The Stepdaughter
Life is complicated, especially the ties between kin and strangers. Yet sometimes, family quarrel and remain enemies forever, while other times, bonds form where none existed before.
Now seventy-five, old George—once called Timothy in his youth—feels the weight of years but not the ache of loneliness. Back then, they called him Tim for short, a warmer, friendlier name. He never minded.
He married late, at twenty-six, though in those days village lads wed young. He took his time, never quite finding a girl from his own village to his liking.
“Tim, how much longer will you laze about as a bachelor?” his mother, relatives, and married friends would ask.
“Why not? I’m happy as I am,” he’d laugh. “Plenty of time yet to tie the knot. Don’t see my mates looking too cheerful—wives and kids always wanting something. But me? I’m my own man!”
Still, the village girls eyed him hopefully. He was a fine lad—hardworking, sharp, with the makings of a good provider. He didn’t drink or smoke, either. Many mothers nudged their daughters his way.
“Tim’d make a fine husband,” the village women murmured. But he wasn’t in a hurry. Fate, it seemed, had other plans.
He often visited the village hall in the evenings, where music blared and young folk gathered. Had he been looking, he’d have found a wife easily. But none of the local girls caught his fancy.
Tim worked as a lorry driver for the agricultural depot, often sent to other districts. One morning, he told his mother,
“Off to Uppington at dawn—the foreman’s sending me for parts. Pack me some food; it’s a long drive. Back by evening.”
“Oh, Tim, how lucky! Auntie Jane’s been meaning to visit. No chance for a lift till now. Swing by and fetch her, will you?”
“Right, I’ll stop in,” he promised.
Jane was his mother’s elder sister—and the one who’d change his life. She’d been scheming for years to marry him off.
“Tim, if you’re ever round these parts, drop in,” she’d say. “Might even visit you myself.”
On his way, he swung by her cottage.
“Aunt Jane, gather your things. I’ll fetch you on the way back.”
“Oh, you dear boy!” she fussed. “I’ll be ready as a scout!”
On the return trip, she said,
“Tim, let’s drop a sack of potatoes off at Valerie’s. It’s on our way.”
“Fine by me,” he agreed.
A mile from Uppington lived Valerie, a young widow with a five-year-old daughter, little Ellen. The moment Tim laid eyes on her, something sparked. Jane noticed instantly.
*Ah, now we’re getting somewhere,* she thought.
Tim couldn’t forget Valerie. He saw her again when driving Jane home.
“Tim, pull up at Valerie’s—got something to pass on.”
He’d been racking his brains for an excuse to see her. While Jane whispered with Valerie, he stole glances. After dropping Jane off, she said,
“Valerie asked for knitting needles—dropped hers somewhere. Take these to her, will you?”
On his way back, Tim stopped by. This time, Valerie served tea. They talked for hours. As dusk fell, he rose to leave.
“Valerie… might I come again?” he asked in the yard, where she stood with Ellen.
“Oh yes, Uncle Tim!” piped Ellen. “You must come back. We like you—don’t we, Mum?”
Tim and Valerie laughed.
“Then I’ll return.”
After three visits, on the fourth, Valerie and Ellen packed their things and left with Tim.
He soon realised Jane’s potato sack had been a ruse—Valerie’s cellar was already full. But the ploy had worked. Jane had been plotting this for years.
Life was good. Ellen started school, adoring Tim, calling him Dad. Valerie worked in the village. But cracks appeared. They quarrelled—”just didn’t suit,” as folk say.
Tim was a decent man, but one trait irked some women: his obsession with order. Valerie was easygoing, careless with her things. At first, he tidied after her, then scolded. She bristled.
“What sort of man fusses over trifles? I won’t change for you!”
Tim tried to ignore it, but it grated. Ellen, though, copied him, keeping her room spotless.
“Mum, you’re so untidy,” she’d chide, only to be silenced.
Years passed, tensions simmered—until the storm broke.
“I’ve had enough of your nagging! I’m leaving!” Valerie shouted. “Ellen, pack your things!”
“But, Mum, I don’t want to leave Dad!” Ellen pleaded.
“He’s not your father! You’ve none, and never will!” Valerie snapped, past reason.
Tim’s heart broke for Ellen. She left, weeping, in sixth form.
He drowned his sorrows in beekeeping. He bought books, studied hard, started with five hives. The venture thrived. Soon he had ten, honey aplenty. At first, he gave it away, then customers came from miles around. His honey was honest, his reputation golden.
Two years later, a woman came for honey, eyeing his home, garden, hives. She returned, then finally said,
“Timothy, your place is tidy, well-kept. But why no wife? You don’t drink or smoke—bees hate the smell. What’s the story?”
Caught off guard, he stammered.
“Well… I had a wife. And a stepdaughter, Ellen. We lasted seven years. Valerie and I clashed, but Ellen and I… She left, called me petty.”
“I’m Rachel. Perhaps we’d suit?”
“Are you… proposing?”
“I am. I’m alone too. Don’t you like me?”
“I do. Well… let’s try.”
Rachel moved in swiftly. No vows were spoken. Two months later, she packed her bags.
“Country life isn’t for me. Goodbye, Tim.”
He sighed in relief.
Years rolled by. Then one day, two women entered his yard—customers, he assumed. One smiled.
“Don’t you know me, Dad? If I may still call you that?”
“Ellen! Or—Ella now? I don’t even know your middle name…”
“No need. I’m your Ellen. This is my daughter, Ruby.” They embraced. A man waited by the gate.
“My husband, Geoffrey—Ruby’s father.”
“Lord, Ella, so many years! You’ve come back!”
“You’re still alone?”
“Always.”
“Dad, we’re moving here. The doctor said Geoffrey needs country air. I suggested this village.”
“Marvellous! I’ve my hives now—honey’s my trade. Folk know me for miles. We’ll get Geoffrey right with it.”
“Dad, I never forgot you. Mum died two years ago.”
“Ah, poor Valerie. But life moves on. Now you’re my children, Ruby my granddaughter—if you’ll have me.”
His heart swelled. The villagers called him George now.
“You know, neighbours have family visiting. I never did. But now you’re here—that’s joy enough. Now I’m like the rest. I’ll always have treats for tea… and honey for my kin.”
