A Late Monsoon Read online

difficult thing for him to accept - for both of you, losing her so young. A boy needs his mother at such a tender age, no less than a husband needs his wife; changes the dynamic in the home, you see, when there’s no feminine presence to counter all the machismo nonsense between father and son. If she were here now, the very mention of disinheritance would have been a profanity not worthy of utterance under your roof. Yes, her loss was tragic in so many ways. Life can be a bloody cruel and senseless master.” He looked down at his creased jacket irritatedly, “Do you think Rolex make linen? Damn sure theirs wouldn’t crease so much. If anyone could do it, the Swiss could make linen that doesn’t wrinkle up like a prune after wearing it for two minutes.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it - it’s natural,” said the young man. “That’s what’s supposed to happen.”

  “Yes, you’re right, my boy. Everything dries up and wrinkles like a damn prune eventually; it’s just a matter of time. I’ll give your regards to your father, shall I?”

  “Don’t go any trouble,” said the young man.

  “No trouble, my boy, I’ll be seeing him anyway and words are cheap.” He stepped back into the shade, turned, put his shoulders back, raised his chin and assumed his regal walk along the veranda towards the stained glass doors of the exit. “If you change your mind about the job on the foreign desk...” he began, without looking back, but the young man did not wait for him to finish his sentence.

  “I won’t,” came his reply and he watched George saunter towards the exit like a one man cortege with the grace and pride of a retired battleship on its final, honourable voyage to the breakers yard.

  At the stained glass doors he stopped abruptly and turned around, holding his walking cane aloft in the air. “Pramakash,” he bellowed. “The maharajah, his name was Pramakash. I remembered. Great balloon of a man, walrus moustache and eyes like a leopard. Buggered if I know how he got in and out of that Bugatti though.”

  The young man waited until George was out of sight and the waiter had closed the stained glass doors behind him. He then put the newspaper down and picked up his Rolex from the table. It glistened in the sunlight that was starting to stream through the wooden slats covering the veranda. He turned the watch over and looked at the inscription on the back. He knew George had read it, but wondered why he pretended he had not seen it. Maybe next time, when they next shared a gin, George would let it slip with the subtlety he disguised so well as clumsiness. He tilted the watch so the sunlight was not reflecting back from the shiny metal and read the inscription again, for only the second time since the watch had been delivered by hand two days earlier. To a gutsy son, it read. He rubbed his thumb over the inscription and smiled a silent smile.

  He looked into the sky and saw a bank of deep indigo cloud building up from the east. He wondered if this was the beginning of the monsoon. Maybe it was, he thought. It was definitely late this year.

  ###

  It is always gratifying for a writer when his or her work is read. Thank you for reading this short story. If you enjoyed it, it would make me very happy if you have a spare moment to leave me a review at your favourite online retailer.

  Many thanks!

  Barry Huggins

  Also by Barry Huggins

  The Evanescence of Being

  Read more at the author's website

  About the author

  Barry Huggins is a writer and educator to the creative industries. His teaching revolves around writing, photography and digital technologies, primarily to clients from the publishing and broadcasting world, but also to individuals from a broad range of diverse backgrounds.

  His first fiction title, published in April 2014 is The Evanescence of Being. He is also the author of eight non-fiction titles covering photography, Photoshop and creative digital techniques. His books have been translated into seven languages.

  To find out more visit: https://www.BarryHuggins.com

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