"I don't think you've got time to get to hospital even if you wanted to, but listen, we can do this between us, if we all take things calmly, okay? Here's what we're going to do. Dean, you're going to hold Mog's hand and help her to take some long, deep breaths. Try not to push at the moment. Resist the urge if you can by doing lots of little quick puffs. I'm going to phone for an ambulance for back-up and then I'm going to call my wife and she's going to talk us through this, okay?"

He thought of the hushed calm of the delivery suites at the Portland Hospital in London where all three of his children had been born. Then he looked at Mog on the tangled heap of blankets on the sofa from the tip. Some of Dean's fear crept into his own thoughts.

"I'll be back in a minute."

In the car, a round, healthy Lila was sound asleep in her chair, her chin almost on her knees. Was her perilous journey into the world really only six months ago? His fingers trembled over the buttons on his mobile as he called for the ambulance. A pristine map in the driver door pocket told him the beach's proper name and even the grid reference for it. It was his old self's finest moment.

Then he pressed the speed dial button for Sita.

She answered immediately. "Jonathan? What's wrong?" She was on the attack again.

"The children are fine. I'm at the beach and Mog from the bus is in the second stage."

"The beach?"

"What should I do?"

"Mog from the bus? What are you talking about?" Her voice was sharp, impatient. "Where's Lila?"

"She's asleep, right next to me, in her car seat."

"Who's Mog?"

"The pregnant girl from the bus on the beach. I think she's about to have the baby. Like, imminently."

"No, I'm not with you. Start again. Which beach? What bus?"

"I haven't got time to explain fully, but I met some travelers at the beach. I thought I told you."

"Jonathan, we haven't been talking, remember?"

"I know. I'm sorry."

There was a silence while she assimilated the last two words. "So am I."

"Can you help me?" he said.

"Why?" Her tone was a little softer.

He told her everything again, more slowly and in order. It didn't make much sense but she understood one thing: he really did need her.

"I can't do this without you," he said.

"I'm right here."

"Thank God."

"First things first. Have you called an ambulance?"

"Yes."

"Fantastic, good, well done."

"But I don't think it's going to get here in time."

"Hang on."

He heard his wife speak into her desk intercom to the receptionist. Her measured efficiency made him feel a whole universe better.

"I'm back. I've stopped all calls. We'll do this together, okay? You tell me what's happening and I'll tell you what to do about it."

"Yes." His voice was tight.

"Jonathan, are you all right?"

"Yes. Are you?"

"Yes. Listen, I'm going to give you instructions, okay?"

"Yes. Yes, that's what I want."

"You won't mind me bossing you about? Giving you orders?"

"No."

"Sure?"

"Yes."

"Well, the first thing to do is to get something, a blanket or a towel or something, to keep the baby warm when it arrives. We don't want to waste precious time looking for something once the baby's out. That's really important."

Jonathan heard the word "we" and started to accept again that there might actually be a baby and not a tragedy at the end of all this.

"Okay, I'm going back into the bus," he said. "If I lose the signal, I'll phone you back. Or you could try me."

"Yes, don't worry."

"Dean," he said, leaping back into the bus, "I've got my wife on the phone. She's a doctor, and she's done this loads of times before from both ends. It's water off a duck's back for her. I'm going to take instruction from her and pass it on to you, yes? Okay, Mog? My wife is called Sita, she's right here, and she's really good at this kind of thing. We'll be fine now."

Dean nodded.

"She says we must find something to keep your baby warm. A towel, or a soft blanket or something."

"I'll talk to you about water off a duck's back later," Sita told him when he came back on the phone. "How far on do you think she is? Can you see the baby's head?"

"Not from where I'm standing."

It was her turn to think of the Portland. Jonathan had kept a safe distance from the sharp end of his children's births. He wasn't going to enjoy this. "You are going to have to look, Jon."

She heard him take a deep breath.

"Mog, do you mind if I just take a look to see if the baby's head is visible? Is that okay? Imagine I'm a midwife."

"Well done," said Sita. "Stay calm, help her to take long breaths. What can you see?"

Jonathan put his hand gently on Mog's left knee and parted it a little, but as he bent down to check the phone fell from under his chin.

