Fast Fiction: Arabella
Richard Mallinson tells a tale about the chap Arabella still talks about.
Taking his morning stroll along the beach, with the tide far out, Crest came across an elderly grey-haired man leaning against one of the breakwaters.
Good morning,' Crest said. 'A bit chilly, eh?'
'Oh, the weather doesn't bother me,' the man said, shivering. He was unshaven and tieless and wore a dirty grey suit. His shoes were old and wet.
'Well, I'm glad to hear it,' Crest said, climbing over the breakwater.
'Hm, so am I,' the man grunted, absently.
When Crest came back the man had gone but it looked as if he'd dropped something. Crest bent down and picked up a damp photograph of a young woman.
He was astonished to see who it was.
Reaching the promenade, he saw the man again, slumped on a bench.
'I think you dropped this,' Crest said, holding out the photograph.
'Eh, what?' exclaimed the man. 'Here, where'd you get that? It's mine.'
'Yes, I thought it might be.'
The man snatched the photograph, gazed intently at it, then remarked, 'This is the face of Arabella.'
'I know,' Crest was tempted to say. 'Who is she?' he asked, sitting down.
'Somebody else's wife, that's who,' the man said, bitterly.
'Then why are you carrying her photograph?' Crest asked.
'Because she was nearly mine, once, before that bastard beguiled her.'
'Oh, beguiled her, did he?' murmured Crest 'How long ago was that, then?'
'Forty years, at least,' the man said, getting up and limping away.
So, thought Crest, that was the chap Arabella still talked about.
