Writing for Fun
March 2020
His Secret Obsession - Anne Wilson
He sneaked through the front door, a guilty look on his face. Tiptoeing across the hall, he opened the door to his study, dropping his latest acquisitions on the floor and wincing as he knocked a paperweight from his desk in the process.
‘Is that you?’ came a querulous voice from the landing upstairs. ‘You’ve been adding to your collection again, haven’t you?’
‘No, of course I haven’t,’ he replied, blushing at the lie. ‘Just returning some files, that’s all.’
His heart started to beat in synchronisation with the footsteps descending the eighteen stairs from first floor to ground, until they stopped and he was confronted by his wife, puce faced with annoyance.
‘You irritate me beyond belief sometimes,’ she said accusingly. ‘Other people collect objets d’art – things that are aesthetically pleasing. Maybe even things that give them emotional pleasure, like books of DVDs but not you.
‘I collect these because they’re useful,’ her husband defended..’They might be in demand some day.’
‘That’s highly unlikely,’ his wife reasoned. ‘How many are there, anyway?’
‘Several hundred I would imagine,’ he replied. ‘They’re not exactly the sort of thing you can catalogue.
‘That’s the first sensible thing you’ve said on the subject,’ she admitted. ‘I think you need to see a professional and talk it through. I do really. Is there a name for collectors like you? Something ending with phobia, for example?’
His eyes misted over.
‘Look at them. They’re beautiful: all different colours and textures. To me it’s like gazing on beautiful works of art.’
‘They look ordinary enough to me,’ she sniffed. ‘I hope you don’t tell anybody about it. People would think we’re insane. In fact, I think I’m going to make you an appointment with a counsellor next week unless you do something about it. It’s gone on long enough and you’re starting to spread into other rooms.’
His eyes misted over and she took pity on him. He was old and she was fond of him, despite his little foibles. She led him by the hand and sat him down on the sofa.
‘What on earth possessed you to want to accumulate them in the first place?’
‘I think it may go back to the War,’ he explained sheepishly. ‘I was a young boy and they were in short supply. It made me very nervous.’
‘The War’s been over for over seventy years,’ she said gently, ‘and you’ve only had this obsession for about eighteen months.’
‘Look,’ he said, ‘I’ll be straight with you. I had a dream. Usually I forget them once I wake up. Most people do. But not this one. I dreamed I couldn’t find any. No-one could and I was frightened. It took me back to my boyhood, I suppose.’
She patted his knee affectionately.
‘Look,’ she said. ‘I’ll help you bundle them up, then we’ll distribute them to various charities. I’m sure they’ll come in useful.’
‘I don’t know if I can,’ he whimpered.
She was a woman of resolution and, having determined on a course of action, they set about their task immediately after their meal. Occasionally he wavered and put some to one side, but she steadied his hand and put them in one of the many black bags she had lined up against the wall. In the end she allowed him to keep half a dozen.
The charities were grateful and so were some of their neighbours, despite the fact that they found the gifts an odd object of anyone’s generosity.
She was pleased once they had distributed what amounted to five hundred of them. Taking him by the hand, she led him towards the study, then up to the landing where he had also been adding to his collection.
‘Be honest,’ she said. ‘Aren’t you pleased? All of them gone. What on earth did we need all that toilet paper for?’