A WARM WIND BLOWING by Rose Boucheron It was Wednesday afternoon: the rain fell soft, fine and warm. Though her sight was failing and the windows misty, the old lady could see the blur of the great cedar branches outside the window. Her gnarled hands rested lightly on the coverlet, the skin stretched like silk over the knuckles, the wrists fine and blue-veined like a child’s. Through the door came muffled sounds of activity in the nursing home, and she knew that soon her visitors would be arriving. She sighed gently, trying with some difficulty to achieve a position of greater comfort. Then she lay back in deep thought, reflecting over her long life. For Jemima Wainwright was almost ninety-one, and could remember many things. Nowadays often memories became confused, and what happened long ago was clearer to her than what had happened yesterday. She could remember Mafeking arid the relief of Lady-smith; the soldiers embarking at Southampton for the Boer War, her own dear, new husband George among them; his return to her, unharmed; how they’d set up home together. She could recall the babies born, one after another, the house full of small boys and girls. The horrors of the First World War when, mercifully, her sons were too young to fight; the changing pattern of life afterwards, and later, her young sans grown to maturity. She could remember the young Churchill, and the fiery Lloyd George, dresses that swept the floor, and hats large and laden with flowers, secured with long hatpins. Her waist had been no bigger than a man’s handspan. Faces would appear from out of the distant past with startling clarity and disappear as quickly, so that, almost before she could place them, they had gone, and she was left wondering who they were. Only yesterday Daisy Machlachlan’s small face had appeared from nowhere, the wide, saucer-blue eyes and red curly hair beneath a satin bonnet, as clear as if it had been yesterday. And the last time she had seen Daisy they had both been five years old! Memory played funny tricks. She smiled to herself. Now she was in her dressmaker’s fitting-room, facing the long mirror in her white lawn blouse and long black skirt. She held out an elegant black-patented foot. “Ankle-length, please, Mrs Elfounder!” she commanded, while a distant tinny voice from an old phonograph announced: This-is-…..an on-Bell-record!” Ah, to be young again! There was a gentle knock on the bedroom door, and eldest son tiptoed in softly, so as not to disturb her, followed by his wife Ida. Ah, there you are!” He bent over and kissed her, while the Ida laid the bunch of tulips carefully on the bed-room table. “How are you, Mother?” She, too, leaned down and kissed the old lady’s dry, papery cheeks. ”I’m very well,” Jemima said. Rupert was her favorite son, the cleverest one of all, so like her dear husband. Quiet and dependable as a rock. Ida was a very worthy woman, Jemima decided, looking at her, and wandering why she always wore such dowdy clothes. Was it that she held that against her. She had been good wife, an excellent mother, a born manager. Only she wasn’t going to manage Jemima, if Jemima could help it. While they told each other how well she looked, Jemima reflected that it was a pity she had been silly enough to fall and break her leg in the garden last year. Until then she had lived alone and taken care of herself, with the help of a daily woman and good neighbors. She had never intended to go and live with any of her children, ever. But somehow they seemed to think that, because she was ninety and not eighty-nine, everything had suddenly changed, and that she was no longer capable of looking after herself. Obstinate as ever, she had at last proved them wrong, until the day when she had broken her leg. She had been rushed to hospital to lie helplessly there for six weeks. It was the first time in her long life she had been confined to her bed, except for the birth of her children, and she bore the enforced rest reluctantly. Until that fatal day, she had been a strong, active woman, gardening a…… with the aid of long-handled tools, doing her daily crossword, and reading her beloved Galsworthy and Dickens hour by hour. She had never felt lonely except in the black period when her husband died, but that was thirty years ago. She had softened the blow and she had adjusted her life accordingly. There were the children and grandchildren, and for a woman like Jemima the days were always full. “Are they treating you well?” Rupert asked, taking …..of her hands. “Very well, dear,” Jemima replied. “I’m very well looked after. The nurses are so kind.” “Good, good, ”Ida said approvingly, and looked up as knock sounded on the door. She rose to open it. “Oh, Alfred!” she said. They kissed, and Alfred, his ….sad face breaking into a thousand wrinkles, smiled sadly as he approached his mother. “All right, Mum?” he said, leaning over to kiss her. She smiled at him gently. Alfred was her kindest, most wonderful son, the one who came each week from his home nearly twenty miles away, brought her flowers, made her laugh, and dug over bar vegetable plot. “How is Dorothy?” she asked. Poor Dorothy, the kindest and sweetest of women, so crippled with rheumatism she could hardly walk. How sad that this gentle, sweet couple should have so many troubles. “She’s very bright,” Alfred said. “Manages very well, you know. How’s Rupert?” He went over to his children. They edged towards the window, while Jemima finished them indulgently. They were both solicitors, and always found plenty to talk about when they met, although in temperament they were as different as chalk and