The wall turned out to be made of sand.
By the end of Year Nine, Emily had blossomed into a striking young woman, her graceful figure drawing glances from boys and men alike. Her parents, the Thompsons, were well-respected in their village—her mother, Margaret, managed the local post office, while her father, William, was a skilled mechanic. Their home was spacious, built with the hope of a large family, but after Emily, no other children came.
“Emily,” her mother called from the kitchen, “hang out the washing, love. Just finished it.”
“Alright, Mum, give me a sec…”
Outside, the summer heat pressed down as Emily stepped into the garden in a thin sundress, balancing a basket of wet laundry. The clothesline stretched between two sturdy oaks, and as she worked, her gaze flickered toward Simon, her father’s friend, lounging on a bench beneath the shade, cigarette in hand, watching her intently. He and Colin had been helping William lay paving stones in the garden. Her father had just gone inside to fetch lemonade—the men were thirsty, and Colin was hauling sand in a bucket.
Emily glanced over her shoulder at Simon, a deliberate look that made him choke on his smoke. Then, with slow precision, she bent forward, arching her back like a doe stretching in the sun, as she pinned up a large towel.
*Bloody hell*, Simon thought, *she’s playing with fire.*
But Emily wasn’t done. Once the washing was hung, she sauntered over and sat beside him, close enough that his pulse hammered in his temples.
“Hot today, isn’t it, Uncle Simon?” she murmured, shifting even nearer.
“Christ, yes,” he muttered, wiping sweat from his brow.
“Mm. You’re so tanned,” she teased.
“That’s just my skin, love. Don’t tan much,” he replied gruffly, forcing restraint. Then he crossed his arms, squinting against the sun—a clear signal the conversation was over. She was just a kid, for God’s sake. His mate’s daughter.
William returned with the lemonade, calling Colin over for a break. Emily stood, drifting back toward the house, but not before Simon stole one last glance, his expression unreadable.
At thirty-four, Simon was still unmarried—handsome, broad-shouldered, with dark eyes and a quiet strength. Plenty of village girls had set their sights on him, but none had ever caught his heart.
That evening, as the sky blushed pink, Simon stepped out of the makeshift outdoor shower William had rigged up behind the house. The birdsong and evening hush soothed him—until Emily appeared like a vision, startling him.
“Stalking me now?” he growled.
“Didn’t know you were here,” she said coyly, shrugging.
“Listen, girl, you’re too young for these games.”
“For what, exactly?” She planted her hands on her hips, chin lifted, her chest rising with each breath.
Simon exhaled sharply. “You’re barely grown, Emily. Don’t—”
“What if I want to marry you?”
He stiffened. “Don’t be daft. You’re underage. Go inside.”
He left before supper, claiming errands, while Emily retreated to her room, her thoughts tangled in Simon. She’d fancied him for ages, counting the days until she turned eighteen. Now, with college looming in autumn, she’d be leaving for the week, returning only on weekends.
Simon, meanwhile, lay awake, haunted by her—her boldness, her beauty, a thorn in his heart he couldn’t dislodge.
Time passed. Simon drowned his longing in a fling with Victoria, a woman desperate for marriage before her thirtieth birthday. She paraded him as her future husband, dreaming of children, names already picked. But Simon never proposed.
Then Emily returned, college behind her, more stunning than ever. She hadn’t stayed in the city, hadn’t married there. And when Simon saw her by the village shop, his heart lurched.
“Hello, Uncle Simon,” she said, her voice softer now, womanly.
“Christ, you’re beautiful,” he blurted, then floundered. “Your dad home?”
She met his gaze squarely. “I’m eighteen now.”
Something inside him shattered.
Their secret meetings began—stolen moments in fields or his cottage, though nothing stayed hidden in a village. Whispers spread. Victoria raged, calling Emily a homewrecker.
When William and Margaret found out, they were stunned. “He’s too old for her,” William muttered—before conceding, “But he’s a good man. If it’s love…”
The wedding was boisterous, the couple radiant. They settled into Simon’s cottage, Emily scrubbing away his bachelor mess.
For two years, they were happy—though childless. Simon doted on her but grew possessive, forbidding short dresses, jaw clenched when men looked her way. Emily only laughed. “You knew what you married, love.”
Then trouble came: a visiting technician, Daniel, charming and full of promises. He spun dreams of Paris, mocked Simon’s simple life. Emily, still naïve at twenty-one, fell for it. One night, while Simon worked late, she packed a bag and left a note: *I’ve fallen for someone else. Forgive me.*
Simon drowned himself in whiskey. Victoria swooped in, clucking sympathy, but he couldn’t stomach her.
Meanwhile, Emily’s city fantasy crumbled. Daniel’s “flat” was a cockroach-infested dorm room, his debts towering. A neighbour’s harsh truth shattered her illusions.
One rainy autumn morning, she fled back to the village. Simon’s door was ajar, the man himself half-sober, half-lost.
“Forgive me,” she whispered.
He didn’t embrace her. Didn’t speak for days. She cooked, cleaned, he worked—sleeping on the sofa, the silence between them suffocating.
Two weeks later, as she packed to leave, something snapped in Simon. He caught her wrist.
“Don’t go,” he rasped. “I’ve been wretched without you. There was… a wall. But it’s gone now.”
She melted into him, weeping. This was home.
By spring, she told him they’d be parents. The wall, it seemed, had always been sand.
