**BETTY-THE-COUSIN**
My cousin Betty was the one I looked up to as a child. She lived in London, while I grew up in Bristol. Every summer, our parents sent us off to the countryside to stay with our grandparents. There, Betty and I were inseparable. Those were golden days.
Everything about her enthralled me—her graceful figure, her thick, curly hair, her London fashions. Though now, in hindsight, I see clearly: Betty was no beauty. Flipping through old photographs, I find a short, plump girl with uneven features. Worse still, she spoke with a lisp. But her charm and cheer outshone every flaw. Boys swarmed around her like bees to honey.
Betty could have led a gang, keeping them all in line. The children obeyed her without question. She was known as one of those bold, reckless girls, always stirring trouble. Her restless nature unsettled me—I was the quiet, obedient sort.
Once, she pinched a brand-new *Winnie-the-Pooh* book from the village library, smuggling it back to London when summer ended. I trembled like a leaf—what if we were caught? We were only eight then. To me, it made no sense—weren’t we good, honest girls? Yet in secret, I admired her daring. In time, the book had to be returned. Our grandfather insisted, delivering a stern lecture. Grandmother “reinforced” his words with a switch to our backsides. That day, we were punished, denied our sweets, and branded thieves.
*”Girls, do you think village walls have ears? News spreads faster than butter on hot toast! Teacher’s granddaughters—thieves! The scandal of it!”*
It was a family catastrophe—one I’ve never forgotten.
Betty could swim like a fish, skydive (she joined a youth parachuting club), and scrap with the boys. Summers with her left me with stories to last till the next holiday. We were thick as thieves, though opposites in temper: she, wild and reckless; I, still waters running deep.
Our grandfather, a schoolmaster, “tortured” us with dictations and essays each summer. Mine were flawless, my handwriting elegant; Betty’s—a mess of blots and blunders. She couldn’t have cared less.
*”How can a teacher’s granddaughter write like this?”* Grandfather fumed.
Betty would shrug.
Grandmother taunted her: *”Vera will grow up to be a headmistress, while you, Betty, will sweep the streets!”*
Ah, if only she knew.
Years passed. We lived for summers, for letters in winter, swapping secrets—childish, then girlish. As the saying goes, sisters flow together like river and water.
Betty wed too young, at seventeen (I’ve no regrets). By eighteen, I had my daughter. I finished university. Betty barely scraped through school, just passing marks, and enrolled in a teachers’ college. Baffling, given her speech and grades. Aunt Martha slipped gifts to the faculty to secure her diploma.
Yet later, Betty would attempt a thesis—abandoned when her health failed. I wouldn’t put it past her to return to it in retirement—stubborn as ever!
At twenty, I visited London on a day trip, longing to see Betty. We’d been apart for years. I wanted to meet her husband, Benjamin. Their wedding passed unseen, but I never imagined how my visit would unfold.
First, I stopped by Aunt Martha’s. She wept over Benjamin:
*”Vera, we all opposed the match. I’d a fine lad picked out—then this Benjamin! A brute, a jealous rake! But what’s done can’t be undone—she’s having his child now.”*
Armed with warnings, I met Betty. She’d blossomed, though sorrow lingered in her eyes. Some women relish martyrdom.
Benjamin was exactly as described—yet Betty adored him, hanging on his every coarse word. I’d never seen her so meek. *”Man and wife are one snake,”* as they say. He revelled in her devotion.
Whether he loved her? Doubtful. Still, he was handsome—tall, striking, the sort girls dream of. *”Fair face, foul temper,”* though—he spoke only in commands.
That evening, we toasted my visit with champagne, reminiscing over childhood escapades. Later, strolling through frosty London, Benjamin ordered Betty to bed.
*”You’ll rest, wife. Vera and I shall walk.”*
I protested—but his grip on my wrist silenced me.
In the park, he tried to kiss me. *”Byron’s ghost, Benjamin!”* I laughed, dodging. Betty’s mother had warned me. I hurried back—but he vanished, leaving me lost in the dark.
By luck, I found their flat—guided by the ficus in the window.
Betty greeted me coldly: *”Your bed’s in the kitchen. Sleep well.”*
Next morning, she wouldn’t speak to me. Whatever lies Benjamin spun, I’d no chance to refute. I left London, guiltless yet blamed.
Her silence lasted twenty years.
Through Aunt Martha, I learned she’d had two sons, nearly divorced, then reconciled. For a time, she barred her mother from seeing the boys—all because Aunt Martha refused Benjamin a fancy car.
The thaw came when she relented.
Last summer, I visited London with my daughter and granddaughter. Betty—plump, bespectacled, golden-toothed—still had her glorious hair, now her last vanity.
We embraced. Her sons were fine young men. Benjamin, silver-templed, still gave orders—but gently now. A doting husband and father.
*”Who’d have thought the scapegrace would make such a life?”* I mused.
Betty never swept streets—she teaches at a college, her lisp no hindrance. As for me—the diligent student—I’ve had two husbands, ditched engineering for floristry, and found joy in flowers.
At the picnic, as smoke curled from the barbecue, I wandered into the woods. Benjamin followed, contrite.
*”Vera, forgive that night. I was a fool. At fifty-three, I see—my family is my world. Our boy’s wed now; grandchildren soon. Time flies. Betty’s endured so much… I’ll make it right.”*
Betty appeared: *”Secrets?”*
We grinned. *”Just love,”* we said.
