ZOE THE COUSIN
My double cousin Zoe was my childhood idol. She lived in Manchester, while I was brought up in Bath. Every summer, our parents sent us to stay with our grandparents in the countryside. There, Zoe and I were inseparable, day and night. Those were golden days.
I adored everything about her—her figure, her cascading golden curls, her city-girl wardrobe. Though now, with age’s wisdom, I see she was never a beauty. Flipping through old photos, I find a short, plump girl with a crooked smile. And her speech—oh, her lisp! Yet her charm and sparkle outshone it all. Boys flocked around her like sparrows to crumbs.
Zoe could’ve been a gang leader, commanding every kid in the village. They obeyed without question. Wild and reckless, she had a restless spirit. Often, her antics unnerved me—I was the quiet one, the good girl.
One summer, Zoe stole a brand-new Winnie-the-Pooh book from the village library. She smuggled it back to Manchester when holidays ended. I trembled like a leaf—what if we were caught? We were only eight! As young Pioneers, we were meant to be honest. Yet secretly, I marveled at her daring.
Later, Grandpa made her return it. He lectured us endlessly. Granny “emphasized” his point with a stinging nettle to the backside. That day, we lost our sweet rations. I was punished for silence—Granny scolded, *”In the village, walls have ears! Gossip spreads faster than butter on toast! Granddaughters of a schoolmaster—thieves! Whatever next?”*
A scandal of epic proportions. No wonder I remember it still.
Zoe swam like a fish, jumped from planes (she joined a skydiving club), and brawled like the lads. Every summer with her left me buzzing till the next. We were thick as thieves, though opposites—she, a whirlwind; me, still waters.
Granddad, a retired schoolmaster, made us write essays each summer. Neat as a pin, my work gleamed—hers, a mess of smudges and spelling horrors. He’d grumble, *”How can a teacher’s granddaughter scribble like this?”* Zoe just shrugged. Granny warned, *”One day, Vera will run a company, while you, my girl, will sweep streets!”*
As if.
Years passed. We lived for summers, writing letters winters through—first childish secrets, then girlish confessions. Like rivers merging, we flowed together.
Then came marriage. Too soon for me—wed at seventeen, a mother at eighteen. I finished uni; Zoe barely scraped through school. She enrolled in teacher’s college, puzzling me—how, with her lisp and grades? Aunt Marge bribed the staff with gifts to secure her diploma.
Later, Zoe toyed with a PhD. Health failed her. I wouldn’t put it past her to try again at sixty—stubborn soul!
At twenty, I visited London on a day trip, aching to see Zoe after years apart. I’d missed her wedding but longed to meet her husband, Vincent. Little did I know how that reunion would unravel.
First, Aunt Marge wept over tea: *”Vincent’s a tyrant, a womanizer! Zoe trailed after him like a lamb to slaughter. Mark my words—she’ll suffer. But what’s done’s done. A grandchild’s coming now.”*
Steeled by her warnings, I visited Zoe. Pregnancy glowed on her, but sorrow swam in her eyes. Some women relish playing martyr.
Vincent? Aunt Marge was right. Handsome as a film star, yes—but a brute. Yet Zoe worshipped him, hanging on his every crude word. My fierce sister, meek as a mouse! *”Man and wife are one flesh,”* they say. Vincent basked in her devotion, playing king to his quivering queen.
Did he love her? Doubtful.
That night, we toasted my visit with champagne, reminiscing like old times. A frosty stroll through London ended abruptly when Vincent commanded Zoe to bed. *”Vera and I’ll walk awhile.”*
I protested—but his grip on my wrist brooked no argument. Fear prickled my neck.
In a dim park, he tried to kiss me. *Drunk on power*, I thought, laughing. *Aunt Marge warned me.* Dodging him, I urged, *”Let’s go back—Zoe’s waiting!”*
Spurned, he vanished into shadows. Lost, I wandered, panicked—until spotting Zoe’s potted monstera in a lit window. Salvation.
Zoe met me coldly at the door. *”I’ve made your bed. Goodnight.”*
Vincent’s lies poisoned her against me. Next morning, silence. My train left unresolved—guilty without trial.
Twenty years of estrangement followed. Aunt Marge’s letters charted Zoe’s life: a son, then another; near-divorce; reconciliation. Once, Zoe barred her mother from seeing the boys—all because Vincent wanted a Jaguar and Aunt Marge refused.
The thaw came when she gifted him one. *”For your happiness. Be kind to her, Vincent.”*
Last summer, I visited London with my daughter and granddaughter. Zoe, round as a pudding, smiled shyly behind gold-capped teeth. Her hair—still glorious—was her pride.
We embraced. Her sons? Fine men, devoted. Vincent, silver at the temples, still barked orders—but gently now, a doting patriarch. A picture-perfect family.
Zoe, the eternal “C” student, taught college, lisp and all. Me? The “A” student, twice-divorced, arranged flowers for a living.
At the picnic, I slipped into the woods, drunk on summer air. Vincent followed, contrite. *”Forgive me, Vera. At fifty-three, I see my family’s my world. Zoe’s endured so much… I’ll atone till I die.”*
Zoe appeared, smiling. *”Secrets?”*
Vincent and I chorused: *”Love.”*
