Jezz is full of surprises today. I blink at him. Maybe my wits have finally gone.
“Your mum? Jezz, I thought you were alone in the world.”
“Well, I am when I’m here, or I was, until I met you.”
I don’t know what to make of it. Don’t know what to believe but I feel better already, I am even beginning to believe that things might be alright after all. But there is still one thing I have to get over with and I have no idea how he will receive my news.
I hand the precious bundle back to his mother (at least, I think its his mother but I’m not sure) and stand up, one hand on the table for support, the other growing sweaty in Jezz’s grasp.
My knees are shaking.
“I, Erm, I do have something to tell you,” I say, “erm …” I don’t know where to begin but while I hesitate and swallow my fear, I become aware that all three of them are staring, wide eyed, at my stomach. I follow their gaze and realise that there’s no need to announce anything, for my child has taken it upon himself to make his presence known.
My hand comes up to rest protectively on the rise of my belly and then, as boldly as a lioness, I meet their gaze.
Jezz’s face is white, his jaw slack with surprise. He straightens up, points accusingly at my pregnant belly. “But, but I thought …” He is stuttering, flabbergasted, so, more than a little cross, I finish the sentence for him.
“What did you think? That I was too old? So did I!”
For a long moment we all stand unmoving. Nobody speaks until Beth puts a hand to her mouth and lets out a stifled squeal. “That’s amazing! I’ve always wanted a little brother or sister!” While the girls hug each other and Beth wipes away a tear, Jezz remains motionless, regarding me in silence.
I hardly dare look at him.
I am asking him to change his life completely.
He is breathing deep and slow, his face solemn.
“Jezz?” I whisper, dying for his answer as fear curdles my insides.
He puts up a hand and passes it over his face, erasing the puckered lines. “Fuckin’ hell,” he says, with a delighted grin, “I hope it’s a boy, I’ve always had a fancy for the name Bernard.”
Relief swamps me and I move toward him. He slides an arm about my shoulders and pulls me close, tucking me into the safety of his embrace.
“Oh Lord,” I say, “Let’s hope it’s a girl then, for his sake.”
Twenty
Five years later
“Jezz, have you seen my new brushes?”
My husband pokes his head around the door. “No, but I’d put good money on where they are, hen.”
I replace the white plastic lid on the paint tube and wipe my hands on my overall. “Oh, no, not another set, please. They are sable!”
I push past him and clatter downstairs, past the open front door and into the kitchen. Rain is battering against the window but the Rayburn radiates heat and my son is cosily kneeling at the kitchen table engrossed in his task.
Jezz is close behind me, his hand warm on my shoulder as I force my voice into scolding tones. “James McAlister, what do you think you are doing?”
My severity has no effect on my son who turns and waves a piece of paint sodden paper. Bright slobs of colour drip onto the tablecloth while, in his left hand, he clutches my new, very expensive sable brushes. Brushes that now look as if they could well have been used to sweep a miniature chimney. “I’m painting a picture like yours, it’s lovely, look.”
I can pretend to be cross no longer, my face melts and my bones seem to soften. “You’re right, that is lovely,” I say as I move toward him and place my hand on his silky hair. “I like that bit there, the swirly pattern you’ve made is lovely.”
He beams at me. “Yes, and look, when I put some blue paint in with the yellow, it went green! Is it magic?”
“I think it must be, sweetheart.” I pull up a chair to sit closer to him and, picking up one of my ruined brushes, I begin to help him. “Try to be more gentle, stroke the bristles across the page, like this, and look, James, if you take a little blue and a little red …do you see what you get?”
Behind me, Jezz chuckles quietly and goes to the sink, the water gushes noisily from the tap to thump hollowly into the kettle. “The child has you on a piece of string, woman,” he observes but his words are without rancour. Our eyes meet over our son’s head and we exchange smiles. Silent smiles that say so very much; I love you and I am blissfully happy.
“What time is it? We don’t want to be late.” Jezz looks at his watch.
“There’s time enough.”
“There is always time enough for tea where you are concerned.”
James looks up from the swirling mess of his orange and brown experiment. “I forgot, Little Jezz is coming, isn’t he? And Beth and Kirsty?”
He slides down from the table, runs to his dad and allows Jezz to wash his hands for him, the blue and orange pigment merging into a dirty brown hue in the bowl. Our grandson, Little Jezz, and James are the best of friends and each summer when Beth and Kirsty join us, the two boys are inseparable.
I am ‘Granny’ now to Little Jezz, a title that never ceases to surprise me for it is one I never thought to own. Kirsty has a daughter now, a dark eyed bundle of white knitted shawl that she calls Annie. Annie will learn to call me Granny too and she will join us in discovering treasures on the windy shore. I am part of a family now, another thing I never thought I’d have and in the bosom of my family I have discovered that there are many different shades of love.
.
Once, I was afraid to be happy, fearing that happiness could be too easily snatched away. Afraid of life and afraid of loving, I hid my face in dark corners, too terrified to look up at the beauty of the wide blue sky.
But, now I have learned that love is the one thing that cannot be destroyed, I am brave again. Life may be fleeting, youth may pass too quickly and death always comes too soon but love is everlasting. Here in this small cottage, we have love in droves.
Love is indivisible, there is enough for everyone and then some more; it never shrinks but expands and multiplies like a great magical abstract, each emotion different, their colours as diverse as they are wonderful. And most importantly, love transcends even death.
The love of Jezz and I will live on in our children and grandchildren, and the memory of what I once shared with James will live on too, in his namesake, Jezz’s son, Little James.
Every storm blows itself out in time, but love? True love is everlasting.
The End
Other works by Mary Middleton include:
Vittorio’s Virgin
Come, Dance With Me
For One Night Only
Something for the Journey
More information about Mary and her work can be found on: http://marymiddletonromancewriter.webs.com
Where the West Wind Blows Page 11
