*”Now, Eleanor, don’t get ahead of yourself. The most important thing is to marry well. No matter what, you’ll come out on top,”* her aunt advised.
Eleanor had been the only beloved daughter of her parents, cherished beyond measure. As she neared the end of school, she spoke increasingly of her wish to continue her studies in London.
*”Darling, we have a fine university here. Why must you go to London?”* her father would ask.
*”Father, I want to be a journalist. After our local university, I’d only become a schoolteacher.”*
For a long while, her parents resisted letting her go. How many films had they seen about provincial girls whose dreams were crushed in the capital? Yet, in the end, they relented. Her father reached out to a distant cousin living in London, who agreed to take Eleanor in during her studies. Overjoyed, Eleanor promised her parents she would make them proud, that they would never have to blush for her.
Her father escorted her himself, ensuring she was settled comfortably before leaving her with some money to start.
Eleanor did not stay with her cousin for free. She cleaned the flat, shopped for groceries, cooked. Neighbours clucked their tongues— *”Dorothy’s turned her own kin into a maid.”* Her father’s cousin lived alone, her husband having left long ago for another woman, though he’d left her the flat. She considered her life a success— *”Living in London, the capital! Not just anywhere.”* And so she schooled Eleanor:
*”Don’t waste your time dreaming, Eleanor. Studying’s all well and good, but a woman’s true success lies in marrying a Londoner. Then you’ll always be secure. Just like me.”*
Eleanor listened with a tolerant smile. Marriage was the furthest thing from her mind. She dreamed instead of being noticed, of her talents being recognised, of working for a prestigious paper—or, if fortune smiled, even television.
But dreams were one thing, and life had a way of twisting ambitious plans. In her third year, Eleanor fell for William. They met by chance at a celebration marking the end of summer exams. William, there with a friend, spotted the pretty girl and asked her to dance. Later, he walked her home.
Her friends clamoured— *”Don’t let him slip away! Eight years older, a Londoner, owns a flat, handsome.”* William made no secret of being divorced, of having a daughter— *”But who doesn’t make mistakes in youth?”* The girl lived with her mother, not him— *”She won’t interfere. And besides, it shows he loves children.”*
Eleanor built no expectations, yet she liked him. He saw her innocence in matters of love and did not rush things. They strolled through the city, visited exhibitions, theatres, concerts. In all her years in London, she had never known it as she did now.
He spoke more often of love, of their future, of children—their children. Her head spun with affection. When he finally proposed, she accepted at once. Only one year of study remained. Then, ahead of her, lay an exciting new life.
William took her to meet his parents. His father smiled politely behind his newspaper. His mother, however, made it clear she believed Eleanor was after a London postcode and a flat.
*”Couldn’t you have fallen for someone of your own standing? You’re making the same mistake again,”* she finished.
*”What mistake? Enough, Mother. Margaret was a Londoner—didn’t stop us divorcing,”* William snapped before whisking Eleanor away.
She did not see his parents again before the wedding. But William often brought his daughter, Beatrice—named for a grandmother who had been, depending on who told it, either a once-famous actress or the wife of one. Eleanor never quite understood.
Beatrice was a large, plain, quiet child. William rejoiced at how quickly she and Eleanor bonded. At the wedding, her new mother-in-law hinted they ought not rush into children. Eleanor assured her she intended to finish her studies and work first. There would be time.
When Beatrice’s mother first brought her to visit, she reminded William a father mustn’t neglect his child. He spent the day indulging her every whim. Eleanor did not complain. She had known of Beatrice when she married.
After graduating, Eleanor found work at a modest London paper—not prestigious, but still, it was London. Her dream was fulfilled: she lived and worked in the capital, married to the man she loved. They visited her parents twice, bearing gifts. But the greatest gift was her parents seeing her happiness.
Three years passed. Then, just before the New Year, Eleanor told William she was expecting.
*”I meant to surprise you for Christmas, but I couldn’t wait,”* she beamed.
