Where the West Wind Blows

by Mary Middleton

  I love you, he had said, and the words are resounding from the silent walls.

  For a few more weeks I prevaricate, hovering on the brink of indecision, torturing myself. My growing relationship with Welsh whisky makes it difficult to think straight but finally, I make up my mind, pick up the phone and book the termination.

  Then I buy myself another bottle of Penderyn, take it home, open the lid and fill a tumbler to the brim. It will seem easier if I am drunk. I sit in the dark and sip it, the taste and the smell bringing back the wild wet days I spent with Jezz and his flask on the windswept beach.

  My life is stormy again now.

  The healing is undone.

  I think I will never know peace.

  The liquor scalds a crimson path down my throat, the taste making me smack my lips and gasp – just as Jezz does. I am chilly and I am lonely and I don’t know what to do.

  I miss him.

  How could I have sent him away when I need him more than ever?

  I feel no better in the morning. I brush my teeth three times, trying to freshen my breath and get the taste of whisky from my furred tongue. Then, reluctantly, I force charcoaled toast between my lips and sip black coffee and, trying not to think about my destination, I pick up my case and slip out of the door.

  Looking neither left nor right, I hurry along, pinning my mind on frivolous things, things that can’t hurt me; a row of tulips, a cat licking its paws on a doorstep … a baby in a buggy, sucking its thumb.

  My throat aches with unshed tears.

  I pass a neighbour who calls ‘good morning’ but I can’t allow myself to stop. I just smile and walk by. I cannot pause to think, or talk, or let my footsteps slow. I must get myself to the clinic just as quickly as I can …before I change my mind.

  Before I have the chance to turn around.

  Somehow, I cross the tarmac of the car park and the automatic doors usher me inside the clinic that smells of disinfectant, new carpet and death.

  “Hello, do you have an appointment?” The child at the counter is as breezy and bright as a summer day, her whole life stretching before her, her opportunities as yet un-wasted. I nod and speak my name through frozen lips.

  “Take a seat in the waiting room.” She gestures with a long, slim arm, a heart tattoo pulsing on her wrist. “Someone will be with you shortly.”

  The waiting room is bland. Magnolia walls, thick pile carpet, piano music issuing from hidden speakers. There are no pictures, no photographs, just a plant on the windowsill that is slowly withering, deprived of water, dying of thirst …like an unnourished foetus.

  One other woman is waiting. She is flicking calmly through a magazine as if she is here for a filling or a pedicure. She is half my age. I sit down, sickness rising in my throat, my heart hammering, knees trembling. Panic simmers in my chest. I don’t want to be here. I feel shamed, like a murderer.

  Just like Jezz.

  He killed his wife.

  I am killing his child.

  I stand up and my stumbling feet take me toward the open door where I bump into a woman with a clipboard. Her eyes flicker up and down my body, assessing me, judging.

  “Mrs Japp?”

  “NO,” I croak and push her away, make my escape.

  The doors open smoothly and silently and I am outside. I am running, my ribs hurting, my breasts bouncing, tears streaming, my coat flying open, my pot belly straining at my clothes. People turn to stare; a few of them call out after me, asking if I am all right, if they can help.

  There is only one person who can help me.

  The station is not far. I can be on a train home in less than half an hour. Home, my heart cries; Home to Wales. Home to Jezz.

  On reaching the train station, I dart the wrong way through the automatic doors and push through the crowds, earning myself black looks and cries of outrage. I lean breathlessly over the counter, cuff away my tears.

  “A one-way ticket to Aberystwyth,” I demand loudly as I push my credit card beneath the glass. “One way.”

  I am not running.

  I am going home.

  I will make it right …somehow.

  Eighteen

  On the train further doubts beset me but I can’t turn back, not now. There has been too much turning in my life, too much running away. The time has come to be brave, to face up to things. I’m a mother with a child to think of now.

