**LIZZY-COUSIN**
My cousin Lizzy was my childhood idol. She lived in London, while I grew up in Bristol. Every summer, our parents sent us to the countryside to stay with our grandparents. There, Lizzy and I were inseparable, day and night. Those were happy times.
I adored everything about her—her figure, her thick, curly hair, her city girl clothes. Though now, with the wisdom of age, I can admit Lizzy wasn’t exactly a beauty. Looking at old photos, I see a short, plump girl with uneven features. And she had a slight lisp. But her charm and cheerfulness outshone all that. Boys always hovered around her like bees to honey.
Lizzy could’ve been a ringleader, keeping the whole gang in line. The kids obeyed her without question. She was bold, fearless—always stirring up trouble. Her restless nature often worried me. I was the quiet, obedient one…
Once, Lizzy nicked a brand-new *Winnie-the-Pooh* book from the village library and took it back to London when summer ended. I was shaking like a leaf—what if we got caught? We were only eight then. To me, her act was baffling. We were meant to be honest, upstanding kids! Yet secretly, I admired her for it. Eventually, Granddad made her return it, delivering a stern lecture. Grandma “reinforced” his words with a switch to our backsides. That day, we lost our sweet ration as punishment. I suffered for keeping quiet—what Grandma called “an unspeakable crime.”
*“You silly girls! In the village, walls have ears! A word slips out, and suddenly it’s all over town! Granddaughters of a teacher—thieves! The shame of it!”*
In short, it was a family scandal. Maybe that’s why I still remember it.
Lizzy could swim like a fish, skydive (she joined a youth parachuting club), and scrap with the boys. Those summers gave me enough stories to last till the next holiday. Despite our differences—she was wild as a hare; I was the quiet type—we were thick as thieves.
Granddad, a schoolteacher, made us write essays and dictations every summer. I was neat, precise—not a blot on my page. Lizzy? A mess of spelling mistakes and crooked letters. But she couldn’t care less. Granddad fumed:
*“How can a teacher’s granddaughter write like this?!”*
Lizzy just shrugged. Grandma warned her:
*“Our Vicky’ll grow up to run a company, and you, Lizzy, will sweep streets!”*
Oh, well.
Years passed. We couldn’t wait for summer reunions. In winter, we wrote letters, sharing first childish secrets, then girlish ones. As they say, sisters are like two peas in a pod.
Then came courtship. For me, it came too soon—I married at seventeen, never regretting it. Had a daughter at eighteen, finished university. Lizzy barely scraped through school with Cs, then enrolled in teacher training. I never understood her choice—with her lisp and grades, it was a stretch. Aunt Maggie (Lizzy’s mum) had to sweet-talk the tutors just to get her through.
Yet later, Lizzy would attempt a thesis. Her health failed, forcing her to quit. Still, knowing her, she’ll return to it one day—stubborn as ever.
At twenty, I visited London on a day trip, eager to see Lizzy after years apart. I also wanted to meet her husband, Ben. I’d missed their wedding. Little did I know how that reunion would unfold.
First, I stopped by Aunt Maggie’s with gifts. She wept over Ben:
*“Vicky, we all opposed this rushed marriage. I had a fine lad picked for Lizzy! Then this Ben waltzed in—a tyrant, a flirt! But once Lizzy sets her mind… Mark my words, he’ll break her heart. I reckon he even hits her! Fools can’t be taught, can they? Now we’re stuck. A baby’s coming—what can we do?”*
Bracing myself, I visited Lizzy. She was heavily pregnant, glowing—yet her eyes held a quiet sorrow. Some women relish playing the martyr…
Meeting Ben, I agreed with Aunt Maggie. But Lizzy—my proud, fierce cousin—was utterly under his thumb. She gazed at him adoringly, hanging on every crude word. I barely recognized her.
As they say, *a man and wife are one life*. Ben, handsome as ever, basked in her devotion. Did he love her? Doubtful. Still, he cut a fine figure—no denying that.
That evening, we toasted my visit with champagne, reminiscing about childhood mischief. Later, Ben *ordered* Lizzy to bed, then insisted I join him for a stroll. Reluctantly, I went.
In a park, he tried to kiss me—drunk and presumptuous. I dodged, laughing. *Nice try, Ben.* Aunt Maggie warned me about him.
*“Let’s go back,”* I urged. *“Lizzy’s waiting.”*
Rebuffed, Ben stormed off, leaving me lost in the dark. Panicking, I recalled Lizzy’s flat had a huge fern in the window—my only guide. By sheer luck, I found it.
Lizzy answered, cold: *“I made you a bed in the kitchen. Where’ve you been? Night.”*
Ben was already snoring. Next morning, Lizzy froze me out. What lies had he spun? With my train ticket burning a hole in my pocket, I left—guilty without cause.
Her silence lasted twenty years. All that time, I kept tabs through Aunt Maggie. Lizzy had two sons, nearly divorced Ben, then stayed—even barred her mum from seeing the boys after a spat over a car.
The thaw came when Aunt Maggie caved, gifting Ben a new motor. *“For your family’s sake. Be good to her.”*
Last summer, I visited London with my daughter and granddaughter. Lizzy, plump and bespectacled, still had her glorious hair—now streaked with grey. We hugged, tears brimming. Her sons were strapping lads, devoted to their parents.
Ben, still handsome (though silver-templed), teased Lizzy affectionately. After all their storms, they’d made peace. A picture-perfect family.
At the picnic, I wandered into the woods. Ben followed, confessing:
*“Vicky, forgive me for that night. I was a fool. At fifty-three, I finally see—my family’s my world. We’ve married off our eldest. Now we await a grandchild. Time flies… My Lizzy endured so much. I want to make it right—remarry her properly, spend my life atoning.”*
Lizzy appeared, playful: *“Secrets?”*
Ben and I grinned. *“Just talking about love.”*