cheese. “Well, Gran,” Ida said, unwrapping the tulips, “you having a lot of lovely flowers, aren’t you?” Coquettishly, Jemima fingered her rings. Why did Ida always talk to her as if she were five years old? Did she imagine that with advancing years you became childlike or mentally deficient? She found Ida so irritating nowadays, commendable though she was. It had all begun last year when she’d returned from hospital, and the doctor insisted she must stay with one of her children. Argue as Jemima would, the family insisted that she should take the doctor’s advice. “I’m perfectly capable,” Jemima had said. “I’m not a child.” “No, no,” they soothed her, “of course not, but imagine if you fell again, or were taken ill in the night?” But didn’t they realize that even if that happened she would rather be in her own home, among the things she loved, with her memories? “We’d never forgive ourselves,” Ida had said, and the rest had agreed, vying with each other in offering hospitality. But Ida insisted on her going there.“ Rupert is the eldest son, and we have room,” she told the others. So off to Ida’s home Jemima was born. Ida put her upstairs in a small blue bedroom, and to give her her due, and made it as much like home as she could. She had removed some of Jemima’s treasured photographs and pictures and hung them around the walls in the mistaken idea that it would make Jemima more at home. Instead, Jemima was upset that her beloved things had been removed from their natural habitat, and insisted that they be returned forthwith. “I know what you’re thinking,” she said. “That I’ll stay here, and get used to it, but won’t. I’m going home just as soon as the doctor says. Not that I’m not grateful for your kindness,” she added, remembering her manners, and trying to soften her obstinacy. “Of course, of course,” they soothed her. In less than no time she was walking downstairs early in the morning when Ida was busy getting breakfast. “Oh, Gran, what are you doing downstairs? Now, off you go. I’ll bring up your breakfast on a tray with your little pot of tea and an egg, and you can have a nice rest and read while I get on with the work—” “It’s impossible to get on when she’s sitting around,” Ida explained to Rupert, “and she will keep telling me the same old things. I don’t mind having her, dear, you know that, if only she’d stay upstairs in her room.” Jemima had overheard this only the day before she’d had that wretched heart attack that had landed her in the nursing home. She’d been half-way downstairs when she heard the voices, and than crept back upstairs like a naughty child, her mouth tightened. Excellent wife and mother Ida might be, and she probably meant well, but once she was out of the nursing home, Jemima resolved she’d never go back to Ida’s. She would speak to Donna; Donna would understand. “Where is Donna?” she asked now. The visitors crept to her side. “Yes, Mother?” “Donna, where’s Donna?” - An impatient look came over Ida’s face. “She’ll be here. I expect they’re held up somewhere in the traffic.” Jemima’s eyes closed. The three looked at each other anxiously, then moved over softly to the window. “She’s dozing again. The doctor says her heart is excellent; she might go on for years...” The door opened suddenly, and a younger edition of Rupert came in, Jemima’s third son, Eric, followed by his wife, Honesty, and Jemima’s eldest daughter, Ellen. Eric was as unlike Rupert in character and as like him in looks as it was possible for two brothers to be. Smooth hair and a large moustache completed the picture of a war-time flying hero. His wife, small, dark and vivacious, seemed never to stop laughing. “Well, well, well!” Eric boomed. “How are you, you old spoofer?” and he kissed her loudly. His wife bent, kissed the old face swiftly, and laid fruit on the bed. “Well, Grandma,” the laughed, -“It’s nice to see you.” Jemima, noting the hennaed hair and made-up eyes thought: Past fifty if she’s a day and she’ll never learn. Thank you, dear,” she smiled to Honesty, while her eldest daughter leaned over with a parcel of hankies and some scented soap. “Mother!” she kissed her. “Oh, I’ve had such a job to get here. It’s such a walk.” It would be, Jemima thought. Once a week Ellen came to see her, and every time it was the same story. A miniature edition of herself to look at, her life had nevertheless been a very different story. A somewhat plaintive young woman, she had married a young school-teacher who had been killed accidentally soon after their marriage. So quite early Ellen had been left to fend for herself. It could only have happened to Ellen, Jemima had always though; somehow Ellen courted disaster. But then she’s not half the woman I was, she told herself, for all that tragedy touched her so early. She had never had that inner something, that proud spirit which would have made all the difference to her character. Perhaps it was my fault, Jemima chided herself. Perhaps I overpowered her as a girl, for I have always been a dominating character. But it’s too late now for heart searchings, for regrets…She felt irritated, as she did so often lately, a sense of impatience. They had all gravitated to the other side of the room again, where she could hear them whispering. “Well, I’ve got my job” Ellen was hissing softly. “Surely no one expects me…” They probably think I’m asleep, Jemima thought to herself, and opened her eyes as she felt a shadow fall across her face. It was Honesty. “Sophie couldn’t come. She’s got all her children coming today, and you know how it is.” Jemima nodded. Yes, she knew how it was with Sophie, her youngest daughter. Sophie hated illness and