**The Fickle Heart**
I never thought myself a beauty. Nor even pretty, truth be told. Not everyone can grace a catwalk, after all. Yet in school, my closest friends were all lovelysomething I once marvelled at until my dear grandmother set me straight:
“Ah, my girl, its no wonder you suit thema plain little mouse like you wont steal their beaus! Whod look twice at you?”
Her words stung to tears, but she softened later: “Dont fret, love. Beauty isnt stamped on bread. Remember, my berry, bright colours fade fastest. Cheer uptheres a plate for every pie.”
Yet no “plate” came till I turned twenty-seven. Until then, I worked and studied hard, knowing I must rely on myself.
Then I met Arthur through my friend Nancy. Shed grown sick of his “endless pestering”worse than bitter radish, she claimed. “Take him, Iris. See if it works. Im marrying anyway,” she said briskly.
I took to Arthur at once, eager to drown him in affection. Id waited too long to play coy. He seemed relieved, too, slipping into my arms. We wed quickly.
Still, Gran warned me: “Mark my words, loveyoull weary of him. That Arthurs not done sowing wild oats. Wed in haste, repent at leisure.”
But I cared not. We were like calves, nuzzling wherever we stood. Marriage gave me boundless wings!
Our son, Tommy, was born. Arthur adored himreading bedtime tales, singing lullabies, spoiling him rotten. As Tommy grew, he clung more to his father than to me. I never minded, so long as peace reigned.
Five blissful years passed before trouble darkened our door.
Perhaps Nancy envied me, or still pined for Arthureither way, she lured him back with her honeyed words. Gossip told me shed divorced, childless.
I felt drained, my wings limp. My joy had been ill-set. Sobs seemed endless. Explaining to Tommy crushed menow I spun tales of his father. But tears dry. I raised my boy, stayed steady, hoping Arthur might return for Tommys sake.
He came for his passport. Mumbling, he said Nancy wanted lawful vows. I refused. He shrugged, left silent. Soon, he got a new one.
What she offered him, Ill never knowbut Arthur forgot us entirely. Yet Ill admit Nancy had been our schools fairest: bright, merry, carefree, bewitching. Her words were lacethough often her eyes strayed from her speech. That never troubled me. A mistake. Folk say of her kind: “sweet glance, poison heart.”
Too late, I sawshed lent Arthur to me, reclaiming him when wedlock bored her.
Twice, court summons came. I refused, clinging to false hope.
Time passed. Arthur seemed to wake. He missed Tommy, begged to see him. I agreed. Worries of him had faded; Tommy and I thrived alone. He turned twelve.
Trouble, as ever, brews unseen. Nancy came smirking to my door.
“Hows life, dear? Still unwed?”
“What do you want?” I bit back icy.
“Arthur asks you to bring Tommy to the hospital. To say goodbye,” she dropped like a stone.
My legs buckled. “Whats wrong?” I whispered.
“Major surgery tomorrow. He fears hell die,” she said, already turning.
“He wont! Hell live!” I screamed after her.
He survivedbut crippled at forty, leaning on a cane. Whod care for him? Nancy took him home, but I knew it wouldnt last. Her souls black as a well.
I waited, letting the silt settle, hoping for clear waters.
Three months later, Nancy called. “Iris, Arthur aches for Tommy.”
“Or do you ache without him?” I sneered.
In short, Arthur returnedNancy had made his life hell. A cripples no prize.
He was bitter, silent, sharp. But love bears all. Tommy and I tended him daily. Slowly, he softened. Thenhe walked unaided, limping but upright.
Half a year on, Nancy returned. With a babe.
“How shall we share Arthur? This is his daughter,” she declared.
“Nancy, youre like clinging ivywhy must you coil round his heart? When will you vanish? Must you knot our lives forever?” I begged.
“Arthurs mine!” she shrilled.
And she was right. I blame him not. Old love never rusts, they say.
Gran sniffed: “That mans a fickle heart, my girl.”
Tommy and I were alone again. My boy, now grown, soothed me: “Dont fret, Mum. Well manage.”
Oh Arthur, youre a splinter in my soul.
The oceans deep, but hearts are deeperwho knows what lurks there?
After him, my spirit withered. Ashes where love burned. No one else warmed or lit my path.
Time raced. Tommy wed, left home.
Then, by chance, I met Arthurwretched, eyes full of woe. As Gran would say: “Dodged and turned, yet caught on the spikes.”
“Where are you now?” I asked gently.
“Nowhere. Just walking,” he murmured, looking lost.
Now, seven years on, were together. Autumn sometimes grants summers glow. We dote on our grandson. Happy? Yes. Perhaps this is loveearned through sorrow.
P.S. Nancy married a Frenchman, left with their daughter. Her parting jab to Arthur: “I leave you to your guardian angel, Iris”
