Wesley John Morgan

One morning in May 2005, our daughter Becky, biting her lip, asked if she could "have a moment". Glancing at Liz, I raised my eyebrows and we sat together at the breakfast bar holding our coffee mugs. Stew bubbled on the gas ring a few feet away.

Sucking in her breath and fidgeting, Becky seemed to search her mind for the words. She finally blurted out, "I'm pregnant."

Liz's coffee spilled as she set down the ceramic mug. My stomach sank. I felt the blood drain from my brain and the kitchen floor appeared to wobble. I watched Liz walk to the gas hob and accidentally turn the knob higher, sending stew bubbling over and steam and the smell of vegetables and onions into the air before she turned it off.

Wiping the maroon counter repeatedly with a kitchen cloth, Liz turned to Becky. "Are you sure, sweetheart? What about uni?"

Her face blotchy, the floodgates opened and Becky sobbed, "Yes, Mum, I've had the tests." Liz and I weighed up the formidable costs of a teenage pregnancy and, we suspected, those of a single parent. We saw on her face that Becky had thought about this too.
We hugged Becky who was weeping, her shoulders convulsing. Liz's tears joined Becky's.

Wanting to ask about the father, I nevertheless decided to bite my tongue. 'Useless bugger,' I thought, 'where is he now?' I had other questions.

The first few months of her pregnancy, Becky stomped in and out while we tiptoed around. She slammed the phone down when friends and family tried to rally. One person who did not rally or give any support was her boyfriend Jason. I think the "inconvenience" persuaded him to steal away in the late spring.

"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." Sean was my best friend, an ex-paratrooper, a retired SAS officer, and the security advisor in our business, Morgan Steel Limited, in which Liz and I were 50/50 shareholders.

"I know what you mean, Sean," I said, my fist clenched, "join the queue." But I knew that violence rarely solved problems.

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

His succinct humour summed up what I felt: anger tinged with disappointment.
Jason's rapid departure obviously upset Becky, but I'd never rated him. Jason Gould seemed to me to be as slippery as an eel stealthily slithering away from steady sentiment.

With his departure, Becky appeared to tumble into a black hole of uncertainty. I watched her stroll aimlessly around the house in a white bathrobe, no make-up, eating not enough to keep a gnat alive, and giving vent to uncontrolled outbursts.

"Come on, darling, you must eat something," Liz pleaded one lunchtime. She placed a bowl of piping hot soup on the kitchen counter.

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

morning Liz and I were in each other's arms 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, and it's so unlike her to be so prickly. I think her self-esteem is bruised."

Becky slouched into the kitchen from the lounge, her eyes piercing. My cheeks went hot, sensing we'd been overheard.

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

shrugged. "No thanks."
I caught snippets of phone conversations and sensed her friends' words and ours were ignored. With heartache, I saw Becky withdraw to a life of solitude, shut away in her room and growing bigger week by week. For two long months, her morbidity gave us the fear that depression had established a stronghold in Becky's mind, and with no apparent saviour.

But an unlikely saviour came in the form of a dog, a chocolate-coloured puppy, her 18th birthday present from my mother.

The Labrador, aptly named Bourneville, offered unconditional love and a childlike irresistible happiness. He chewed slippers and played with magazines that littered the hallway. His perpetual wagging tail slapped the furniture, leaving scuff marks and dog hair clinging to every piece of furniture. But we accepted his trail of damage, watching with surprise the change in Becky.

The dog 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.

"All right, I'll get your lead," Becky yielded, and walked him to the lakes.

He nudged a despondent knee until she stroked his head and then he licked her hand. Bourne -- his name abbreviated -- dispelled the angst. With my own eyes, I saw his sunshine scatter 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?"
Sporting a little bump and looking radiant, Becky shopped and shopped again, returning with Mothercare bags and new clothes from Mark & Spencer and Next. A new wooden cot arrived in a Habitat van.

"Fetch Tony," I said, referring to a family friend, and looking at the cot, mystified. "These instructions are in Chinese."

laughed, but I knew both he and I were useless at DIY.

From the nursery ceiling hung coloured mobiles, which whirred in the breeze, flashing in the sun's rays. On a white shelf a can of talc, baby wipes, creams, a steriliser tank, and feeding bottles were organised. The walls painted lilac gave a soothing feel and one wall was adorned with a mural of a tree with white, red and blue flowers, its tantalising green leaves spreading in the wind. 'The nursery looks amazing,' I thought. 'Everything is ready for the arrival.'

Jan 4th 2006, I heard, "John, you can come in now." Liz held the door open, her face beaming. We were in the maternity wing of Knutsford and General Community Hospital. I strolled into the room and my chest swelled. Liz took a Marks & Spencer bag from me and placed it on Becky's bedside cabinet beside a water jug.

"We brought you a few things, Becky," Liz said, her brown eyes shining under the neon lights.

"Aww thanks, Mum...Dad...does he seem OK?" I watched her open the bag, take out some items and shove 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 peered into the cot. "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." She placed her fingers into the baby's tiny hand and I felt a sudden glow inside and an intoxicated grin spreading across my face.

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 turned her brown eyes towards the baby. Goosebumps tingled on my neck. Hours later, family and friends gathered around the hospital bed, peering into the cot. I heard the populace proclaim that the new addition manifested the "spitting image" of his granddad.

"Why's he wearing gloves?" our son James asked, with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

"They're baby mittens," Liz said, "because he could scratch himself." James ducked as Liz playfully swiped at his ear. He clicked his camera phone several times and then retreated to the corner, examining his work with glee.

"You'd better delete that, James Morgan, if you've taken me!" Becky threw a magazine at him. "I don't want to 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, looking at the baby and grinning all over his face. I felt slaps on my back and he offered a large brown 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 and pointing to the "No Smoking" sign.

A couple of days later, from the front steps, I watched Becky bringing Wesley home, her arms straining to heave the carrycot indoors. Beaming smiles and hugs met her, congratulation banners stretched across the entrance hall, vocal celebrations filling the house.

Later 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; a flame ignited in my heart. 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 was a learning experience for the infant -- 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 made me euphoric. It was made for granddads. But I had a strange premonition that it could change.