INT. BULLFROG FARMHOUSE - KITCHEN - SAME TIME
The kitchen is warm and cluttered with the comfortable chaos of farm life. Breakfast dishes still sit in the sink. A baby's cry echoes from upstairs. HELEN TATE stands at the window, one hand pressed against her stomach, the other gripping the edge of the counter. She's pale, her knuckles white. Outside, the rain pounds against the windowpanes, turning the farmyard into a sea of mud.
WILLIAM SUGDEN enters through the back door, shaking water from his coat. He's covered in mud up to his knees, his face red from exertion and cold. He stamps his boots on the mat.
WILLIAM: (breathing heavily) That's the south fence mended, though God knows how long it'll hold in this weather. The whole bloody thing's ready to wash away if this rain keeps up. I'll need to check the lower field after breakfast, make sure the sheep haven't—
He stops, noticing Helen's rigid posture at the window. She hasn't turned around.
WILLIAM: (concerned) Helen? You all right, love?
Helen doesn't respond. Upstairs, baby Eva's crying intensifies.
WILLIAM: (moving toward the stairs) I'll get her. You've been up since five with her already.
HELEN: (voice tight) No. I'll go. You're soaked through. Get those wet things off before you catch your death.
WILLIAM: (stopping, studying her back) Helen, what's wrong? You've been odd all morning. Quiet. Not like yourself.
HELEN: (still not turning) I'm fine. Just tired. Eva was up half the night with her teeth coming through.
WILLIAM: (unconvinced) It's more than that. You barely touched your breakfast. You've been staring out that window for ten minutes. What is it?
Helen finally turns to face him. Her eyes are red-rimmed, whether from tears or lack of sleep is unclear. She opens her mouth to speak, closes it again, then wraps her arms around herself.
HELEN: William, I... there's something I need to tell you.
William's face pales. He takes a step toward her.
WILLIAM: (voice dropping) Are you ill? Is it serious? Christ, Helen, if something's wrong you need to tell me. We'll get the doctor, we'll—
HELEN: (quickly) I'm not ill. Not exactly. I mean, I'm... oh God, I don't know how to say this.
WILLIAM: (more gently) Just say it straight. Whatever it is, we'll manage. We always do.
Helen takes a shuddering breath. Her hands move to her stomach again, a protective gesture.
HELEN: I'm pregnant, William. I'm expecting another child.
The words hang in the air between them. William stands frozen, mouth slightly open. Upstairs, Eva's crying stops abruptly, leaving only the sound of rain and the ticking of the kitchen clock.
WILLIAM: (slowly) Pregnant? But... Eva's only four months old. How is that...
HELEN: (voice breaking) I know. I know it's too soon. I know we said we'd wait, that we'd give Eva time before having another. But I went to see Dr. Patterson yesterday while you were at market, and he confirmed it. I'm nearly three months along already.
WILLIAM: (sinking into a chair) Three months? Why didn't you tell me before now?
HELEN: (tears starting to fall) Because I was terrified! I'm still terrified! Eva's barely sleeping through the night, I'm exhausted all the time, the farm needs so much work, and now there's going to be another baby, another mouth to feed, another child needing constant attention, and I don't know if I can do it, William. I don't know if I can manage two babies so close together!
She's crying properly now, her whole body shaking. William stands quickly, crossing to her and pulling her into his arms. His wet coat soaks her dress but she doesn't seem to notice.
WILLIAM: (holding her tightly) Shh, shh, it's all right. We'll manage. We'll figure it out.
HELEN: (muffled against his chest) How? How will we manage? I can barely keep up with Eva. By the time this one's born, she'll only be thirteen months old. Thirteen months! I'll have two babies in nappies, two babies needing feeding, two babies crying at all hours. And you're out working the farm from dawn till dusk, I'll be alone with them, and what if something happens? What if I can't cope?
WILLIAM: (pulling back to look at her face) You're the strongest person I know, Helen Tate. If anyone can manage two babies, it's you.
