**Obsession**
In a staffroom full of women, gossip always finds a place to settle. And as they say, a gossip’s tongue is longer than a ladder. At one nursery in Bristol, the personal life of a young teacher, Lucy, was a frequent topic of hushed conversation. For Lucy, marriage and private affairs were entirely separate matters. She seemed to revel in giving them reasons to whisper.
She had admirers aplenty—whenever a plumber, carpenter, or decorator stepped into the nursery, Lucy would abandon her duties in a flurry, rushing off to “help,” though it never went further than playful flirting and coy smiles. Still, everyone assumed she had a bit of a past. She chattered away, always the centre of attention among men, even sharing jokes with old Tom, the caretaker, who was just five years shy of retirement.
Lucy adored bathing in compliments, relishing her status as the nursery’s undisputed beauty. Never mind that she was married with a seven-year-old daughter, Alice. These facts never seemed to trouble her or slow her down in the slightest.
Her husband, James, adored her. He’d lift her onto a pedestal, brushing away any speck of doubt. He knew about her little games. *Well, if a woman’s beautiful, what can she do? Men will always flock to her. But my Lucy is loyal,* he’d reassure himself. Bless his innocence. Lucy, of course, swore undying love to him.
She’d married James at her mother’s urging—*You can mould him into the perfect husband*. And so it happened. James was an excellent electrical engineer, often away on business, returning with unusual gifts for Lucy and Alice, devoting all his free time to his family. Yet something was missing in this quiet, comfortable marriage. Passion? Wild abandon?
Then one day, Lucy fell head over heels. It began when old Tom was unexpectedly pensioned off, replaced by the headmistress’s son, a fourth-year medical student named Oliver, training to be a dentist. His mother, Mrs. Victoria Whitmore, had offered him the job to help with expenses. Oliver agreed—every extra pound helped, and maybe he could treat a girl to the cinema and ice cream. Never mind that there wasn’t a girl yet. With his prospects, one would turn up soon enough.
The moment Oliver started, Lucy couldn’t resist visiting the caretaker’s lodge.
One winter evening, after the last child had been collected, she let herself in uninvited. Oliver, ever polite, offered her a chair while he perched on the threadbare sofa. Lucy was a skilled conversationalist; her words tumbled faster than one could follow. They talked endlessly—Oliver rambling about medicine, his friends, his dreams, while Lucy nodded along. Then she sighed about her dull life, and before she knew it, Oliver was holding her hand, soothing her. Time slipped away. Night had fallen over Bristol.
Oliver walked her home—luckily, she lived nearby.
Thus began their dizzying affair.
Lucy couldn’t stop herself. She was plunging headlong into the abyss. Soon, Oliver confessed his love. The news spread through the nursery like wildfire. Gossip, once spoken, cannot be caged.
Mrs. Whitmore summoned Lucy.
“Lucy, you have a family,” she said sternly. “Leave Oliver alone. What could you possibly have in common? You’re married, with a child. He has years of study ahead. Or do you want me to sack you for misconduct?”
“Sack me then!” Lucy snapped. “I won’t give him up.”
“You’ll regret this,” Mrs. Whitmore called after her.
The next day, Lucy handed in a leave request. The headmistress signed it without a word, adding only, “I hope you come to your senses. I don’t want a daughter-in-law with *baggage*.”
Lucy took Alice—her so-called baggage—and fled to her parents’ village, needing solitude to think. She didn’t understand herself—was it lust? Passion? Obsession? Reason had gone silent; her heart ached for love.
In the village lived Granny Elsie, a wise woman of ninety. People sought her advice from miles around. Once a grieving widow who had buried her husband and all seven children, she had wept her last tear, dried her sorrow, and suddenly found herself gifted with foresight. Her predictions always came true.
Lucy brought gifts (Granny Elsie never took money) and set off to the cottage at the village’s edge.
Before she could knock, the old woman called out, “Well, girl, what’ll you name your boy?”
