**BETTY-COUSIN**
My cousin Betty was the absolute queen of my childhood admiration. She lived in Manchester, while I was stuck in Bristol. Every summer, our parents shipped us off to the countryside to stay with our grandparents. There, Betty and I were inseparable—day and night. It was pure magic.
Everything about Betty dazzled me: her figure, her glorious curly hair, her city-girl wardrobe. Though, looking back now with the wisdom of age, I can confidently say she wasn’t exactly a beauty. Flipping through old photos, I see a short, round-faced girl with wonky features. And let’s not forget her lisp. But her charm and infectious energy made up for it tenfold. Boys flocked around her like seagulls to chips.
Betty could’ve been a gang leader, bossing the whole lot of them around. And they’d obey without a peep. She was the wild one, the daredevil—always restless, always up to something. Her antics often had me clutching my pearls. Me? I was the quiet, obedient type.
Then came the Great Winnie-the-Pooh Heist. Betty nicked a brand-new book from the village library and smuggled it back to Manchester at summer’s end. I was shaking like a leaf—what if we got caught? We were eight, for heaven’s sake! As upstanding little Brownies, this was downright scandalous. Yet, deep down, I was secretly proud of my rule-breaking cousin. Of course, Grandad eventually made her return it. And, oh, the lecture that followed! Grandma “reinforced” his words with a swift sting of nettles to the backside. That day, we lost our sweet rations, and I was collateral damage for keeping quiet about Betty’s “unthinkable” crime.
*”Do you girls not know—walls have ears in this village? Gossip spreads faster than butter on toast! Granddaughters of a teacher—thieves! Whatever next?”*
Needless to say, it was the scandal of the century. No wonder I still remember it.
Betty could swim like a fish, dive out of planes (she was in a young parachutists’ club), and scrap with the lads. Three summer months with her fueled my stories for the whole year. We were thick as thieves, despite being polar opposites—her, the whirlwind; me, the still waters.
Grandad, being a teacher, tortured us with dictations and essays every holiday. Me? Neat, flawless, loopy handwriting. Betty? A chaos of scribbles and spelling horrors. But did she care? Not a bit.
*”How can a teacher’s granddaughter write like a chicken’s scratched it?!”* Grandad would fume.
Betty just waved him off. Grandma’s favourite threat?
*”Our Vera here will be a headmistress one day, and you, Betty, will be sweeping streets!”*
Oh, the irony.
Years rolled by. We grew up counting down to summers together. Winter letters began with childish secrets, then girlish ones. Sisters stick closer than jam on toast.
Then came the courting years—too soon for me, though. I married at 17 (no regrets), had a daughter at 18, and finished uni. Betty barely scraped through school with “steadfast” Cs, then somehow got into teachers’ college. Baffling, given her lisp and grades. Auntie Margaret (her mum) had to grease a few palms with gifts to get that diploma across the line.
Later, Betty even started a PhD. Health got in the way, but knowing her, she’ll dust it off at retirement. Grit, that one.
At 20, I visited London on a day trip—mostly to see Betty after years apart and meet her new husband, Benjamin. Missed their wedding. Little did I know how that reunion would go.
First stop: Auntie Margaret’s. She launched right in:
*”Vera, we all begged her not to rush into this. I had a lovely lad lined up! Then this Benjamin waltzes in—a tyrant, a flirt, a right piece of work! But no, she follows him like a lamb to slaughter. Mark my words, he’ll make her miserable. Probably hits her too. But what’s done’s done—they’re expecting now.”*
Armed with this glowing review, I met Betty. Glowing indeed—heavily pregnant, radiant, but her eyes held a quiet sadness. Some women love playing the martyr.
Benjamin? Every bit the nightmare Auntie Margaret promised. Yet Betty—my fierce, proud cousin—was utterly under his spell. She hung on his every word, even when those words were about as poetic as a tax form. He revelled in her devotion, playing king to her doting queen.
Did he love her? Doubtful. Though credit where it’s due—Benjamin was a stunner. Tall, handsome, the works. Charmed the socks off every girl in town. *”All fur coat and no knickers,”* as they say.
That evening, we toasted with bubbly, reminiscing about childhood mischief. Then Benjamin *ordered* us to stroll through frosty London. Betty, docile as ever, stayed behind.
Out in the park, Benjamin made a move. *Seriously?* I dodged his sloppy advance, half-laughing, half-horrified. *”Let’s head back—Betty’s waiting!”*
He did *not* take rejection well. Stormed off, left me stranded in the dark. A proper *”needle in a haystack”* moment. Luckily, Betty’s giant parlour palm in the window guided me home.
She greeted me icily: *”Made your bed in the kitchen. Where’ve you been? Night.”*
Next morning—radio silence. What lies had Benjamin spun? With my train ticket burning a hole in my pocket, I left, guiltless yet guilty. *”Give a dog a bad name,”* right?
Betty’s grudge lasted *20 years*. Letters from Auntie Margaret filled the gaps: a son born, near-divorce averted, another son, estrangement when Benjamin demanded a fancy car.
The thaw came when Auntie Margaret caved and handed over the keys. *”For your family’s happiness. Be good to her, Benjamin.”*
Last summer, I visited London with my daughter and granddaughter. Betty—round as a pudding, gold-capped grin, still rocking that fabulous hair—finally hugged me. Her sons? Absolute gems. Benjamin, silver at the temples, still bossed everyone, but fondly now. A proper family man.
Betty? Not sweeping streets—teaching college. That lisp? Never held her back. And me, the straight-A student? Two ex-husbands, working as a florist (degree in engineering, no less).
At the picnic, I slipped off to the woods. Benjamin followed, confessing:
*”Vera, I owe you an apology. Fifty-three years old, and only now realising my family’s my world. Our eldest just married—grandkids next. My Betty’s put up with so much… I want to marry her properly now. Spend my life making it up to her.”*
Betty appeared, grinning. *”Secrets?”*
We chorused: *”Just talking about love.”*
