Opportune Moment
Ch.5 "Well if that is what the woman wants, that is what she shall get."
In every moment of James Matthew Barrie's life, may it never be said that it was uneventful.
"UNCLE JIM!" four voices of a childish nature full of British agitation called, no, screamed, from their positions at the dining table, while their grandmother, after getting over the booming change in volume, dropped the letters she was just reading over and covering her hands tightly over her ears.
J.M. Barrie, who had been sleeping quite fitfully, snapped his eyes opened at once, and his face met the smiling face of his faithful canine, who, now noticing his master awake, thinking it showed a gesture of love, began licking him sloppily on the face, which did not make his master feel quite loved at all.
"Porthos," he struggled out in agitation, "Off."
But he wasn't relenting, and James had to forcefully shove the dog away from his assaulted face, before thoroughly scrubbing the slime that had recently been forced upon him.
Porthos, still believing nothing wrong, sat on the floor, wagging his long tail and staring appreciatively at his master.
Sighing he began to get dresses, while Porthos went to retrieve his shoes.
"Thanks boy," he said patting the dog on the head, forgetting all previous apprehension.
"UNCLE JIM!"
Sighing for another time, James walked quickly toward the door. Pulling the brass knob, he whistled for his dog, who obediently trotted ahead of him as he closed the door and proceeded calmly down the stairs.
"UNCLE-"
"Jim, yes I know. Stop shoutin' boys. I believe you be given your poor, dear, old grandmother a migraine."
"Thank you James. You couldn't have chosen to arrive in better timing?" She scolded over the rim of her recently acquired horn rimmed glasses, her usually icy glazed eyes, replaced with a hint of humor, as she lowered her hands off her ears to await the particularly witty response that was more often then not due to occur.
"Forgive me Emma, but I believe it was you that told me the other morning after the bout about Porthos, that you would prefer to spend as little hours around me as possible," there was a apparent twinkle in his eyes, "I thought it fit to begin a trial run today. Keep you on your toes."
"Well then I shall have to get used to this new development," she repeated curtly, before taking a sip of her once scalding, but now tepid tea.
"So boys, interested in becoming alarms now?"
"We wanted to ask if we could go to the park-" started George who was abruptly interrupted by Michael.
"But grandma said we weren't allowed to bother you upstairs, so we decided if you were downstairs we could ask."
"Michael do you always have to interrupt me!" George said, rolling his eyes in agitation heaven ward.
"I wasn't interrupting you, I was just finishing the story. No one ever lets me tell the story."
"Whatever." George answered with a moody stab into his eggs with the points of his fork.
"Of course we'll go to the park, that is, if Emma has an objection?"
All five males starred at the grandmother with the usual look commonly found upon Porthos when he wanted something. And sure enough, their looks mirrored that of the canine waiting sincerely by the entrance of the door, with his leash in mouth.
"Oh, how could I refuse looks like that?"
Abruptly the faces changed abruptly from those somber longing into glowing faces of children on Christmas. As if they had never gone to the park before...but Emma knew that they did since just yesterday she was asking the maids to clean the trek of mud all over the hallway floor.
"Alright boys, go upstairs and clean yourselves up...not that it will matter in a little while in the slightest."
The boys quickly pushed their chairs, shoveled as much food in their mouths as they could, clanged their utensils sharply on their plates and bowls, and ran quickly up the marble stairs to retrieve what they wanted to bring with them.
Figuring this would take some time, as it usually did due to the usual occurrence of arguments, James opened up the paper, and the first thing he noticed was an article in large print that stated, 'WRITING: A HOBBY OR AN OBSESSION?" written by Eric McKinley.
McKinley? Why did that name sound familiar?
McKinley...Irish...
"That's Irish isn't it.? You don't sound it."
"Oh well, my ancestors were Irish, and I've lived here all my life, so I've adapted to this dialect"
Yes, now he remembered.
The very astute, sharp-witted, defensive Irish, but adapted British woman he had met in the park, after she had almost been concussed by an onslaught of a lone hard ball.
And attractive he thought on the side.
Woa...where did that come from?