Lucy blinked. “What boy?”
“Your son. Due in spring. Didn’t you know?”
Baffled, Lucy stepped inside the dim, cluttered cottage—icons on the walls, bunches of herbs by the stove, candles flickering. Granny Elsie laid out her worn tarot cards and sighed.
“Don’t keep me waiting,” Lucy urged.
“Your daughter will marry a soldier, move far away. But you—go back to your husband. He’ll take you as you are, faults and all. He’ll love the boy. But if you turn from him, you’ll be alone in this world. You won’t see the light of day.”
Then the old woman muttered prayers, melted wax, and poured it into water. The shape that formed made Lucy gasp.
“A… camel?”
Granny Elsie waved her off. “Go in peace, child. I’ve said enough.”
Lucy left, bewildered. *A boy? A camel?*
The doubts didn’t last. Lucy had made up her mind—she’d leave James for Oliver.
But wait—where would they go? Oliver lived with his mother, Mrs. Whitmore. No matter. She’d figure it out.
Returning to Bristol after two agonising weeks, Lucy rushed to the caretaker’s lodge—only to find old Tom smoking his pipe.
“I know who you expected,” he said. “Oliver’s gone. His mother sent him to stay with relatives in Edinburgh. Said she’d rather he herded sheep than tangled with a married woman.” He softened, seeing Lucy’s devastation. “He left an address for you. But Lucy—James is a good man. You’ll lose him, and for what? Oliver’s a rolling stone. He’ll move on.”
Lucy was already sprinting to the post office, clutching the scrap of paper like treasure.
Three months later, a reply came. Lucy kissed the envelope, wept over it—then froze. Neat feminine handwriting read: *”Woman, Oliver is my husband. Don’t write again.”*
Lucy confronted Mrs. Whitmore, who only smirked. “You’ll never have him.”
“But I’m carrying his child!”
“Are you? Who can say? Maternity leave, then. Good riddance.”
Lucy packed her bags, telling James she was visiting her parents. He urged her to take care—*”We need a healthy baby.”* He still had no idea of the storm in her heart.
Finally, Edinburgh.
Oliver, spotting her, rushed over. “Lucy! What brings you here?”
She brandished the letter. “Is this true?”
“What letter?”
“From your *wife*!”
Oliver paled. “I don’t have a wife. My aunt must’ve written that—my mother’s doing.”
He had come to help with the harvest. Realising Lucy was pregnant, they hurried home.
Lucy confessed everything to James. He listened quietly, then packed his things. “I always knew this would happen. Be happy, Lucy.”
Oliver moved in at once. Mrs. Whitmore raged, threatened—but when baby Paul arrived, something shifted.
The first time she saw her grandson, her heart melted. Suddenly, she was offering help, showering the boy with love. Soon, Paul was her whole world. She spoiled him, took him to work, had him sleep over.
For seven years, Lucy and Oliver’s marriage swayed between fights and reconciliations—until he left her for a young patient. *”I can’t breathe without her,”* he said.
Lucy let him go, remembering her own obsession.
Then Mrs. Whitmore came with a demand: *”Give me Paul. You still have Alice.”*
Outraged at first, Lucy soon noticed Paul spending more time with his grandmother—fed, clothed, adored. Eventually, he moved in with her.
Now Lucy was alone again. Where was James? Did he ever think of her?
She longed to see him, to apologise. But he had left no forwarding address.
Time ticked on. Alice married a cadet and moved to a distant base. By forty, Lucy was utterly alone.
The nursery staff noticed her gloom and, for her birthday, gifted her a kitten.
“Maybe he’ll bring you luck!” they joked. “Life begins at forty!”
Lucy laughed, cradling the fluffy creature.
She doted on him, spoiling him with toys and treats until he grew plump and pampered. Then one day, he fell ill.
Rushing to the vet, she burst in—”Save him! It’s your job!”—only to freeze.
The man in work overalls, fixing the wiring, was James.
Her voice trembled. “You?”
