**Cousin Emily**
In my childhood, my cousin Emily was someone I looked up to. She lived in London, while I was raised in Bath. Every summer, our parents sent us to the countryside to stay with our grandparents. There, Emily and I were inseparable—days and nights filled with laughter and mischief. Those were golden days.
Everything about Emily enchanted me: her figure, her glorious curly locks, her fashionable city dresses. Though now, with the wisdom of years, I see clearly—she was no great beauty. Flipping through old photographs, I find a short, round-faced girl with uneven features. And I remember—she mumbled terribly. Yet her charm and vivacity outshone every flaw. Boys flocked around her like sparrows to crumbs.
Emily could’ve led a gang, kept them all in line. The children obeyed her without question. She was bold, reckless—always stirring trouble. Her restless nature unnerved me at times. I was the quiet one, the well-behaved girl…
Once, Emily stole a brand-new *Winnie-the-Pooh* book from the village library. She took it to read and, by summer’s end, smuggled it back to London. I trembled like a leaf—what if we were caught? We were only eight, both raised to be honest. Yet secretly, my childish heart swelled with pride at her daring. Later, Grandfather made her return it. He lectured us endlessly, and Grandmother “reinforced” his words with a swift switch to our backs. That day, we lost our ration of sweets—I, for staying silent, branded an accomplice.
*”You silly girls, don’t you know? In the countryside, walls have ears! Gossip spreads faster than butter on hot toast! Granddaughters of a schoolmaster—thieves! Shame upon us!”*
Oh, it was a scandal of monumental proportions. No doubt why I remember it still.
Emily swam like a fish, jumped from planes (she’d joined a young parachutists’ club), fought toe-to-toe with the boys. Those summers left me with stories to last a year. We were thick as thieves, though opposites in temperament—she, wild and reckless; I, the still waters running deep.
Our grandfather, a schoolmaster, tormented us with dictations and essays each summer. My handwriting was neat, my work flawless. Emily’s? A mess of ink-blots and scribbles. She never cared. Grandfather would scold, *”How can a schoolmaster’s granddaughter write like this?”* Emily would shrug, indifferent. Grandmother warned, *”Vera here will grow up to be headmistress, while you, Emily, will sweep streets!”*
Years passed. We lived for summers, for letters exchanged through the winters—first childish secrets, then girlish confidences.
Then came the time for marriage. Mine came too soon—wed at seventeen, a mother at eighteen. I graduated from university. Emily barely scraped through school, managed to enter a teacher-training college. I couldn’t fathom why—with her mumbled speech and poor marks. Aunt Margaret (her mother) bribed the faculty shamelessly to secure her diploma.
Yet later, Emily would attempt a thesis. Illness forced her to abandon it. Knowing her, she might yet return to it—such was her spirit.
At twenty, I visited London on a day trip, longing to see Emily after years apart. I wished to meet her husband, Benjamin. I’d missed their wedding, but never imagined how the reunion would unfold.
First, I called on Aunt Margaret. Weeping, she lamented Benjamin: *”Vera, we all opposed this hasty match! I had a fine lad picked for Emily—then this Benjamin appeared! A tyrant, a philanderer! She trailed after him like a lamb to slaughter. And mark my words—he’ll raise his hand to her!”*
Armed with warnings, I visited Emily. She was heavily pregnant, glowing—yet sorrow lurked in her eyes. Some women relish playing martyr.
Meeting Benjamin confirmed Aunt Margaret’s fears. But Emily—my proud, spirited cousin—was utterly under his thumb. She adored him, hung on his every coarse word. I was stunned by her transformation. Yet as they say, *man and wife are one snake*. Benjamin basked in her devotion, playing the king to her meekness.
Did he love her? Doubtful. Though—fair is fair—Benjamin was handsome. A rogue straight from a ballad.
That evening, we toasted my visit with champagne, reminiscing, joking. Later, Benjamin ordered Emily to bed. *”Rest, wife. Vera and I will walk.”*
I protested—but his grip on my wrist brooked no argument. Outside, he tried to kiss me. I laughed—was it the drink? I dodged him. *”Let’s return—Emily will wonder!”*
Benjamin’s face darkened. He vanished into the night, abandoning me in an unfamiliar park. Lost, I stumbled upon their house only by spotting Emily’s potted fern in the window.
She greeted me coolly. *”I’ve made your bed in the kitchen. Where have you been?”*
Benjamin must’ve spun some tale, for Emily froze me out. Next morning, I left without explanation—guilty without fault.
Her silence lasted twenty years. I heard snippets: a son, a near-divorce, reconciliation. Another son. Years where Aunt Margaret was barred from seeing her grandsons—all because she refused to buy Benjamin a new motorcar.
The thaw came when she handed him the keys. *”For your family’s happiness. Don’t hurt my daughter.”*
Last summer, I visited London with my daughter and granddaughter. Emily was plump, bespectacled, with gold-capped teeth she hid behind tight lips. But her hair—still magnificent—was her pride.
We embraced. Her sons were fine young men—devoted, respectful. Benjamin, silver at the temples, still ordered his household—but kindly now.
At a picnic, as smoke curled from the barbecue, I wandered into the woods. Benjamin followed.
*”Vera, forgive me for that night. Foolish youth… Only now, at fifty-three, do I see—my family is my world. My Emily… she’s endured so much. We’ll renew our vows. Spend my life making amends.”*
Emily appeared. *”Secrets?”*
Benjamin and I exchanged glances. *”Only of love,”* we said.