  As the train eats away the interminable miles, I doze and wake, buy a coffee from the trolley, spill it on my blouse, doze again and stare out of the window, my head lolling on the back of the seat. I don’t know what lies ahead but whatever may come, I will be facing it head on. I am sick of running, sick of whimpering about the rough hand that I’ve been dealt.

  I can see my face reflected in the glass window, superimposed upon the English countryside. It is not a young face, the strain is writ clear upon it, and I don’t know if I am up to the challenge of single parenthood, I will be old before he reaches maturity. But I won’t deprive him of life because I am scared. And if Jezz won’t help me, well, I can fend for myself …and my child. I am strong.

  Slowly the landscape turns wilder and hillier and I know that soon we will cross the border. The great river stretches, the tide is out and long legged birds stalk across the mud, the sun glinting on the rippled surface. Then the mountains and fields take me and there are sheep on the hillside, rusty tractors moving slowly between hedgerows. I am coming home. Home to the coast of Wales, where the west wind blows. Home.

  The train waits at the terminal as I hail a cab that winds its way from town along green serpentine lanes toward the sea. Here, cars are scarce, women gather at gateways to gossip, children scatter as we approach the village and dip down further toward the sea. There, outside my cottage, I step out of the taxi and turn to look about me and find I can breathe again. After so long away I can actually hear the silence, the absence of traffic, the bleating sheep, the rush of the wind. I can almost taste the slow drip of time, the sweet dawdling pace of life and it makes me smile.

  Across the bay, the dark slate of the wet snaking road writhes between the white cottages nestled snugly on the hill and, up on Y Pen, I can see the white walls of Jezz’s railway carriage dazzling in the sun. Soon I will see him again.

  I thrust a handful of notes at the taxi driver and tiptoe through the shining puddles and along the garden path, where the plants sprawl at my feet and raindrops cling like diamonds to their leaves. While I have been gone spring has come, bringing life and light with it. I am sorry to have missed the best of the daffodils but the apple blossom will soon be out and, already I see the strawberries are bearing white star-like flowers, promising fruit.

  The smell of home embraces me as I open the door, damp and soot and mildew, a hint of turpentine. I drop my case in the hall and push through to the kitchen, which is just as I left it. All except for an envelope leaning against the milk jug and a pot of fresh flowers on the table.

  Jezz’s writing is dark and heavy, his personality evident in each loop and twist, his determined underscoring of my name speaking volumes.

  Fiona

  A love letter? I wonder as I place my finger beneath the seal and tear it open.

  My darling Fiona, (he writes)

  I have to go back to The Highlands for a while. If you come back and I’m not here, I haven’t left for good. I’ll be back before the summer ends.

  Be seein’ you,

  Jezz

  My heart turns over. Has he left already? The letter is not dated. I know I have missed him. I rush back to the door, trip over my bag and begin to run down to the shore, my silly city shoes inadequate in the soaking shingle, my ankles turning, making me stumble. But, desperate to catch him before he goes, I struggle on until, I reach the edge of the sand. There, I stop and stare across the beach, my eyes unable to believe what they are seeing.

  Jezz is walking away from me. He has taken off his coat, slung it over his shoulder and his t-shirt is blown tight to his bod
y, his hair tangling in the breeze. I can tell from the way he is walking that he is relaxed and happy, in tune with the world again.

  I would be glad of that … if he were alone.

  Nineteen

  Beside him walks a woman; a young woman, her black hair streaming behind her. Her head barely reaches his shoulder and his arm is looped casually about her, hers is around his waist. As the sickness rises in my throat, my courage and confidence drains away. I watch them. I see them stop and he turns her to face him, I see him grasp her shoulders as he speaks earnestly into her upturned face before dragging her toward him. They embrace for a long moment before they pull apart, then she nods and they turn and continue on their way. My ears hum and squeak with sudden stress and my head reels, my breath stolen away. I slump to my knees in the sand and watch them leave the beach together and, hand in hand, begin to climb the cliff path toward his home. I know that path so well I could walk it in my sleep. Jezz and I have trodden it together so many times, sometimes we cried but mostly we laughed. And when we reached the top and he opened the door into his scruffy home he loved me, as I have never been loved before. In a few more moments will he be loving her, in my place?