"Dean, if I give you instructions, do you feel able to carry them out? I can't talk to Sita and do this at the same time." It was more appropriate anyway, for Dean to be close to Mog in that way.

Dean shook his head. He was holding Mog's hand and wiping her forehead with the wet flannel. Drips ran down her face and she pushed him away.

"I ... I ... no, I ... I don't think..." he said. He looked green.

"Don't make him, darling," Sita said when Jon picked up the phone again. "You'll probably be more useful. Keep putting the handset down. I can hear you."

"Okay, Dean, it's okay, you just hang on to Mog. Sita, I'm putting the phone down on the sofa."

Sita heard the soft calm of his voice. "There it is. Hey, wow, I can see the baby. I can see dark hair."

Mog and Dean squeezed hands.

"Yes," he said, back on the phone. "I can see it."

"She's really close, then. You arrived just in time. Right, just let her push the baby out at her own rate now. The next contraction, she'll want to push, so let her."

Mog was already having one.

"Little pushes, Jon, if she can-try and get her to control them. Gentle pushes if she can."

"Okay, Mog, with me, little breaths like this."

Sita heard her husband doing what they had done together with each of theirs. She quickly brushed away a couple of tears.

The contraction ended. Mog was whining intermittently. She could feel her energy leaving her. "It hurts, it hurts, it hurts."

"I bet it does."

"Tell her she's doing well, to think how well she's doing. Come on, encourage her."

"Good girl, Mog. Nature does this all the time. You're doing really well. Be brave-you'll soon have a baby. Come on."

Another contraction came.

"And again?" Jonathan asked his wife.

"What can you see?"

"The head still."

"Keep her going."

"Go with it," Jonathan told Mog. "Go on, push. I can see the crown. Maybe even the forehead."

"That's it," Sita said down the phone, hearing Mog's familiar noise. "Good girl. Push as hard as you can."

"Push," urged Jonathan. "As hard as you can."

With one heave, the baby's head found its way out into the world, face down. It wasn't just blue, it was a deep shade of navy. Jonathan's heart banged against his chest.

"There, the head is out. Good girl," he said, already imagining the worst. He thought his own heart had stopped for a minute. "Sita? Remember Jay?"

She heard the sheer panic.

"Is it blue? Feel around the neck for the cord, feel for the softness of the cord. It's probably still pulsating. You'll be able to put your fingers under it if it's there. Can you do that?" She knew it was the equivalent of him asking her to jump out of an airplane.

"No," he said.

"Yes you can, you can. Imagine it is me. Imagine it is Lila in there. Please, quick Jon."

Jonathan put his fingers gently round the squashed wet little head of Mog's baby. "Yes. I can feel it." It was warm and throbbing and very very soft.

"Loop it over the baby's head. Hold the baby gently, don't pull it. See if you can gently loop it over."

He put his fingers under the cord and eased it out. For a moment, it felt as if it was too short, or stuck, but the blueness of the face, the thought of Sita and Lila, made him try again. It came in a trice, a quick slip.

"It's there," he told Sita.

"Good. Now watch this little miracle. The head should turn to the left or the right so it can get its shoulders out. You can ease them out if you want. Don't worry if it's still blue."

Sure enough, the tiny throttled head shifted.

"Yes," he spluttered down the phone. "Yes!"

"Oh, Jon, well done! Bloody good for you! Well done!"

Jonathan put his hands back round the baby's neck, and with a slither and a gush of fluid he delivered the baby up onto Mog's stomach.

"There's Mummy," he said, "Look, it's Mummy. That's it. Towel, Dean, quick."

The new father laid a light-brown towel and a knitted patchwork blanket over his silent child. Mog tucked it in and laid her hands on the small still body as she said, "Hello, hello, hello," over and over again, stroking the baby's rumpled, choked face.

"He's a little boy," Dean wept. "A little boy, are you? Hey?"

"I can't hear anything," Sita said quietly. "Jon, is the baby breathing?"

"I can't tell."

"Are the waters clear? Tell me if you can see any meconium-dark fluid." On the other end, she let the tears roll. The sensation of salt water on her cheeks was almost alien, it had been so long.