“Blood Will Out”
“Vera, what’s kept you so long?” grumbled Michael as she finally rushed out the door. They were in the same class, and he feared they’d be late.
“Mum poured the tea too hot—nearly scalded myself waiting,” Vera laughed, swinging her satchel. “We won’t be tardy; it’s just down the lane.”
Michael and Vera were neighbours, separated only by a low fence. Their parents, the Harpers and the Dwyers, often joked about marrying them off someday, for they’d been inseparable since toddling.
Michael was the only son of Margaret and Thomas Harper, and his mother doted on him. To her, he was the cleverest, handsomest, most respectful lad—and truth be told, he’d grown into just that. Vera, quiet and modest, was already a deft hand with needle and thread by sixth form, could cook a proper meal, and had learned much from her mother.
“That Vera’s the one for our Michael,” Margaret mused over supper.
“Aye, and we’ll tear down the fence—live as one household,” Thomas chuckled.
The whole village seemed to think it settled—Michael and Vera would wed. He fancied her well enough, though not to distraction, and she stole hopeful glances his way.
Then, in their final year, a new girl arrived—Marianne. Dark-haired, with a dimpled chin and sorrowful eyes, she caught Michael’s heart at once.
She and her mother, Theresa, had come from London after Marianne’s father drowned saving a neighbour’s boy. The lad lived; he did not.
“I can’t bear the sight of that boy,” Marianne whispered. “Mum, it’s choking me.”
Theresa sold their flat, bought a cottage here, and fled the memories.
Vera befriended Marianne, pitying her grief. She saw Michael’s love for the girl but held no spite toward either.
Years passed; Michael courted Marianne, much to Margaret’s displeasure.
“Vera’s been waiting for you, and now some London chit blinds you? That girl likely can’t even darn stockings!”
“Mum, you don’t know Marianne. And Vera—we never made promises. That was your fancy.”
Thomas, though silent, shielded his son: “Let the lad choose his own life.”
“You call this a life? Ruined by a stranger! And you—your own mother poisons your mind against me!”
The old feud between Margaret and Thomas’s mother flared anew, bitterness unyielding.
After school, Michael and Marianne wed quietly. Thomas urged caution; Margaret raged.
“That girl shan’t step foot in my house!”
Michael left, lodging with Theresa. His parents were not invited to his army send-off.
“I’ll come to your swearing-in,” Marianne promised.
And she did, whispering there, “Michael—we’re to have a child.”
He wrote his parents; they never replied.
When he returned, drink-loosened lies from Margaret turned his joy to fury.
“Your son’s another man’s! That ‘cousin’ visiting? He’s the real father!”
Blind with rage, Michael seized his father’s shotgun.
Margaret, chasing, jostled his arm—the blast hit empty air.
“Liar!” Theresa barred the door as they fled.
Marianne wept as Theresa packed their things. “We must go. His mother’s a viper.”
They vanished overnight.
Margaret, triumphant, threw a feast—but only two neighbours came. Michael was found drunk by the pub.
Vera refused her invitation.
“Aunt Margaret, d’you truly think I’d want him now? After your wickedness?”
“Wickedness?”
“You stole his son and your own grandchild. He’ll never forgive you.”
Michael drank until his friend Paul shook sense into him.
“Your Marianne was true. That ‘cousin’ fixed their fence! Your mother begged me to slander her—I refused.”
Michael, hollow-eyed, confronted his father. “You knew.”
He left for good.
Years later, Vera met him. “I’m wedding Paul. Go to Oakham. Marianne’s there.”
His heart lurched.
Theresa was in the garden when his car halted. Marianne rushed out. He fell to his knees.
“Your heart—is it paining you?” she cried.
“I’m dying without you. Forgive me.”
They stayed in Oakham. Thomas visited his grandson; Margaret never did.
At Paul and Vera’s wedding, Theresa watched them dance and thought:
“If blood will out, no grief nor spite can keep them apart.”
