John Wesley Morgan

One morning in May 2005 our daughter Becky had, biting her lip, asked if she could have a moment. Glancing at Liz, I raised my eye-brows. We sat together at the breakfast-bar, holding our coffee mugs, stew bubbling on the gas ring a few feet away.

Sucking in her breath, and fidgeting, seeming to search her mind for the words, she finally said: "I'm pregnant."

Liz's coffee spilled as she set down the ceramic mug. My stomach turned... bile in my throat ... the kitchen floor appeared to wobble. I stood, my hand pressed on the grey work-top edge for balance, struggling for air, as if I'd been punched.

Liz walked to the gas hob, accidentally turning the knob higher, stew bubbling over, sending steam and the smell of vegetables and onions, into the air, before she turned it off. "I wish I could find something to do," I thought.

Wiping the counter with a kitchen cloth, Liz turned to Becky: "Are you sure, Sweetheart? ...what about Uni?"

Sobbing - her face becoming blotchy - Becky said, "Yes, mum... I've had the tests." Liz and I knew the formidable costs; we saw that Becky knew them too.
After the earth-moving news we hugged Becky as she wept, her shoulders convulsing. Liz's tears joined Becky's. Wanting to ask about the father- I decided to bite my tongue... "Useless bugger," I thought, "getting my seventeen year-old pregnant." I had other questions but they'd have to wait.

The first few months of her pregnancy were very hard for Becky. We were walking on egg-shells around her. Despite our reservations the whole family rallied. One person who offered no support was her boy-friend Jason. The "inconvenience" persuaded him to slink away. In the late spring, he abandoned mother and expected child, as "no longer fit for purpose".

"Just give me five minutes alone with that toad," Sean snarled, - making a scissor movement near his groin, "... He won't father any more children."

"I know what you mean, Sean," I said, "... Join the queue."

"Getting a straight answer from that bloke is like catching a fart," Sean added.

His succinct humour summed up what I felt. Jason's rapid departure upset Becky -but I'd never rated him. Jason Gould was a chameleon - ever changing colour to protect himself - as slippery as an eel. He slithered away from responsibility. Fathering a child, to me, is not the biological act of procreation... it's what comes afterwards. Parenting begins when the baby is placed trustingly in your arms.

With his departure, Becky tumbled into a black hole of uncertainty -shoulders sagged; eyes lifeless. She walked around the house in a Kimono-type bathrobe most of the day - no make-up - eating little.

"Come on, darling, you must eat something," Liz said, one lunch-time, her voice pleading...placing a bowl of piping hot soup in front of Becky.

"I just don't want it! ... OK... Stop fussing ..." Becky said, pushing the food away. Thumping the swing door hard, she stormed out, taking the stairs two at a time, a bedroom door slammed, reverberating around the hallway.

One morning as Liz and I stood in the kitchen, "She seems crushed, John," Liz sobbed, her tears wetting my shirt, "instead of being full of maternal joy she's so gloomy."

Becky slouched into the kitchen from the lounge. My cheeks went hot, knowing we'd been overheard talking about her.

"Why don't we go shopping, sweetheart?" Liz asked hopefully, "you need some new clothes ... and the baby..."

Interrupting Becky shrugged a repulse with, "... no thanks..."

The phone rang, but friends' words fell on deaf ears. Becky withdrew to a life of solitude, shut away in her room. For two long months depression established a stronghold in Becky's mind, with no apparent saviour.

Her saviour was a dog: A chocolate-coloured dog. The Labrador, aptly called Bourneville, offered unconditional love, a childlike happiness unthwarted. Chewed slippers and magazines littered the hallway, his perpetual wagging tail slapping the furniture - but we accepted his trail of damage - watching the change in Becky. Her eighteenth birthday present grew, from misbehaving puppy, to tireless friend, drawing her into his world of fun. The sound of his persistent yapping echoed at the door, until she walked him out onto the lawns. Nudging a despondent knee until she stroked his head and he licked her hand. Bourne, (his name abbreviated to coincide with the Mat Damon hero), dispelled the angst. His sunshine had scattered her cloud of despondency. After weeks in limbo, Rebecca Morgan stepped back into life's arena to face all contenders.

"I want a long soak in the bath," Becky announced one day, "and where's my lippy?"

Becky, sporting a bump, looked radiant, as she shopped and shopped, returning with Mothercare bags and new clothes from M&S and Next. A new wooden cot arrived in a Habitat van; the pieces assembled by Sean and me, with help from Tony our gardener/ handyman. From the nursery ceiling hung coloured mobiles, which whirred with the air, flashing in the Sun's streams. On a white shelf cans of talc; baby wipes; creams; a steriliser tank and feeding bottles were arrayed. The room had walls of lilac emulsion, one wall adorned with a mural of a tree with white, red and blue flowers, spreading in the wind. Everything was ready.

On Jan 4th Holmes Chapel General Hospital resonated with the cries of a new-born, a ten pounds two ounces baby boy. After hurrying through the traffic to drop Becky at Maternity, Liz accompanied her into the Delivery Suite - and I had hung around and waited - pacing up and down - for two hours in the corridor.

"John, you can come in now," Liz said, holding the door open, her face beaming.
Strolling into the room my chest swelled. Liz took a Marks & Spenser bag from me, placing it on the bedside cabinet beside a water jug.

"We brought you a few things, Becky," Liz said.

"Awww thanks Mum ...Dad ... Does he seem OK?" She opened the bag, taking out some items, shoving most into a drawer.

The healthy new arrival with a ruddy complexion, blue eyes and the evidence of sandy hair stirred, kicking his tiny bare legs in the clear-walled cot, which he nearly filled.

"Well he does look like your father, I'm afraid." Liz said, peering into the cot alongside. "But we'll have to live with that." Liz leaned over to place a kiss on Becky's brow. "Well done, sweetheart. Well done ... he's lovely."

I picked up the magazine on Becky's tray. "You have any thoughts on names yet?" I asked, swatting Liz for the remark about the baby's looks.

"Wesley John Morgan," Becky said, turning her moist eyes towards the baby.

Hours later, family and friends gathered around the hospital bed, peering into the cot. The populace proclaimed that the new addition was the spitting image of his granddad.

"Why's he wearing gloves?" James asked innocently.

"They're baby mittens," Liz said, "because he could scratch himself." James clicked his camera phone several times, and retreated to the corner, examining his work.

"You'd better delete that, James, if you've taken me!" Becky said. "I don't wanna be on your Facebook looking like a sweaty blimp!"

"OK, Sis, no probs," James smirked, busily pressing buttons.

"Oh, God, not another copper head," Sean said, grinning all over his face, slapping me on the back and offering a cigar. "Don't worry, Boss, - we can wet the baby's head with a Bud later."

"Just the one," I said with firmness, and returned his smile, placing the cigar in my breast-pocket, pointing to the "No Smoking" sign.

Becky brought Wesley home - her arms straining as she heaved the carry-cot indoors. Beaming smiles and hugs met her ... celebrations filling the house. The smell of talcum powder ... and worse ...seeped onto the landing, amidst a baby's cries. A fuzzy feeling of being a granddad filled me with warmth. Liz, too, had a glow in her cheeks and a spring in her step, punching me on the arm for calling her "granny", and laughing.

Every day sent personal invitations to the infant: "Make this discovery; try this adventure". Learning to walk and talk, finding bugs, collecting stones, learning the names of things, eating with hands or a spoon, every moment opened a new lesson to life's apprentice student.

Christmas was made for granddads ... It was to change so dramatically soon.