  I close my eyes and try to dislodge the sharp pain in my throat. There is nothing I can do but sit there while she takes him, steals my man and my child’s father. Powerless, I clutch at the sand but it trickles through my fingers, seeping away like a love that is clasped too tightly.

  Am I dreaming?

  I know I am not. I know I have lost him. I had thought Jezz was a loner and that, since the day he killed his wife, I was the only woman he has ever let close.

  That’s what he says … Mrs Davis mocks me.

  Should I have listened to her?

  Was she right?

  Am I an absolute fool?

  Slowly the knowledge that I have been a dupe, a gullible, middle-aged idiot, seeps into my realisation. How people must have been laughing at me. I walk like a zombie back to my cottage bedroom and begin to unpack my bag. Then I stop and plump heavily onto the mattress.

  Maybe I shouldn’t stay.

  I don’t want to see him.

  I will go back.

  “God.” I curse out loud. “What on Earth will I do now?”

  London is no longer home; this is my home, now.

  Now that I can’t bear to stay.

  But, without Jezz, it is nothing.

  I have no home.

  I don’t want to spend every day watching him love another woman. I have been so stupid envisaging my child raised here, secure with a parent on either side of the bay. In my dream world, even if we didn’t live together, Jezz and I could have watched over him and raised him between us. But we can’t do that now, not now she is here.

  He doesn’t owe me anything. I have never asked for any sort of commitment from Jezz and I wouldn’t want it now anyway, not forced. He will never believe I didn’t fall pregnant on purpose.

  So why tell him?

  Oh, I am going mad!

  I dig my fingers into my skull as if it will help me clear my head, think …think …think!

  The longer I sit there, the deeper the picture of him with that girl etches into my mind. The deeper the etching, the angrier I become. I begin to pace the floor, cursing the man I love, cursing his tart. I sit down again, punch my clenched fists into the mattress and my jealous rage grows so much that I can no longer contain it. At length, I leap up and run down stairs, stopping only to kick off my stupid city shoes and pull on my Wellingtons.

  They look ridiculous with a skirt.

  Disregarding the fact that the tide is coming in fast, I start to march off across the beach and by the time I reach the stony path up to the point, the waves are lapping at my ankles. I begin the climb, trying to take it steady but I am so angry that my breath comes in a short and jerking wheeze and I am forced to rest.

  To an outsider it might look as if I am just pausing to look across the bay but a storm is raging, my heart is banging like thunder, my breath issuing in gasps while jagged fury tears at my mind, an internal whirlwind of emotion that I cannot contain.

  It is a fine evening, the cloud high and white, the sun, now on its downward journey, already pinking the horizon. Out on the water a flock of gulls are bobbing in the waves, enjoying a late feed. With the sound of the slapping sea in my ears, I grip the wooden rail and haul myself upward. Onward and upward, I urge myself forward, gulping back the tears.

  Even on a fine evening the wind is strong up on the point and as I emerge above the cliff edge it whips at my hair, blows my cardigan back so I am forced to grope for the two halves and draw them across my breasts. Then, I put my head down and approach the cottage.

  Jezz’s garden is never very productive, what plants do survive the exposure are stunted and rimed with salt but a crate of carrots is on the doorstep, beside them his muddy wellies are upended to keep out the rain. Determinedly, I pull back my shoulders and let the brass knocker crash against its plate.

  I’ll bloody well show him just who he is messing with and his little scrubber as well!

  After a few moments the door opens and I come face to face with her. She can’t be more than twenty and, to my dismay, she doesn’t look like a scrubber. She is fresh-faced and cheerful. I feel really sick and try not to hate her, but really shouldn’t her mother do something about this.

  “Excuse me.” I say through tight, judgemental lips and pushing her aside, I march into the kitchen.