old age and trouble and pain. A silly girl, in spite of the fact that she was Jemima’s daughter. She couldn’t bear hospitals and visiting the sick. Jemima sighed. She wouldn’t miss Sophie; they had never had much in common. Her daughters had never interested her really, it was her sons who mattered. People might say she was hard or unnatural, but she had always been more drawn to her sons. They were warm, vulnerable, she loved them all, and Rupert just a little bit more. “Rupert?” Ho came across the room swiftly, and took her hands. “Is Donna coming?” she said. “She’ll be here, soon,” Rupert said. “Did she say she was coming today?” Jemima nodded and closed her eyes. “Then she will be here soon,” he assured her. He patted her hands, and went back to the window. “It’s Donna. She’s waiting for Donna to come.” The women exchanged meaningful glances. Donna was the wife of Jemima’s youngest son, Rodney, whom she had late in life, when she was forty-five, in fact. Spoiled and petted, he grew up handsome and amusing, to roam the world as a gay young bachelor. He had been home two years when he announced to the family that he had finally decided to get married. He’d brought Donna to tea one Sunday, a quiet, doe-eyed girl of twenty-nine, with a cloud of black hair and a sweet face. From the first, Jemima had adored her as the kind of daughter she had always wanted. Donna seemed quite happy in the old lady’s company and spent hours talking and listening to her. She never talked down to her as the others did, but treated her as an equal, as someone to be reckoned with. During the family arguments last year she had, after staying quietly in the background, ventured her point of view at a family conclave. “If your mother wants to live alone, I think you should let her. If she would be happier. “But they get beyond the point when they know what’s good for them,” Ida said. “One has to make decisions for them; they are like children. It would be absolutely cruel to leave her alone.” “But you know she wants to end her days in her own home. You could get a nurse in to stay with her.” “Quite ridiculous,” Honesty said. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Ida’s quite right. And if Ida will have her... “No one is asking you to have her, my dear,” Ida said to Donna. “As the youngest and newest member of the family, no one is suggesting that you should be saddled with her—” Donna’s black eyes flashed, and the arguments went on. Now Jemima stirred uneasily in her half sleep. They were still talking in whispers, and snatches of conversation drifted across to her from the other side of the room. “She’ll never be fit to go back to that house again,” “Poor old soul, she’s had a good life,” “She’ll live to be a hundred...” Sometimes nowadays, when she listened to them, going on living seemed almost too much of an effort. Yet, if she had one last wish, it would be that Donna should have her heart’s desire. They’d been married seven years now, Donna and Rodney, and still had no child to bless them. In the early days she and Donna used to talk about babies, but as the years had gone by, she had watched Donna become more wistful. There had been a time, a month or two ago, when she could have sworn there was a look in Donna’s eyes she had not seen there before, a kind of luminous quality. Jemima was very quick to spot a pregnancy, and she could have sworn ... But nothing had been said, and she knew Donna would have told her. She glanced over at the little group from half-closed eyes. Her daughter-in-law, Honesty, wore a sprigged muslin blouse, and she remembered saying to her once, I had a blouse like that many years ago”, and Honesty had replied,” Did you? That’s nice.” But that was all. Whenever she made a remark like that to Donna, Donna would say: “Did you really? “When did you wear it? Where were you going?” as if she really cared. She would sit at Jemima’s feet and become engrossed as Jemima began, “Well, I think it was in 1915,” and the talk would go on unfolding. Dear Donna, with the patience to suffer an old woman’s tales! The matron of the nursing home put her head round the door and smiled at the roomful of visitors. “My word, Mrs Wainwright, you have got a party on today! Still,” she added jestingly, “I expect we can fit in two more! Not for long, though!” Donna entered with Rodney. She carried a long-stemmed red rose, which she gave to Jemima wordlessly. Jemima opened her eyes, and a world of pleasure filled them. Half closed and deeply sunken, they shone brightly with the glint of tears. The others moved towards the bed, while Donna stood at the foot, looking down at her. “How are you feeling today, Mother?” Rodney asked, tall and immaculate. The old lady took a deep, deep smell of the rose, then looked towards the window, where the rain had stopped and the branches moved heavily in the fitful sunshine. “Is it cold out?” she asked. “No, no,” Rodney assured her. “There’s a warm wind blowing.” She looked up at Donna and straight into the dark eyes, and found there what she had wanted to find. Donna was half smiling at her, and nodding gently. There, she knew it! Jemima sighed and took a deep breath and closed her eyes. The hushed whispering began around the bed again, and she opened her eyes again and looked enquiringly at Donna. Donna smiled reassuringly at her, and the eyes closed once more. Suddenly there was a silence, and they all stared down at the bed. The old lady was smiling. Then the women made muffled sounds, and dabbed at their eyes with lacy handkerchiefs, while the men swallowed hard. But only Donna, looking at her gently, returned the smile. THE END