be cross with her. He’d been saying for days that she was overdoing things. The house was perfect as it was, he said. It didn’t need cleaning to within an inch of its life every single day.

She had told him what the midwife had told her. It was nesting syndrome. Lots of mothers-to-be felt compelled to clean and prepare their home in preparation for the new arrival. It was nature, and nature wasn’t to be trifled with. She had been exactly the same with Jane. The ache in Evelyn’s body suddenly intensified and not all of it had a physical cause.

The kettle began to puff steam and she lumbered to her feet. The shriek of the whistle drowned her cry of pain. She gripped the edge of the table, as the first pain was followed by a second. She was in labour, no doubt about it. Taking deep breaths she walked slowly across to the stove, turning off the heat beneath the kettle, silencing its drama. She then made her way into the hall, walking carefully, cradling the hard heavy swell of her belly with her hands.

With a mixture of fear and excitement she went to the telephone, wanting to share the exciting news with her husband. She stood for a few moments, calming herself before picking the receiver up and dialling. She waited patiently for the call to be relayed from the switchboard to her husband’s office. She was in luck. He was at his desk.

She spoke in a calm voice, knowing what his reaction was likely to be. “Thomas, dear. I thought I’d let you know that the baby seems to be coming a little sooner than anticipated. There’s no hurry for you to come home, it’ll probably be a few hours before...” she broke off as another strong spasm gripped her.

“Evie?” The voice at the other end of the line sounded anxious. “Evie, are you all right? Is the midwife with you?”

“Don’t fuss, Tom. I’m fine. The midwife is due to make her morning call any time now. She’s bringing the home delivery pack today.” Evie gave a small laugh, “and not a moment too soon.”

“I’ll be home as soon as I can. Go and rest, Evie, now please.”

“Silly man.” She spoke the words aloud, smiling as the line went abruptly dead. She put the receiver down. He could take charge of a prison full of offenders without a qualm, but a baby had him shaking in his shoes. Her smile faltered as another uncomfortable spasm made her belly contract. She rubbed it, murmuring. “Don’t rush, little one, don’t rush. There’s plenty of time, take it slow and easy.”

Kingfisher Sunday

By: Ester Phillips