  Jezz is standing before the fire. “Fiona!” His face is open, surprised and he looks as if he is delighted to see me. Hypocrite! I do not return his smile. My chest heaves as my eyes dart about the kitchen, taking in the tumbled blankets on the small sofa, the haversack spilling clothing onto the floor. She must be some hitch-hiker he picked up on the path.

  They haven’t wasted any time.

  How often does he do this?

  He comes round the table, his arms open, inviting me into his embrace, but I step backward, turn my shoulder away, my face stony and he halts a few feet away.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “What do you think?”

  I stick out my chin, waiting for him to embark upon his lies but at that moment, the door opens and a girl pokes her head into the room; a different girl surely for the other one is still in the lobby? I shake my head in confusion and stare at her dully as she comes toward me.

  “Are you Fiona? Oh, how glad I am that you came back in time. Dad has been miserable, not wanting to leave before you came. He was so worried you’d not understand. I am Beth, by the way. I’m so pleased to meet you.”

  She is pumping my arm up and down. Slowly, I turn to look at him. His cheeks are scarlet, making him appear almost bashful. He is more disconcerted than I’ve ever seen him. He rubs his hand over his face, smudging his features, and reappears with guilt written all over him.

  “Erm, Fiona,” he says, “I might have forgotten to mention I have daughters …two of ‘em. They’re twins,” he says, as the other one slips smiling into the room. “They came over a few weeks ago because they’d something to show me. Or rather Kirsty here had something to show me.”

  While I stand stunned and scarlet faced and feeling more ridiculous than I ever have in my life before, he rummages among the blankets on the sofa, lifting something up in his arms, his face suffused with pride.

  “I’m a granddad, look.”

  And while I blink at him in absolute astonishment Kirsty hurries forward and grasps my arm. “I think you’d better sit down, I’ll get you a glass.”

  I plop my bottom gratefully into a chair and try to fight back annoying tears. Do I never do anything but cry? What is wrong with me?

  I have never felt such a fool. If it wasn’t so humiliating I would be able to laugh but, this news is astounding, Jezz is a grandfather and there I’d been, feebly plucking up the courage and dreading how he’d take the news that he is to be a father.

  He is coming toward me, pressing
the baby into my arms. He leans close beside me so I can smell the fresh scent of the wind. “Isn’t he cute? Like his granddad, don’t you think? And they’ve named him Jezz, after me.”

  While he beams at his daughters I continue to gape like an idiot. Jezz’s delight is oozing from every pore. I look down at the baby, at the fine down of dark hair that covers his skull, I note his closed eyes, his button nose, his mouth sucking on an imaginary tit.

  I smile, in spite of myself. How can I not?

  I have no idea how I should respond, what I am supposed to say? It’s not a situation I’ve ever found myself in before. My emotions are in turmoil and my crazy hormones begin to leak from my eyes again and run down my cheeks. When I do speak my voice is hoarse, my words broken, my eyes misted.

  “I had no idea …”

  There’s nothing I can do to stop the tears.

  “Hey, there’s nothing to cry about.”

  He squats before me and, because I cannot dry my own eyes with his grandson on my knee, he dries them for me with a distinctly grubby handkerchief. “Blow your nose,” he commands but I turn my face away.

  “No,” I protest, “that’s disgusting.” I sniff instead and look longingly at the tumbler that Kirsty places on the table before me. She smiles and I look from her to Beth and notice the familiar features. They are identical and both exactly like their father, although drawn with a softer pencil by a much lighter hand.

  I grin back shyly, feeling foolish and Beth moves to the sink and starts rattling tea-cups. Jezz stays where he is, kneeling at my feet, gripping my hand, looking from me to the baby as if he is king of all the world.

  “Hey, we can all go to The Highlands together now,” Beth calls from the sink.

  “The Highlands?” I say.

  “Yes, its just for a week or so, for the Christening. It’s a while since I saw my mum.”