**The Black Streak**
Like most girls her age, Felicity had dreams—finishing school, studying to become a doctor, finding love that would last a lifetime. Who doesn’t dream of those things at seventeen? But not everyone gets what they wish for. Why? If only she knew.
Her mother, Eleanor, raised her alone. Once, Eleanor had dreamed of a prince too—fell for a handsome lad thinking he’d be her happiness. But he was a gambler. Luck rarely favoured him; small wins only stoked his hunger for more. Losses, though, came in droves. He burned through money at card tables, borrowed, dug himself deep into debt.
To settle one debt, he tangled with criminals. Caught on his first job, he wound up in prison—whether he died on his own or was helped along, no one could say. One day, two shaven-headed thugs showed up at Eleanor’s door. Her husband’s debts were now hers, they said. Threats followed. What could she do? She handed over their flat, everything in it, and fled with two-year-old Felicity in her arms. Maybe the thugs figured they’d squeezed all they could from her. Maybe the flat covered most of the debt. Either way, they left her alone.
Eleanor and Felicity settled in a small town near Brighton. She hoped the balmy southern coast would be kind. Rented a room from an old Cypriot in a tumbledown house. He didn’t ask for rent—just help around the house and garden. His wife had died two years back; his grown children lived elsewhere.
So Eleanor agreed. She scrubbed floors, cooked, helped with the harvest, dug the garden—always work in a house with land. The Cypriot sold his produce at market. On good days, he’d slip Eleanor a few pounds for clothes, sometimes buy gifts himself. She knew where this was heading. When he asked her to marry him, she wasn’t surprised. He was short, bald, twice her age, with a belly like a sack of grain. She didn’t love him. But what choice did she have?
He promised the house would be hers when he died. So she said yes. Life with him wasn’t joy—those years dragged like centuries. But survival isn’t picky.
When he passed, Eleanor breathed free at last. Finally, mistress of her own home. What more could she want?
Felicity grew up beautiful—bronzed skin, grey eyes, full lips, dark curls tumbling down her back. Boys—men, too—turned their heads when she walked by. How could a mother not fret?
Eleanor raised her strict, terrified she’d repeat her mistakes. “Don’t chase looks,” she’d say. “Chase a man who’s steady. With your face, you’ve got all the cards.”
(Her past with the gambler left scars.)
Every day, she warned Felicity about holidaymakers. “They’ll use you, leave, and you’ll be alone—God forbid with a child.” But what seventeen-year-old listens?
Then a London student, Oliver, came to visit family. Saw Felicity and lost his head. Showed up at Eleanor’s door, boasting—big house in Kensington, father’s business soon to be his.
Eleanor wasn’t foolish. “Marry her? Fine. She’s still in school. Come back in a year. Until then, keep your hands off.”
Secretly, she hoped. If it was true, Felicity would live like royalty.
Oliver agreed. Wrote letters, called. Visited at Christmas—almost done with uni, soon working with his father, earning enough for a family.
Felicity waited. A year later, Oliver returned—with his parents. They saw at once she wasn’t “their sort.” But if love was this strong, why fight it? A pretty wife wasn’t shameful. London would smooth her edges. Time would tell.
The wedding was lavish. Eleanor rejoiced. “Don’t rush into children,” she whispered before they left.
The newlyweds were happy. Felicity applied to med school…
Then Oliver’s father noticed her. The way he looked at her made her wish she could shrink to the size of a spider and hide under the floorboards.
One day, Oliver’s mother called—urgent, unwell. Oliver rushed to her. His father knocked on their flat door. A sweltering August afternoon. Felicity answered in shorts and a vest, thinking it was Oliver.
He didn’t hesitate. Pinned her down. Who’d hear her scream? The flat was empty—neighbours at work or on holiday. Even if they heard, would they care? They knew who’d bought the place.
By the sofa, a heavy vase. She reached, swung—
When Oliver returned, his father was in hospital. Felicity sat across from a detective.
She told the truth. Who’d believe her? The detective spun it—she’d lured him, planned it. With him dead, Oliver inherited the business. Why not speed things up?
Four years. A week into her sentence, word came—Eleanor was dead. Heart gave out. The Cypriot’s eldest daughter sold the house at once. No mercy for a convict.
Prison was hell for a beauty like hers. She knew she wouldn’t survive. But she couldn’t end it. Her body clung to life.
A cellmate had scissors—charged for haircuts. Felicity had no money, promised to pay later. When no one looked, she drove the blades into her cheek.
The prison doctor stitched it poorly. The scar gnawed at her face like a grotesque worm. Now, no one glanced twice. She hid her figure under shapeless prison garb.
She worked hard, kept clean. Time passed. Where would she go? Oliver divorced her. No home, no family.
At release, they asked. “I have cousins in York,” she lied. Her father had taken Eleanor there once. Sounded nice.
But she didn’t stay. A city wouldn’t hire an ex-con. The scar, once her shield, now shackled her.
Evening fell as she stepped off the train at a country stop. Little money, no leads. Too cold to sleep outside.
A battered Ford pulled up. She tensed—until the window rolled down. A ginger-bearded man.
“Need a room?”
She hesitated. He stepped out—black cassock. A vicar. She tucked a curl over her scar.
“Fresh out?”
“How’d you know?”
“Sunlight calls you all. The look in your eyes.” He smiled. “I’ve a spare room. No charge. Help my wife. Deal?”
She told him everything on the drive.
“Did that there?” He pointed at her cheek.
“Did it myself.”
He nodded, asked no more.
The vicar’s wife, Mary, welcomed her. The children stared but stayed quiet. That night, Felicity told them everything. Mary wept. The vicar said sorrows lead to heaven.
For the first time in years, Felicity slept soundly.
She stayed. Helped Mary, tutored their youngest. Sundays, she sang in the church choir.
Time dulled the past. When the vicar learned she’d wanted to be a doctor, he made calls.
“They won’t take an ex-con,” she said.
“Did you finish school?”
“My certificates were with Oliver. Probably trashed.”
“Then we’ll find another way.”
“Why help me?”
“Because next time, you’ll help someone else. Pass it on.”
A year later, her documents surfaced—still filed at the London med school. She enrolled in York. Visited the vicar’s family often. The children adored her.
Classmates side-eyed her scar. In surgery rotations, a professor offered to fix it.
“Who botched these stitches?”
She let him assume. The new scar faded to a faint line.
After graduating, she worked at a York hospital. Five years on, a conference took her back to London. Her heart pounded—would she see someone she knew?
Then she relaxed. Their worlds didn’t overlap now.
On her last day, shopping for gifts, someone called her name.
Oliver. Gaunt, scruffy, but him.
“Felicity! You’re back?”
“Just for the conference.”
“You’re a doctor?”
“Yes. What happened to you?”
“Father’s partners swindled me. Sold the flat…”
“Yours, technically.”
He nodded. “Mum’s dead. I’m sorry I didn’t help you. Can you… spare anything?”
She handed him what she had.
“I can’t pay it back.”
“Don’t.”
His eyes flickered. “Maybe a place to stay—no, forget it.”
He stuffed the cash in his pocket.
“I did love you,” he mumbled. “Just weak. Listened to Mum.”
He walked away.
“Ollie!”
He didn’t turn. Just waved her off.
On the train, she thought of him. Did he deserve this? Should she have asked where to find him?
Then her mind turned to the vicar, his family. Warmth bloomed in her chest. Soon,With her hands full of gifts and her heart full of hope, she stepped off the train, ready to embrace the family who had taught her that love, not scars, writes the truest stories.