HELEN: (shaking her head) I'm not strong. I'm pretending to be strong. Every day I wake up wondering if today's the day I'll fail Eva, that I'll do something wrong and hurt her somehow. And now there's going to be another one, another chance to fail—
WILLIAM: (firmly) You haven't failed anyone. Eva's happy and healthy. She's thriving.
HELEN: (wiping her eyes) She cries all the time.
WILLIAM: She's teething. Babies cry when they're teething. My mother said I screamed for three months straight when my teeth came in and she managed fine, and she had four others to look after at the same time.
HELEN: Your mother had her mother living next door to help. And sisters nearby. I've got no one, William. My mother's gone, your mother's seventy miles away, and I'm alone here on this farm with—
She breaks off, pressing her hand to her mouth. Upstairs, Eva begins crying again, a wailing that seems to punctuate Helen's distress.
WILLIAM: (quietly) Is that what this is really about? Being alone out here?
HELEN: (after a moment) Partly. I'm not cut out for farm life, William. I grew up in town, with neighbors close by, with shops and people and... and this place is so isolated. Especially in winter, when the roads flood and we can't get out for days. What if something goes wrong with the pregnancy? What if the baby comes early and we can't get to the hospital in time?
WILLIAM: (taking her hands) Helen, look at me. Look at me.
She raises her eyes to his.
WILLIAM: I know this is frightening. I know this isn't what we planned. But we'll get through it together. I'll help more with Eva. I'll hire someone to help with the farm work so I can be in the house more. We'll figure out how to manage two babies.
HELEN: (voice small) You're not angry?
WILLIAM: (surprised) Angry? Why would I be angry?
HELEN: Because it's too soon. Because we weren't trying for another baby yet. Because I should have been more careful, I should have—
WILLIAM: (interrupting) Helen, it takes two people to make a baby. If anyone should have been more careful, it's me. But I'm not angry. Surprised, yes. Worried about you, absolutely. But angry? Never.
He kisses her forehead gently.
WILLIAM: We're having another child. Another little one to love. How could I be angry about that?
HELEN: (fresh tears falling) I've been so frightened to tell you. I've known for weeks and I kept putting it off, kept waiting for the right moment, but there's never a right moment to say "I know our daughter's only four months old but here comes another one."
WILLIAM: (with a slight laugh) No, I suppose there isn't. When's this one due?
HELEN: July. Late July, Dr. Patterson thinks. It'll be the height of summer, hottest part of the year, and I'll be huge and miserable and—
WILLIAM: And beautiful. You were beautiful when you were carrying Eva, and you'll be beautiful carrying this one too.
HELEN: (managing a weak smile) You're biased.
WILLIAM: I'm honest.
Eva's crying intensifies. William releases Helen and moves toward the stairs.
WILLIAM: I'll get her. You sit down, have some tea. When's the last time you ate properly?
HELEN: Yesterday. Maybe. I don't remember.
WILLIAM: (pausing on the stairs) You need to eat, Helen. Especially now. For the baby.
HELEN: (sitting heavily in a chair) I can't keep anything down. Everything makes me sick. I thought it was just exhaustion from being up with Eva, but now I know it's the pregnancy and—
She breaks off as William disappears upstairs. His heavy footsteps creak on the floorboards above. His voice, muffled but soothing, speaks to Eva. The crying subsides to hiccupping sobs. Helen sits alone in the kitchen, staring at her hands in her lap. She looks exhausted, older than her years.
After a moment, William returns carrying Eva, who has her thumb in her mouth and her head on his shoulder. She's stopped crying but her face is red and blotchy.
WILLIAM: (settling into the chair next to Helen with Eva in his arms) There now. That's better, isn't it, little one?
Eva makes a soft noise and burrows deeper into William's shoulder. Helen watches them, her expression unreadable.
HELEN: (quietly) What if I can't love this new baby as much as I love her? What if there's not enough of me to go around?