*”I thought we agreed—how did this happen? You were taking precautions.”*
*”I stopped. I thought it might take time—but it happened straight away. Isn’t it wonderful?”* His expression gave her pause. *”Aren’t you happy?”*
*”I am, but… Why didn’t you discuss this with me?”*
*”If you leave the choice to me, then the choice is mine alone. Don’t you see? I want this child. Or should I wait till I’m forty?”* She fought back tears—she had expected joy.
*”Don’t shout. What’s done is done. A boy, then. You’ll have to give up work, though.”* He embraced her. Peace was restored.
On Christmas, William shared the news with his parents. His father shook his hand approvingly. His mother bristled.
*”I knew this provincial girl would trap you with a child. First the postcode, now this. Are you even sure it’s yours?”*
*”Mother, for God’s sake! We love each other. Eleanor wouldn’t—”*
*”Wouldn’t she? Do you even know what she’s thinking?”*
William slammed the door and stayed away. Eleanor’s pregnancy passed smoothly; she bore a healthy son.
His parents did visit her in hospital. Her mother-in-law’s face was stiff—until the nurse brought the blue-ribboned bundle. Peering inside, the woman’s scowl softened. The boy was the image of William.
*”Now there are three of us, we ought to think of moving. The boy needs a nursery,”* William declared one evening, wine-loosened.
*”He’s still small. Plenty of time for that.”* Eleanor tempered him.
William kissed his sensible wife. He resumed visiting his parents alone. Eleanor did not mind—little Edward was too young, and her mother-in-law showed little interest in him. All she spoke of was Beatrice—how the girl must never feel her father’s love divided.
When William brought Beatrice home, he entertained her himself while Eleanor tended Edward. The first time Beatrice saw her baby brother asleep, she stared long and silent.
*”Isn’t he sweet?”* Eleanor ventured.
Beatrice did not answer. She retreated to the sofa, clutching a stuffed rabbit—one of many gifts from her father. *”Daddy gave me this,”* she would say proudly. That Eleanor had chosen it—knowing a girl’s tastes better—was never mentioned.
Beatrice often stayed the night, insisting on sharing William’s bed. Those nights, Eleanor made do with the sofa.
Once, while William was out, Eleanor was cooking when the silence struck her. She peered into the room—Beatrice sat motionless on the sofa, hugging a toy. Something in her posture alarmed Eleanor. She rushed to Edward’s crib. The blankets were pulled over his head.
She yanked them back. He wasn’t breathing—or so she thought. She snatched him up, shaking him. The baby wailed indignantly. Clutching him, Eleanor’s composure broke.
*”Why did you cover him?”* she screamed at Beatrice.
William returned just then. Beatrice fled to him in tears.
*”How could you accuse her? He must have kicked the blankets himself! Must you always assume the worst?”* He took Beatrice away.
Edward was unharmed. Eleanor, guilt-stricken, apologised when William returned. Peace was restored—but she resolved never to leave them alone again.
Yet Beatrice kept visiting—whether because William said nothing or because her grandmother willed it, Eleanor could not say.
Time passed. Edward grew, toddling after Beatrice, adoring her. She seemed, at last, to enjoy his company.
One winter holiday, they went sledging. Fearful, Eleanor seated Edward before Beatrice—who held him tight, guiding him up the slope. William rejoiced at their bond. Eleanor relaxed. Beatrice was nearly ten.
Tired and happy, they walked home arm-in-arm. Beatrice pushed the sled ahead—until, crossing the road, William paused to answer his phone.
Eleanor turned—just in time to see Beatrice shove the sled onto the road. The image burned into her mind—the sled tipping, Edward tumbling onto the asphalt.
Her scream merged with screeching brakes. She lunged, snatching up her unharmed but startled boy.
*”Ought to watch them better… Social services should hear of this…”Eleanor clutched Edward tightly as she turned away from William and Beatrice, knowing in her heart that some fractures could never truly mend.
