**The Fickle Heart**
I never thought myself a beauty. Nor even pretty, truth be told. Not everyone gets to walk the runway, after all. Yet in school, my closest friends were all lovely creatures. At first, I marvelled at ituntil my dear grandmother set me straight:
“Ah, love, its no mystery. Those girls find it safe to keep you around, their plain little mouse. You wont steal their beaus. Whod look twice at you?”
Her words stung to tears. But after a pause, she softened:
“Dont fret. A pretty face wont bake the bread. Remember, my berry, bright colours fade fastest. Chin up, my larktherell be a mouth for your pie yet.”
No “mouth” came till I was twenty-seven. In the meantime, I studied, worked hard, knowing Id have to rely on myself.
Then came Arthur, handed off by my friend Nancy. Shed grown sick of his “endless pestering,” as she put it.
“Take him, Irene! Maybe somethingll spark. Im getting married,” she said flatly.
I took to Arthur at once, eager to drown him in affection. He suited me, and Id waited long enough. No sense playing coy.
I even fancied he sighed in relief, stepping into my arms. We married swiftly.
Still, Gran warned me:
“Careful, love. Youll tire yourself with this one. That Arthurs not done sowing his oats. Shouldve had his fun first, then settled. Dont boast of a marriage fresh as dewboast of one weathered true.”
But I was deaf to caution. Arthur and I were like calves, nuzzling wherever we stood. Marriage gave me boundless wings!
…Then our son, William, was born. Arthur adored him blindlybedtime tales, lullabies, spoiling him rotten. As he grew, William clung more to his father than to me. I didnt mind. Peace at home was all I asked.
Five blissful years passedbefore trouble darkened our door.
Perhaps Nancy envied me, or nursed old grudges. Either way, she lured Arthur back into her sticky embrace. Gossip reached me: Nancy had divorced, childless, and now Arthur was hers again.
I felt bleached of colour. My wings drooped. My joy had been poorly stowed. Sobs wracked me endlessly. Explaining to William was agony. Now I told his fathers tales. But tears dry. I had a boy to raise, a mind to keep. Deep down, I hoped Arthur would come to his sensesif not for me, for our William.
Arthur returned… for his passport. Mumbling that Nancy wanted a proper marriage. I refused outright. He shrugged, left without argument. Soon, he got a new one.
Who knows what spell Nancy cast, but Arthur forgot us completely. ThoughIll admitshed been the school beauty. Vivid, laughing, careless, alluring. She spun words like lace. But often, her words pointed one way while her eyes wandered another. That streak in her never troubled me. A mistake. Folk say of her kind: sweet gaze, poison heart.
Too late, I sawNancy had only lent Arthur to me. A lease, not a gift. “Im getting married,” shed said. When marriage ended, she reclaimed her loan.
Twice, court summons came for divorce. I ignored them, dragging out time… and my soul.
Yet time rolled on. Arthur seemed to wake. He missed William, begged to see him. I agreed. By then, Id stopped pining. William and I had our rhythm. He turned twelve.
Trouble, as they say, grows without rain. Nancy came slinking back.
“Hows life, old friend? Still unwed?” she smirked.
“What do you want?” My voice was ice.
“Arthur asks you bring William to the hospital. To say goodbye,” she dropped like a stone.
My legs buckled. The room swam.
“Whats wrong with Arthur?” I whispered.
“Major surgery tomorrow. He fears hell die,” she said, already retreating.
“He wont! Hell live!” I shrieked after her.
…The operation succeeded. Arthur livedbut at forty, he was crippled. A stick kept him upright. The question loomed: how would he live now? Nancy took him from hospital. But I knew it wouldnt last.
I ached to reclaim him at once. Nancys soul was a dark well. Still, I waited, letting the silt settle, hoping for clear water.
Three months later, Nancy called.
“Irene, Arthur needs his son.”
“Or do you need rid of Arthur?” I jabbed.
So Arthur came home. Nancy had made his life unbearable. A cripples no easy burden.
He grew bitter, silent, sharp.
Yet love bears all, forgives, forgets no ill. William and I tended him tirelessly. Slowly, Arthur thawed. He even left his stick behind. A limp remained, but he stood on his own.
…Six months passed.
Nancy returned. With a babe in arms.
“How shall we share Arthur? This is his daughter,” she declared.
“Nancy, youre like clinging ivy. Why must you twine round his soul? You slid in like a snake. When will you vanish? You knot up our lives! When do we breathe?” I pleaded.
“Arthurs mine!” she shrilled.
And she was right. I blame him not. Old love never rusts, they say.
Gran had her verdict:
“Your mans a fickle heart, Irene.”
William and I were alone again. My son, grown now, comforted me: “Well manage, Mum.”
Oh, Arthur, youre a burr in my breast.
The oceans deep, but deeper still the heart. What doesnt lurk there?
…After Arthur, my soul lay orphaned, hollow, numb. Ashes where love burned. No one else crossed my path to warm, to light, to hope.
Time raced. William married, left home.
Then, by chance, I met Arthur. A pitiful sight. Eyes full of shadows. As Gran would say: “Dodged and weaved, only to land on the spikes.”
“Where are you now? What are you?” I asked gently.
“Nowhere. Just walking,” he answered oddly. He looked… lost.
…So now, seven years on, were together. Summer sometimes peeks through autumns veil. Were raising our grandson. Happy? Yes. Perhaps this is loveearned, not given.
P.S. Nancy wed a Frenchman, sailed off with their daughter. Her parting shot to Arthur:
“I leave you to your guardian angel, Irene…”