James shook his head slightly to ward off anymore thoughts of Ms. McKinley...and suddenly became very thankful of the boys impeccable timing, for they had deluded from his mind the thoughts that shouldn't have been, and in reality, were very foreign, in his mind.
"Ready to go Uncle Jim?"
They stood in front of him, jackets buttoned, hair neatly combed back...
Not for long.
"Yes...yes let's go boys."
"Have a good day Emma." James called from the door, forgetting his newspaper in front of his place at the table.
"Have a good time." she called after them, before, hearing the door shut with a satisfying slam, she moved from her seat to retrieve the paper James had been thoughtfully reading.
Reading the bold title, and reading through the animatedly passionate writing.
"No man wrote this..." she said slowly, not being prejudice against man's writing; she did after all have a famous playwright and author in the household after all.
But...the way it was artfully sculpted and thoroughly examined from all angles, Emma concluded that a man would have only really persecuted the topic through his sane mind only. Not from both feminine and male parties.
Hmmm...interesting.
At the park
Realizing he forgot his copy of the paper on the dining room table, James and the boys waited a few minutes as Peter retrieved on from the boy waving them on the street corner, before continuing their annual journey to the park.
James remembered that he used to traverse alone...him and his faithful terrier Porthos.
Mary never liked to go to the park, for reasons he never really understood. She had, before they had married, loved the outdoors. The smell of the spring time. The bitterness of the harsh winds of winter. The heat waves that plagued in the summer, and the artful paintings that blended in the autumn. She loved it all...embraced it with a smile.
But, after they were married, she hid herself in the confines of her rooms, and always subjected herself to reading books and cutting out pictures from the newspaper and catching up the latest gossip. See what a little fame did to people. Subjected them to haughty thoughts and dreams, sucking from them happier times. Precious times.
Sylvia on the other hand...
He choked slightly, his throat constricting around his wind pipe.
"Are you alright Uncle Jim?" Peter asked concernedly.
"Yes," he coughed clearing his throat and alleviating its tightness, " I'm fine."
Yes she was.
She was an angel that was sent to his life, with a revelation in a simple package symbolizing the opening a paper and finding pleasantly a hole in a newspaper. But that day, the opening-amidst the border surrounded by nonexistent nor important words and pictures-was like a portal whirling him into a void of happiness and, unfortunately, a great sadness and suffering. And then there was compassion amongst the suffering. For without suffering there could be no compassion.
She had left too soon, but instead of taking everything away, she blessed him, instead, with four little angels, who of which, took on the spitting image of their mother, with some integrated mixes of their father, more along the hair and manly accommodations.
And now, instead of two, there was six.
A group of notorious pirates searching for their secret longings and thirsty with the unsatisfied quench for adventure.
"Alright boys, off you go."
And they left, making them two again. But James never minded. Sometimes he would partake in their games. Other times he would watch them with a satisfied smirk. And again other times he would read or write, his faithful companion laying obediently at his side.
So, locating his usual lurking, with his newspaper tucked under his arm, he proceeded by sitting down on the iron angled bench with the high back, and opened the paper to the very article he was reading before that had captivated his attention so effectively.
"Writing cannot be defined with simple terms, and I am not going to attempt to simplify. t is a very art...the very essence of a soul. When one writes, each time they pick up their pen or whatever common writing utensil they are comfortable with, they are pouring out a little piece of their very being onto the paper, where it would be recorded and, if one wished it so, protected and never forgotten forever."
Her writing was succulent. It devoured his mind and attention as he poured over the articulate terms and flowery words that flowed together like silk. He decided maybe her true profeesion should have reflected in the options of poetry. Her words and thoughts seemed to have poured exactly from very essence, as if she meant, poetically, to string the words in a sort of melodic rhythm, that left the reader breathless, dazed, and perhaps even aching with a type of longing for more.
In fact he was so dazed and bedazzled, that he did not even hear the sounds of padded feet, crunching in the grass behind him.
"Reading anything of interest?"
The voice had felt like a sledgehammer to the skull, as he was quickly forced out of his entranced thoughts.
He jumped slightly, and felt a slight blush creep on his cheeks when he heard a very feminine giggle behind him.
