Writing for Fun
October 2017
The Secret - Maureen Rampersaud
He was lying in bed. They were all around him . . . his loved ones. He was dying, of course he knew it, despite their forced smiles and false cheerfulness. They were his loved ones but they didn’t know everything about him. Slipping in and out of consciousness, he went back to being seventeen.
He was lying in bed. He watched her getting dressed, she was in no hurry, her graceful, languorous movements incongruous with her lowly status. Iris was his mother’s cleaner, nearly twice his age, but beautiful to him in every way. He reached forward to stroke her long red hair as she put on her stockings. His renewed desire was fruitless.
‘You’d better get dressed too, my love. Your mam will be back in ten minutes.’
He sighed, ‘Can’t we meet somewhere tomorrow? It’s too long until next week.’
She pierced him with her startling green eyes, ‘I have to clean for Mr. Tompkins tomorrow.’
He protested no more. She had explained that meeting outside was out of the question, that they were taking enough risk as it was. He was being selfish.
He was lying in bed. He opened his eyes to see his wife, fighting back the tears. He loved her, but he’d never felt the all-consuming desire that he’d felt for Iris. She had taught him so much, with such love and sweetness. She was the air he breathed, she nourished his mind and body, she was everything to him. He closed his eyes.
He was lying in bed. His mother came in angrily.
‘Iris won’t be coming anymore. She’s having a baby, thought I wouldn’t notice, the cheek of it! Old Mr. Tompkins, the soft idiot, gave her money to go back to Ireland. I just gave her a flea in her ear, I’m not having that sort of shame under my roof.’
He turned over so she couldn’t see the tears coursing down his cheeks.
He was lying in bed. He opened his eyes to see his daughter’s dark hair hanging down in sorrow. Somewhere in the world, he might have a son or daughter with red hair and startling green eyes.