WILLIAM: (surprised) That's what you're worried about?
HELEN: (voice cracking) Eva's my whole world, William. Every thought, every moment, it's all about her. How can I possibly have room in my heart for another child? How can I split myself in two like that?
WILLIAM: (shifting Eva to one arm and reaching for Helen's hand) My mother once told me something. When I asked her the same question before my youngest brother was born. She said love doesn't divide—it multiplies. You don't love each child less because there are more of them. You somehow love them all more than you thought possible.
HELEN: (skeptically) Did you believe her?
WILLIAM: (smiling) Not at the time. I was eight and convinced my new brother would ruin everything. But then he was born, and I understood what she meant. There was just... more love. More than I knew existed.
HELEN: (wiping her eyes again) I hope you're right.
WILLIAM: I am. You'll see. When this new baby arrives, you'll wonder how you ever lived without them. Just like you do with Eva.
Eva squirms in William's arms, reaching for Helen. Helen takes her automatically, settling the baby against her chest. Eva immediately grabs a fistful of Helen's hair and pulls.
HELEN: (gently extracting her hair) Easy, sweetheart. Mummy's hair isn't a toy.
WILLIAM: (standing) I need to change out of these wet things. Then I'm going to make you a proper breakfast—eggs, toast, bacon, the lot. And you're going to eat it, even if I have to feed you myself.
HELEN: (protesting) I'll just be sick.
WILLIAM: Then you'll be sick. But you need to try. For the baby.
He heads toward the bedroom, then pauses in the doorway.
WILLIAM: Helen? Thank you for telling me. I know it was difficult.
HELEN: (looking up at him) I'm sorry I waited so long. I'm sorry I was so frightened.
WILLIAM: Nothing to apologize for. We're in this together now. All four of us.
He disappears into the bedroom. Helen sits with Eva in her arms, rocking slightly. The baby's eyes are starting to close, exhaustion finally overtaking her. Helen begins to hum softly, a lullaby her own mother used to sing. Outside, the rain continues its relentless assault on the farmhouse.
HELEN: (whispering to Eva) You're going to be a big sister, little one. What do you think of that? Will you help Mummy with the new baby?
Eva, nearly asleep, makes a small sound that could be agreement or just contentment. Helen kisses the top of her head.
HELEN: (still whispering) I'm scared, Eva. I'm so scared. But your daddy's right—we'll manage somehow. We always do.
There's a crash from outside—something blown over by the wind. William's voice calls from the bedroom.
WILLIAM: (calling) That'll be the chicken coop door again! I'll fix it after breakfast!
HELEN: (calling back) Leave it! It can wait!
WILLIAM: (appearing in the bedroom doorway, pulling on a dry shirt) Can't leave it! The chickens will get out!
HELEN: Then the chickens will get out! You're not going back outside in this storm!
But William is already pulling on his boots again, grabbing his coat from the hook by the door.
WILLIAM: Five minutes! I'll just latch it properly and I'll be right back!
HELEN: William Sugden, don't you dare—
But he's already gone, the back door slamming behind him. Helen sighs, still rocking Eva.
HELEN: (to Eva) Your father's impossible. You know that? Completely impossible.
Eva has fallen asleep, her breathing deep and even. Helen continues rocking, staring out the window at the rain-soaked farmyard. William appears in the yard, fighting his way through the wind toward the chicken coop. As Helen watches, something else catches her attention—a figure, dark and indistinct, standing at the edge of the property near the lane. Not moving. Just standing there in the pouring rain.
HELEN: (frowning) Who on earth...?
She stands carefully, not wanting to wake Eva, and moves closer to the window. The figure is clearer now—a man in dark clothing, no umbrella, no coat, just standing there watching the farmhouse. As Helen watches, the man raises his hand slowly and points directly at the kitchen window. Directly at her.
HELEN: (voice rising) William! William, there's someone out there!