"I'm sorry. Didn't mean to frighten you." the familiar voice stated sincerely, but still with the amused lilt in it.
He turned sharply to find the very person belonging to the voice.
It was her. The tall, elegant but conservative, astute but sincere Irish bred, but British borne woman that he now admired with a new light.
"Ms. McKinely," he shook his head slightly to gain a more stable grounding, "um, no of course you did not scare me. Merely startled, really."
"Oh shucks," she said with a slight click of her tongue, "I really thought I had you."
He chuckled lightly at her antics, and proceeded to invite her to sit with him on the bench.
"So...what are you reading?"
"Uh," he hesitated while trying to turn to a different page without notice, "the newspaper. Usual stuff, weather, politics. You know, news." he ended rather lamely, and chided himself for it.
"News huh? Fascinating. Any particular passage or article your reading."
"Uh yes actually..." he said glancing quickly and reading, "'tea percentages have soared by...eighty percent." he finished slowly, hoping she didn't find the passage as ridiculous to read as he had.
She blinked slightly for a moment, before saying quickly with a slight polite smile, "Well there is nothing like tea reports to bring out the better part of your day."
He laughed then, a pleasant sound to her ears. For some reason she liked to earn smiles and laughs from this man.
She joined him in this outburst, and when they had finished, he lifted a long finger to wipe a slightly tearing eye.
"'Boy, why are you crying?'"
"Haha...well I am quite enthralled by your presence."
"Aww stop, your making me blush."
More chuckles and then James finally said sheepishly.
"Well I was really, in fact, readin' an article by a certain journalist. Perhaps you've heard of her, I mean him."
"Well what's his name?" Playing along with his game, even though she caught the mistake in his sentence. She was an editor; it bothered people sometimes, but she couldn't help it. So she contained herself and flicked a hand along with her question for him to continue.
"An Eric McKinley?"
"Oh him" she said thoughtfully, making a face that caused him to go into another bout of hysterics.
"Yes I've heard of him. Very notoriously well-endowed journalist."
"Well, for once I will have to agree with you. The writing style is superb, in fact, enticin'." he said seriously, but with a glint of knowing and malicious humor.
"Well, I'll have to tell him that when I see him."
" All humor aside, it was a very pleasing piece to read."
" It was an article on writing." she reminded skeptically.
"Aye but, not most people would take a simple topic such as the aggravatin' task of writing, and make it actually seem...well soothin', actually. Like a relief."
"Well thank you, you're too kind."
"Comes with the territory."
They stared out in front of them for a few moments, watching as the boys played catch.
Erin laughed quietly.
James turned slightly at the sound, "What are ye laughin at?"
"Having deja vu." she said as she lifted to rub unconsciously at an old wound.
"Oh by the way, how is your 'ead?"
"Nothing life threatening."
"Good."
More silence.
"Well, I am glad for your opinion, Mr. Barrie."
"James please." he replied, rising with her, and holding out his hand.
"I'd prefer to call you whatever name I find suitable with the situation J-Mr. Barrie," catching herself and replying a little more cooly then she wished.
"Well if that is what the woman wants, that is what she shall get." He said dispassionately, following with a slight shrug of his left shoulder.
"What did you say?"
"I said-"
"I know what you said, what I meant was, why did you say it?"
"Why shouldn't I say it?" he replied smoothly, rendering her speechless.
"Well...uh..."
He waited patiently as she stuttered, rather incoherently, really.
She groaned slightly in the back of her throat, closing her eyes, and breathing deeply in order to regain composure.
"I am surprised I do not have an answer to that question. Usually I am never at a loss for words."
"Well there is a first time for everything." he replied curtly with a polite smile lingering on his lips.
She strained a smile back, and with a brisk dismissal, she turned away from him, and he watched her skirts swirl away, and watched her footsteps as she glided away.
And she left him wondering how a simple sentence such as that could make her react the way she did.
"Well if that is what the woman wants, that is what she shall get."
A/N Sorry i haven't updated in a very, very, long time but i have been in a seriously long writer's block. Grrr...i hate those things. A big thank you for all my lovely reviewers. Bottles of rum to all you mates... You better review if you want one...Just kidding mates. It would be nice though...