By the end of Year Nine, Emily had blossomed into a striking young woman, turning heads among the lads and even the older men in the village. Everyone knew and respected her parents. Her mother, Margaret, managed the local post office, while her father, James, was a skilled mechanic. Their house was large—built with the expectation of a big family—but Emily remained their only child.
“Emily,” her mother called, “come hang the washing. I’ve just finished it.”
“Alright, Mum, be right there.”
The summer heat was relentless as Emily stepped outside in a light sundress, carrying a basket of damp laundry. She made her way to the clothesline strung across the yard.
The villagers all knew her—beautiful, spirited, with a fiery temper. At sixteen, she had bloomed, and she wasn’t shy about casting appraising glances at men herself.
“James’s girl’s turned into a proper beauty,” the local women murmured, watching her. “She’ll have lads losing their heads over her in no time.”
As Emily pegged up the laundry, her gaze landed on Simon, her father’s friend, sitting on the bench beneath the oak tree, smoking. He’d been invited to help James lay the garden path with slabs. James had gone inside to fetch cider for the men, while his mate Colin hauled sand in a bucket.
Emily glanced at Simon over her shoulder, a look so bold it nearly made him choke on his smoke. Then, with deliberate slowness, she bent to hang a large towel, arching her back like a deer stretching.
“Bloody hell, Em, what’s she playing at?” Simon muttered to himself, wiping sudden sweat from his brow.
She wasn’t done. Once the washing was up, she sauntered over and sat beside him, close enough that his pulse hammered in his temples.
“Hot today, isn’t it, Uncle Simon?” she said, inching nearer.
“Aye, Emily, proper scorcher,” he replied, shifting uncomfortably.
“Mm, I can see you’ve caught the sun,” she teased.
“Nah, just my colour,” he said gruffly, then squinted up at her, arms crossed—a silent signal the conversation was over. She was just a kid, his mate’s daughter.
Then James returned with the cider. “Colin, come have a drink. We’ll finish by evening.”
Emily stood and walked back inside, but Simon’s eyes followed her. No one knew the storm inside him.
At thirty-four, Simon was still unmarried—a handsome, sturdy bloke with dark eyes and strong hands. Plenty of village girls fancied him, but none had ever felt right.
As sunset painted the sky pink, Simon stepped out of the makeshift outdoor shower James had rigged up, towel slung low. Before he could dry his face properly, Emily was there, smirking.
“You stalking me?” he growled.
“Didn’t know you’d be here,” she said, tilting her head.
“Emily, you’re too young for these games.”
“For what?” She planted her hands on her hips, chin raised.
He sighed. “You’re not even eighteen.”
“Maybe I want to marry you.”
Simon froze. “Don’t be daft. You’re a kid.”
She didn’t back down, but he left without staying for dinner, claiming chores.
At home, Emily dreamed of him. She’d fancied him for years, waiting impatiently to turn eighteen. Now she’d been accepted into college in the nearby town and would leave come September.
Meanwhile, Simon wrestled with his conscience. He knew time was slipping by—he ought to settle down. But Emily haunted him. To distract himself, he started seeing Veronica, a woman desperate to marry before thirty. She introduced him to her family as her future husband, but Simon never mentioned weddings.
Then Emily returned from college, more stunning than ever.
“Hello, Uncle Simon,” she said softly outside the village shop.
“Blimey, Em, you’re a proper beauty now,” he stammered.
“I’m eighteen now,” she said, holding his gaze.
From that day, they were swept into a secret affair—meeting in fields or his house. But villages have sharp eyes. Soon, everyone knew.
Veronica spat venom about Emily stealing her man, while James and Margaret were stunned. But James shrugged. “Simon’s a good bloke. If it’s love, what can we do?”
They married in a lively ceremony and moved into Simon’s cottage. For two years, they were happy—though childless. Simon adored her but grew fiercely possessive, scowling at short dresses.
“Simon, you knew what you married,” Emily laughed, loving his jealousy.
Then trouble came. A young engineer, Chris, arrived in the village on a work assignment. Charming and ambitious, he dazzled Emily with talk of holidays abroad and city life.
One night, while Simon was on shift, she packed a bag and fled with Chris to his cramped, cockroach-infested flat in town.
Simon found her note: “I’ve fallen for someone else. Sorry.”
He drowned his grief in drink. Veronica swooped in, crooning sympathy, but he didn’t want her.
Back in the village, James fumed. “Disgrace! Running off with some city lad!”
But old Mrs. Higgins defended Emily. “Who here hasn’t fancied a fling? She’ll learn.”
Life with Chris soured fast. The flat was dismal, his promises empty. A neighbour shattered the illusion: “Chris is drowning in debt, love. He’ll never afford a flat.”
One dawn, while Chris slept, Emily crept out and took the bus home.
Rain drizzled as she trudged to Simon’s cottage. The door was ajar. He sat inside, half-sober.
“Forgive me,” she whispered.
He didn’t move. She hadn’t expected hugs—just to be near him again.
Days passed in silence. She cooked; he worked. She slept alone in the bedroom.
Then one day, as she packed to leave, Simon grabbed her hands.
“Don’t go. I’ve been miserable without you.”
Emily wept with relief. That rainy autumn day, the wall between them crumbled like sand. By spring, she told him they’d be parents.
