EVIE-COUSIN
My cousin Evie was my childhood idol. She lived in Manchester, while I grew up in Bristol. Every summer, our parents sent us to the countryside to stay with our grandparents. There, Evie and I were inseparable—days and nights filled with laughter, endless games, and whispered secrets. Those were golden days.
Everything about Evie dazzled me—her graceful figure, her thick, curling chestnut hair, her city-chic dresses. Now, looking back, I see she wasn’t the beauty I remembered. Old photographs reveal a petite, round-faced girl with uneven features. And her lisp—oh, that lisp! But her charm and boundless energy made up for it all. Boys flocked to her, drawn like moths to a flame. Evie could’ve led a gang if she pleased—no one ever dared disobey her. She was wild, fearless, always toeing the line. Her recklessness unsettled me. I was the quiet one, the careful one.
One summer, Evie stole a brand-new *Winnie-the-Pooh* book from the village library. She tucked it into her suitcase and took it back to Manchester when we left. I trembled like a leaf, certain we’d be caught. We were only eight—good little Brownies! How could she? Yet secretly, I admired her audacity. Eventually, Grandad made her return it, delivering a stern lecture on honesty. Gran “reinforced” his words with a stinging switch to our backsides. That evening, our sweet rations were revoked. I’d been punished for silence—for hiding her crime.
*“Girls, have you no sense? In the village, walls have ears! A secret shared is a scandal spread! Granddaughters of a teacher—thieves! Who ever heard of such a thing?”*
It became a family scandal, the kind you never forget.
Evie could outswim any boy, leap from heights like a daredevil (she’d joined a skydiving club), and fight just as fiercely. Every summer left me with enough stories to last till the next. We were thick as thieves, despite our differences—she, the wildfire; me, the still pond.
Grandad, a retired schoolmaster, drilled us with dictations and essays. Mine were flawless, every loop of my handwriting precise. Evie’s? A mess of ink blots and spelling errors. She never cared.
*“How can a teacher’s granddaughter write like this?”* Grandad would groan.
Evie just shrugged. Gran warned her, *“One day, Vera will be a headmistress, and you’ll be sweeping streets, my girl!”*
Years passed. We grew. Every winter, we exchanged letters—first childish secrets, then girlish confessions. *Sisters are like rivers and rain,* they say.
Then came marriage. Too soon for me—I wed at seventeen, never regretting it. Had my daughter at eighteen. Graduated from university. Evie barely scraped through school with Cs, barely managed teacher’s college. Aunt Maggie (her mother) had to butter up the faculty with gifts just to get her a diploma.
Yet later, Evie would attempt a thesis. Health failed her; she abandoned it. Knowing her, she’ll finish it by retirement—that’s Evie.
At twenty, I visited Manchester on a day trip, desperate to see her after years apart. I wanted to meet her husband, Vincent. Missed their wedding. Never imagined how that reunion would end.
First, I stopped at Aunt Maggie’s. She wept into her tea:
*“Oh, Vera, we all begged her not to marry so young! I had a lovely boy picked for her! Then this Vincent—a tyrant, a jealous brute! But like a lamb to slaughter, she followed him. Mark my words, she’ll suffer! I’ve no doubt he raises a hand to her. Fools won’t be taught, and dead men can’t be cured! Now she’s expecting—what can we do?”*
Armed with this warning, I met Evie. Pregnancy had softened her, but sorrow haunted her eyes. Some women relish martyrdom.
Vincent? Every inch the villain Aunt Maggie described. But Evie—my proud, fierce cousin—was utterly under his thumb. She gazed at him adoringly, hung on his rough, unpolished words. I barely recognized her. *Husband and wife are one flesh,* as they say. Vincent ruled like a king, basking in her devotion. Did he love her? Doubtful.
Fair’s fair—he was handsome. Tall, broad-shouldered, the kind women sigh over. But his voice was all command. My heart ached for Evie. She cut me off sharply:
*“Don’t turn into my mother, Vera. I don’t need pity. I’m happy!”*
That night, we toasted my visit with champagne. Laughed over childhood mischief. Later, Vincent ordered Evie to bed while he and I took a walk. I refused—until his grip on my wrist turned painful.
We wandered into a park. Then, out of nowhere, he tried to kiss me! The audacity! Had the drink gone to his head? I dodged, furious.
*“Let’s go back. Evie will be lonely.”*
Rejection didn’t suit him. He vanished into the dark, leaving me lost in an unfamiliar city, frost biting my cheeks. Like a fool, I stumbled back, spotting their flat only by the potted fern in the window.
Evie let me in, cold as ice: *“I made you a bed in the kitchen. Where’ve you been? Goodnight.”*
Next morning, she froze me out. What lies had Vincent spun? With my train ticket burning in my pocket, I left—guilty of nothing, blamed for everything.
Her silence lasted twenty years.
Occasionally, Aunt Maggie wrote: Evie had two sons. Nearly left Vincent once. Reconciliations. A bitter feud when he demanded a car; Evie barred her mother from seeing the boys till Aunt Maggie handed over the keys.
Last summer, I returned to Manchester with my daughter and granddaughter. The family reunion was a blur—until I saw Evie. Plump now, gold-capped teeth flashing between smiles she tried to hide. Still, that glorious hair—her pride, the last relic of youth.
We embraced. Her sons—fine young men—doted on their parents. Vincent, silver at the temples, still barked orders, but softer now, almost playful. A loving patriarch.
*What a family*, I thought. *Evie kept it together—through storms I couldn’t fathom.*
She never swept streets. Taught at a college instead. That lisp? Never held her back.
Me? The “perfect” student? Two divorces. Never a headmistress—just a florist (with an engineering degree).
At the picnic, I slipped into the woods, needing air. Vincent followed.
*“Vera… I owe you an apology. That night—I was a fool. At fifty-three, I see it now. My family is my world. Evie’s endured so much… I want to marry her properly now. Spend my life making it up to her.”*
Evie appeared, grinning. *“Secrets?”*
Vincent and I exchanged glances.
*“Just talking about love.”*
