THE FICKLE HEART
I never thought myself a beauty. Nor could you call me pretty. Not everyone can strut down a runway, after all. Still, at school, my friends were nothing but lovely. At first, I marvelled at it, but Gran saw right through.
“Ah, duckie,” she said, “those girls keep you around because youre no threatplain as porridge. Whod fancy you over them?”
Her words stung to tears. But after a pause, she softened. “Dont fret, love. Pretty faces fade fast. Brighter the berry, quicker it rots. Mark my words, your day will come.”
That day took till I was twenty-seven. Until then, I studied, worked hardknew Id only have myself to rely on.
Then came Oliver, dumped on me by my friend Gemma. Shed grown sick of his “clinging like ivy.”
“Take him, Lizzie. Might work out. Im getting married anyway,” she said, shrugging.
I took to Oliver straight off. Wanted to drown him in love. He suited me fine, and well, I wasnt getting any younger. No sense playing hard to get.
I even fancied Oliver sighed in relief when he slipped into my arms. We married quick as you please.
Gran warned me, though: “Careful, love. That ones not done sowing his oats. Shouldve got the wildness out first. Dont boast of wedlock fresh as dewboast when its weathered years.”
But I wouldnt hear it. Oliver and I were thick as thieves, glued at the hip. Marriage gave me wings!
Then our son Alfie came. Oliver adored himread bedtime tales, sang lullabies, spoilt him rotten. As Alfie grew, he clung to his dad more than me. I didnt mind. Peace at home was all I wanted.
Five blissful years passed. Then trouble knocked.
Maybe Gemma envied me, maybe shed never really let Oliver go. Either way, she reeled him back into her sticky web. Word was, shed divorcedno kids.
I felt bleached empty. My wings drooped. My happiness mustve been built on sand. I wept buckets. Explaining to Alfie near broke me. Now I told the bedtime talesof his dad. But tears dry. I had to raise my boy, keep steady. Deep down, I hoped Oliver would snap out of it, come home for Alfies sake.
Oliver returned for his passport. Mumbled something about Gemma wanting things proper. I refused flat. He shrugged, left quiet. Soon got a replacement.
What Gemma offered, Ill never know, but Oliver forgot us clean. ThoughIll grantshed been the school beauty. Sparkly, carefree, quick with silken words. But her tongue wagged one way while her eyes slid another. That never bothered me. Shouldve. Honeyed glance, heart full of antsthat was Gemma.
Too late, I realised shed only lent Oliver out. Temporary, like a library book. “Im getting married,” shed said. When that ended, back he went.
Twice, court summons came for divorce. I ignored them. Dragged my feet and my heart.
Time crawled. Oliver seemed to stir. Missed Alfie. Asked to visit. I agreed. By then, Id stopped pining. Alfie and I had our rhythm. He turned twelve.
Trouble grows without rain. Gemma turned up smirking.
“Hows life, old friend? Not remarried?”
“What dyou want?” I iced back.
“Oliver says bring Alfie to hospital. To say goodbye,” she dropped like a stone.
My legs buckled. The room spun.
“Whats wrong with him?”
“Big operation tomorrow. Thinks hell die,” she tossed over her shoulder, already leaving.
“He wont! Hell live!” I screamed after her.
The op went smooth. Oliver livedbut forty and crippled. Hobbled with a cane. Question was, howd he manage? Gemma took him from hospital. But I knewnot for long.
I yearned to fetch him home straight off. Knew Gemmas soul was a dark well. Held my tongue. Let the silt settle. Maybe clear water waited.
Three months on, Gemma rang.
“Lizzie, Olivers pining for Alfie.”
“Or youre sick of Oliver?” I snipped.
So Oliver came home turned out Gemma made life hell. Nursing a cripples no picnic.
He turned bitter, silent, sharp.
But love bears all. Forgives. Forgets slights. Alfie and I tended him daily. Slowly, Oliver thawed. Began leaving his cane aside. Limped bad, but stood alone.
Six months passed.
Gemma swanned in. With a baby.
“Howll we share Oliver? His daughter,” she announced.
“Gemma, youre like bindweedchoking what you touch. Why slither round his heart? Leave us be! Let us breathe!” I begged.
“Olivers mine!” she shrieked.
And she was right. I blame him not. Back to Gemma he went. Old flames dont rust, it seems.
Gran had her say: “That mans no husband, duckjust a fickle heart!”
Alfie and I alone again. My boy, grown, patted my hand. “Well manage, Mum.”
Oh, Oliver, youre the thorn in my side.
Oceans run deep, but hearts deeper. Who knows what lurks there?
After Oliver, my soul lay barren. Cold ash where love burned. No one else crossed my path. No warmth, no light, no hope shared.
Time galloped. Alfie married, moved out.
Then one day, I bumped into Oliver. Pitiful, he was. Eyes full of shadows. Like Gran would say, “Danced round the maypole, fell on the tines.”
“Whereve you been? What now?” I asked gentle.
“Nowhere. Just walking,” he said odd-like. Looked utterly lost
Well, that was seven years back. Turns out, summer sometimes steals into autumn. Were raising Alfies boy now. Happy? Aye. Maybe thisearned through painis real love.
P.S. Gemma married a Frenchman, took the girl abroad. Last words to Oliver? “Leaving you with your guardian angel Lizzie.”
