Read Online Ordinary Miracles by Grace Wynne-Jones - Free Book Online
Authors: Grace Wynne-Jones
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quick one,’ I say grudgingly.
But when he puts his arms around me I stop resisting. He’s big and strong and warm and protective and I find myself burying my face into his navy woollen jacket. We’re okay together, as long as we don’t talk and I don’t look at his left nostril. I need some comforting. I really do.
‘You’re lonely Jasmine.’ He’s stroking my hair. I try to nod but my head is somewhat restricted by his elbow. ‘It’s all right – everyone’s lonely sometimes.’
‘Oh God, is it that obvious?’ I’m thinking, but then he adds ‘You’re lovely too. You’re lovely and I like you a lot.’ He lifts my face and I know he’s about to kiss me.
I pull away again. ‘No. No. Sorry Eoin, I can’t do this.’
‘Why?’
‘I thought we were just friends. And…and anyway, there’s something you should know.’
‘What?’
‘I’m married.’
‘Oh.’ Eoin opens his mouth as if to say something, then he closes it again. Herds of buses are passing. I have to keep a sharp eye out so that mine doesn’t speed by too.
‘It’s all right,’ Eoin is gently brushing a stray hair from my face. ‘I’m almost married myself.’
‘You’re what?’
‘I’m engaged. The wedding’s after Christmas. My, we’re a right pair, aren’t we, Jasmine? A right pair.’
‘A right pair of eejits,’ I think but what I say is, ‘Here’s my bus.’ For indeed my bus is thundering towards us. I stick out my hand and it screeches dramatically to a halt. I get on hur riedly, holding tightly to the handrail while I do so. The driv er’s one of the wild, late night boyos who put the pedal down like Jensen Button. With a roar of diesel I’m on my way.
Eoin looks a little sad. He smiles and waves as the bus lurches onwards. I give one quick wave myself then I climb to the top deck and sit down. I feel a bit bewildered and irritated, but gratitude is somehow creeping in too. ‘He really likes me,’ I think as I career towards South Dublin. ‘He “thinks I’m lovely”. Me. Jasmine Smith.’
An empty Coke tin is clattering to and fro under the seats.
‘Still, he should have mentioned his engagement.’
The coke tin is getting louder.
‘And I suppose I should have worn my wedding ring.’
I can’t take the noise of the coke tin any longer…the hollow clatters andempty tumblings of its crazy dance across the floor. I get up and try to catch it. People are watching me, but I don’t care.
The tin is cornered. I shake it to check it’s really empty, then I take it back to my seat. I put it in my carrier bag, along with my software course manual and notebook, an empty packet of crisps and No Need to Panic: Courageous Acts of Change in Women’s Lives.
I stare dully out the window. Suburban homes are flashing by. Homes of couples – some of whom are closing their bedroom curtains. Oh, the safety of it – and the danger too.
‘That was me once,’ I think. ‘Look at me now, grateful for a few easy words from a stranger. What am I becoming? I hardly know him. I hardly like him for God’s sake!’ I feel the panic rising.
‘Oh God, please don’t let me become the kind of woman who settles for just a warm body.’ I glimpse a mother tucking in her child.
‘Let me not be driven to one-night stands with men over for rugby internationals.’ I’m mouthing the words silently, like a mantra. ‘Let me believe in love again. Please.’
A man in the front seat has started to hum. I can’t make out the tune at first, then I recognise it. It’s ‘When They Begin the Beguine’. He’s off key and a bit drunk. Every so often he belches.
My dad liked that song. I haven’t heard that song in ages. They had guts and style, those old songs. A form, a feeling you could turn to. I remember the black-and-white photo of Mum and Dad and Aunt Bobs and Uncle Sammy outside the Metropole, the four of them dressed up for a dance. It’s strange to think they’re all gone now – even the building. I
But when he puts his arms around me I stop resisting. He’s big and strong and warm and protective and I find myself burying my face into his navy woollen jacket. We’re okay together, as long as we don’t talk and I don’t look at his left nostril. I need some comforting. I really do.
‘You’re lonely Jasmine.’ He’s stroking my hair. I try to nod but my head is somewhat restricted by his elbow. ‘It’s all right – everyone’s lonely sometimes.’
‘Oh God, is it that obvious?’ I’m thinking, but then he adds ‘You’re lovely too. You’re lovely and I like you a lot.’ He lifts my face and I know he’s about to kiss me.
I pull away again. ‘No. No. Sorry Eoin, I can’t do this.’
‘Why?’
‘I thought we were just friends. And…and anyway, there’s something you should know.’
‘What?’
‘I’m married.’
‘Oh.’ Eoin opens his mouth as if to say something, then he closes it again. Herds of buses are passing. I have to keep a sharp eye out so that mine doesn’t speed by too.
‘It’s all right,’ Eoin is gently brushing a stray hair from my face. ‘I’m almost married myself.’
‘You’re what?’
‘I’m engaged. The wedding’s after Christmas. My, we’re a right pair, aren’t we, Jasmine? A right pair.’
‘A right pair of eejits,’ I think but what I say is, ‘Here’s my bus.’ For indeed my bus is thundering towards us. I stick out my hand and it screeches dramatically to a halt. I get on hur riedly, holding tightly to the handrail while I do so. The driv er’s one of the wild, late night boyos who put the pedal down like Jensen Button. With a roar of diesel I’m on my way.
Eoin looks a little sad. He smiles and waves as the bus lurches onwards. I give one quick wave myself then I climb to the top deck and sit down. I feel a bit bewildered and irritated, but gratitude is somehow creeping in too. ‘He really likes me,’ I think as I career towards South Dublin. ‘He “thinks I’m lovely”. Me. Jasmine Smith.’
An empty Coke tin is clattering to and fro under the seats.
‘Still, he should have mentioned his engagement.’
The coke tin is getting louder.
‘And I suppose I should have worn my wedding ring.’
I can’t take the noise of the coke tin any longer…the hollow clatters andempty tumblings of its crazy dance across the floor. I get up and try to catch it. People are watching me, but I don’t care.
The tin is cornered. I shake it to check it’s really empty, then I take it back to my seat. I put it in my carrier bag, along with my software course manual and notebook, an empty packet of crisps and No Need to Panic: Courageous Acts of Change in Women’s Lives.
I stare dully out the window. Suburban homes are flashing by. Homes of couples – some of whom are closing their bedroom curtains. Oh, the safety of it – and the danger too.
‘That was me once,’ I think. ‘Look at me now, grateful for a few easy words from a stranger. What am I becoming? I hardly know him. I hardly like him for God’s sake!’ I feel the panic rising.
‘Oh God, please don’t let me become the kind of woman who settles for just a warm body.’ I glimpse a mother tucking in her child.
‘Let me not be driven to one-night stands with men over for rugby internationals.’ I’m mouthing the words silently, like a mantra. ‘Let me believe in love again. Please.’
A man in the front seat has started to hum. I can’t make out the tune at first, then I recognise it. It’s ‘When They Begin the Beguine’. He’s off key and a bit drunk. Every so often he belches.
My dad liked that song. I haven’t heard that song in ages. They had guts and style, those old songs. A form, a feeling you could turn to. I remember the black-and-white photo of Mum and Dad and Aunt Bobs and Uncle Sammy outside the Metropole, the four of them dressed up for a dance. It’s strange to think they’re all gone now – even the building. I
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