William, at the chicken coop, doesn't hear her over the storm. The figure continues pointing, then slowly lowers his hand and turns to walk away down the lane. As he moves, Helen catches a glimpse of white at his collar—a clerical collar. A priest's collar.
HELEN: (confused, frightened) A priest? Why would a priest be...?
Eva wakes at the sound of her mother's raised voice and immediately begins crying again. Helen bounces her automatically, still staring out the window, but the figure has disappeared into the rain. William returns to the house, slamming the door behind him and shaking water everywhere.
WILLIAM: (breathless) Got it latched! Chickens are safe! Though Lord knows for how long if this wind keeps—Helen? What's wrong? You've gone white as a sheet.
HELEN: (turning to him) There was someone out there. A man. A priest. Just standing in our lane, watching the house.
WILLIAM: (frowning) A priest? What priest? We don't know any priests.
HELEN: I don't know who he was! I've never seen him before! But he was standing there, William, staring at the house, and then he pointed at me and—
WILLIAM: (moving to the window) Where? I don't see anyone.
HELEN: He walked away. Down the lane. But why would a priest be watching our house?
WILLIAM: (uncertainly) Maybe he's lost? Looking for directions?
HELEN: In the middle of a storm? Without even knocking on the door to ask?
They stand together at the window, William's arm around Helen's shoulders as she holds the crying Eva. The farmyard is empty except for the rain and the wind. No sign of any visitor.
WILLIAM: (trying for lightness) Maybe you imagined it. You're tired, worried about the baby, seeing things that aren't—
HELEN: (sharply) I didn't imagine it, William! There was a man, a priest, standing in our lane!
WILLIAM: All right, all right. I believe you. Maybe he's from the church in the village, making rounds or something.
HELEN: (shaking her head) This feels wrong. Everything about this morning feels wrong. First telling you about the baby, then this stranger watching the house... something's not right.
The telephone rings, shrill and unexpected. Both William and Helen jump. They stare at it for three rings before William moves to answer it.
WILLIAM: (picking up) Bullfrog Farmhouse. Sugden speaking.
He listens for a moment. His face changes—confusion giving way to concern.
WILLIAM: (into phone) No, we haven't seen him. Why would he be out here? ... I see. ... Yes, if he comes by again I'll... right. Yes. Thank you for letting us know.
He hangs up slowly.
HELEN: (demanding) What? What was that about?
WILLIAM: (turning to her) That was someone from St. Cuthbert's church in Carlisle. Apparently there's a priest named Father Morrison who's gone missing this morning. He left the church early, said he had urgent business, and hasn't been seen since. They're telephoning around, asking if anyone's seen him.
HELEN: (voice hollow) The man in our lane. It must have been him.
WILLIAM: But why would a priest from Carlisle be watching our house? We don't even know anyone in Carlisle, except—
He stops abruptly. They look at each other.
HELEN and WILLIAM: (together) Bart Matthews.
HELEN: (remembering) Isn't he getting married today? In Carlisle?
WILLIAM: (nodding slowly) Registry office. Eleven o'clock. I've got the invitation somewhere—you said we couldn't go because of Eva being so young.
HELEN: Why would a priest be interested in Bart's wedding? And why would he come all the way out here?
WILLIAM: (grimly) I don't know. But I don't like it. Not one bit.
Thunder crashes directly overhead, so loud that Eva screams in fright. The lights flicker and die, plunging the kitchen into grey storm-light. For a moment, no one moves. Then Helen clutches Eva tighter and moves closer to William.
HELEN: (whispering) William, I'm frightened.
WILLIAM: (putting his arms around both of them) It's just the storm. Just the electricity out. Nothing to be frightened of.
But even as he says it, there's a crashing sound from outside—loud, violent, the sound of wood splintering. All three—William, Helen, and even Eva—turn to stare at the window. In the farmyard, barely visible through the rain, the chicken coop they just secured has collapsed completely, as if some enormous weight has crushed it from above. But nothing is there. Just the rain, the wind, and the wreckage