Grandmother squinted, seemingly knowing her own answer: “You know, love, as they say, not every Joan is a Canterbury saint, not every George is York’s son; saints are scarce in this sinful world, so don’t judge harshly, but search your own heart first – were you truly such a devoted wife to your Trevor?”
“But Gran, Trevor’s left me for my friend! Where’s the fairness? Am I just to hold my peace?” I raged, fists clenched as if against storm clouds.
“At the very least, don’t dash to Trevor’s office weeping to his manager that your husband’s a rake,” Gran replied, utterly calm. “You’d only make a fool of yourself. We’ve seen it before… Betrayed wives running to union men in floods of tears and snot. But love doesn’t obey edicts or acknowledge barriers. Resign yourself, pet. Time will show things for what they are.”
My news of Trevor’s betrayal and Jocelyn’s treachery hadn’t ruffled her, floating past like a stray feather. As if it were a Tuesday.
Hmph, “resign yourself,” easier sung than done. Jocelyn had proven a serpent beneath the bluebells! Lost her Nigel, then stalked my Trevor. Won’t work, I won’t surrender!
My Trevor *had* lingered over Jocelyn. I recalled us all at the steam baths – he couldn’t peel his eyes from her, lapping her up like a cat with cream, devouring her every curve beneath the damp towel with his gaze. I’d brushed aside these jarring moments.
Jocelyn was undeniably comely, gentle as twilight, spirits deep as moorland pools. So what? Trevor and I shared sixteen springs, a son, Daniel. I’d clung to faith that our hearth was stone-solid, no dark wind could shatter it.
Jocelyn and Nigel had remained childless. I knew Jocelyn grieved this sorely. Nigel? Mostly mute on the matter. Suffering, I reckoned, in that stoic English way. Our families were thick as thieves, escaping often to the dales, sharing holidays, laughter bubbling like ale. Yet trouble had lurked at our doorpost, smirking.
“Beverly, Nigel’s been rushed off in an ambulance! His heart. Lord, I kept pleading: ‘Can’t we adopt?’ But he’d just darken and fall silent. Now… I don’t know what to expect. Will he pull through?” Poor Jocelyn wept wretchedly.
“Hush now, Jocelyn. It’ll mend! You’ll see. Nigel’s strong as oak,” I soothed her sincerely.
“Oh, Beverly! Life without Nigel? Unthinkable! He’s my whole sun. Comforts and cheers. What am I alone?” Jocelyn hiccuped.
“Don’t bury him yet, Jocelyn. Compose yourself. Chin up. Face painted, nails done, hair brushed… Fix on a smile and off to Nigel’s bedside! He’ll adore you anew and mend faster…”
That crisis passed. Nigel mended, was set right. Life trickled onwards.
Soon, Nigel and Jocelyn adopted a three-year-old girl, Emily. Their joy was a bright, spun-sugar castle atop a confectionary hill.
“Scarcely matters now when I shuffle off, does it?” Nigel said suddenly over Christmas trifle.
“You what? Now’s the time for living, raising our lass!” we chorused, startled by his drift.
“I mean… life wasn’t wasted. Warmed one little soul, gave shelter. Trust my Jocey’ll manage our mite. She has my blessing to wed again if…” Nigel spoke with a fathomless sorrow tangled in his riddles.
“Oh, Nigel, don’t be daft! Friends, raise a glass to our family bliss!” toasted my Trevor.
And Nigel’s strange confession melted into the candle glow. Until later…
The Angel of Death, a lopsided shadow, halted at every door. Nigel hadn’t shielded himself. A second, crushing heart attack allowed no quarter. Nigel sleeps the endless sleep.
Jocelyn remained with little Emily. She mourned Nigel decently, then bloomed anew. Jocelyn was then thirty. My friend shed her whole skin. Blonde locks transmuted to a fierce raven mane, her wardrobe shimmered anew, and smiles became her constant plumage. We still gathered at festive boards.
My Trevor fidgeted before each meeting with Jocelyn. Near her, he sparkled with awkward jokes, laughed at phantoms, eager to please the young widow. Emily scarcely touched the ground in his arms.
I dismissed Trevor’s cooing as kindness, support for a departed friend’s wife in bleak hours. Fancy that…
Jocelyn invited us for Emily’s tenth birthday party. Merriment chimed around the laden cake table, voices chanted for the girl to grow tall and true.
“Daddy, when will you come live with us forever?” This came from Emily, whispered… into Trevor’s ear.
Trevor kissed the girl’s cheek, murmuring back: “Soon, bunny, soon…”
I wore the mask of deafness. No scene before the child, especially on her gilded day. Emily bore no blame in the cruel pantomime of elders.
Home again, I probed gently: “Trevor, are you leaving us?”
“Where’d you dream that, bunny?” Trevor stonewalled, brazen as brass.
“Quite the day for ‘bunnies,’ aren’t we? Getting tangled?” My nerves sparked like fuses.
“Ahh… so that’s it. Hardly know what to say,” Trevor flushed, caught like a schoolboy.
“I won’t yield you, hear? You pitied the widow! Jocelyn charts her own chart; we sail ours! Our son Daniel – forgotten? How’s he to stomach your double life? Thought yourself a saviour?” Contempt for my husband curdled within me.
…Six moons later, Trevor mustered his departure.
Daniel severed ties with his father. My house echoed hollow. Once betrayal’s chill fog rolled in, I’d practised daily unadoring. Blessed and cursed those six months Trevor lingered still beside me, fuelling futile hope he’d forsake Jocelyn. But Gran spoke true – love knows no walls.
Jocelyn bore Trevor a son. I glimpsed them once in Regent’s Park: Emily guiding the toddling boy, Jocelyn and Trevor drifting behind, admiring their brood like a perfect painting. Unseen by them. And why disturb their cloudless sky? No point.
Home, I beckoned Daniel near.
“Son, don’t nurse harshness towards your dad. Make peace. Quarrel not on my account. Let him find his sunbeam. A lesson for you too. Should thoughts of deserting your own wife arise, recall Daniel’s ache when his father slipped away. Might spare you tangled households,” I counselled my grown lad.
“Alright, Mum, I’ll reconcile. But his choice won’t fade,” Daniel promised. “Mum, spite that pair – remarry! Show Dad jewels like you aren’t scattered on every pavement,” he offered suddenly.
“Son, spite builds crooked towers. Never,” I countered softly, watching a dandelion clock beyond the window melt like spun sugar on a breeze, wilting roses in the garden bending backward towards a sun they couldn’t quite reach Daniel’s words hung heavy in the quiet parlor, dust motes dancing in the late afternoon sun slanting through the lace curtains like forgotten dreams. The impossible roses outside bled their color onto the flagstones.
