“Oi, Sarah, what’s takin’ ya so long?” Jay grumbled when she finally came dashing out the house. They were in the same year at school. “We’re gonna be late!”
“Was waitin’ for me tea to cool down—nearly burned me tongue off!” Sarah laughed, tossing her hair. “We won’t be late, it’s just round the corner!”
Jay and Sarah had been next-door neighbours since they were little. Their parents got on like a house on fire, sometimes joking they should marry the kids off one day, seeing as the two were thick as thieves.
Jay was the only son of Patricia and Nigel. Patricia doted on him something fierce—to her, he was the cleverest, handsomest, most respectful lad there was—and truth be told, he’d grown up just like that. Sarah was quiet but sharp as a tack—already sewing, knitting, and cooking proper meals by sixth form, learning it all from her mum.
“That Sarah’s exactly the sort Jay oughta marry,” Patricia would tell Nigel matter-of-factly.
“Aye, and we could knock the fence down, make it one big house!” Nigel’d joke.
The whole village reckoned it’d happen one day—Jay and Sarah, always together. Jay liked her well enough, not head-over-heels, but they were proper mates. Sarah sometimes sneaked hopeful looks his way.
Then in Year 11, a new girl joined their class—Marianne. Jay fell for her straight off. Pretty, dark-haired, with this little dimple in her chin and sad eyes.
Marianne and her mum, Theresa, had moved to the village from London. The sadness? Her dad had drowned saving some kid in the river—shoved the boy to safety but didn’t make it out himself. Heart gave out, they said.
After the funeral, Marianne couldn’t even look at that neighbour boy. “Mum, I miss Dad so much it hurts to breathe sometimes—and I can’t stand seein’ that…” She never said his name.
Theresa couldn’t take it either. Sold their flat, found a cottage through an ad, and moved them away from it all.
Sarah took to Marianne straight away, and when she heard the story, her heart went out to her. She saw how Jay looked at Marianne too—but no hard feelings. She weren’t like that.
Time passed. Jay and Marianne started seeing each other, but Patricia weren’t having it.
“Jay, it’s not right—leadin’ Sarah on like that. You’ve known her your whole life! And this Marianne—who even is she? Bet she can’t even boil an egg, while Sarah’s already running a house!”
“Mum, you don’t know Marianne! And I never promised Sarah anything—that’s all in your head!”
Nigel kept quiet, but when Patricia kept at it, he stepped in.
“Leave the lad be. It’s his life, not yours.”
“His life? He’s ruinin’ it with that London girl! And you’re talkin’ like he ain’t even your son! It’s your mum puttin’ ideas in your head again.”
Nigel was sick of the feud between his mum and Patricia. Never took to Theresa from the start, and it stuck. Gran even said once Jay didn’t look like Nigel’s boy. So he kept out of it—didn’t wanna be the villain again.
After A-levels, Jay and Marianne decided to marry. Nigel told him not to rush, but Jay weren’t having it.
“Dad, enough. I love her. Thought it through a hundred times—only with her.”
He knew better than to bring it up in front of Patricia, so they just went and did it—registered in town, quiet little ceremony. Came back man and wife, dropped it like a bombshell.
Patricia hit the roof.
“That girl ain’t setting foot in my house—!” And worse.
Jay packed his bags and moved in with Theresa. Got on well with her, actually. Didn’t speak to his parents for months—didn’t even invite ’em to his Army send-off.
“Marianne’ll be at my oath-swearing,” he told his mates, grinning—proper smitten.
She kept her word—came to see him take his oath. And then, whisperin’, she told him:
“Jay… I’m pregnant. We’re havin’ a baby.”
He were over the moon. Even wrote his parents—no reply. When little Tommy was born, Marianne was gutted her in-laws wouldn’t even meet him.
Jay came back from service and stopped by his parents’ first—Theresa lived clear across the village now. Missed ’em, thought they’d missed him too.
“Oh, my boy!” Patricia cooed, sittin’ him down. “Dad’s at work—here, have a drink.”
Poured him one, then another. Jay didn’t usually drink, but he were tired, and she insisted. Soon he were tipsy—and that’s when Patricia struck.
“That Tommy ain’t yours, love. Soon as you left, some lad came sniffin’ round Theresa’s. Village says it’s Marianne’s cousin—I say bollocks. Tommy looks just like him.”
“Mum, what the hell—!”
“People talk, Jay. That boy ain’t got your face.”
Sober, he’d never have believed it. But drunk and riled—? He grabbed his dad’s shotgun and stormed out.
Patricia ran after him, suddenly terrified of what she’d done. Burst into Theresa’s just as Jay levelled the gun at Marianne and Tommy—Theresa shoving herself in front.
Patricia yanked Jay’s arm. The gun clicked—empty.
“Jay, don’t—!” she screamed.
Theresa shoved ’em both out and bolted the door. Jay pounded on it, raging, till Patricia dragged him home.
“Why’d she do it, Mum? Why?”
Back at Theresa’s, Marianne were sobbing.
“We’re leavin’,” Theresa said flatly. “Today. Pack now.”
Nobody came to Patricia’s “welcome home” party for Jay—not even Jay. They found him passed out by the shop.
Sarah didn’t come either. Patricia cornered her later:
“Grab your chance now, love! Heartbroken, he is—comfort him, and he’s yours!”
Sarah just stared.
“You really think I’d stoop that low? That poor girl’s done nothin’ wrong—but you’ve stolen Jay’s son, and your own grandson. D’you think he’ll ever forgive you?”
Patricia went white. She’d never thought that far.
Jay drank for a week straight—till his mate Paul shook him hard.
“Your missus never cheated. That lad *was* her cousin. And your mum tried gettin’ *me* to lie to you!”
Jay went home like thunder.
“Dad. You knew she lied.” His dad looked away. “I’ll *never* forgive you.”
He moved back to Theresa’s. Drank no more—just worked himself to the bone driving vans.
Years later, he ran into Sarah.
“Paul an’ me are gettin’ married.”
“Good lad. I’ll be there.”
Then she said: “Jay… go to Pinebrook.”
“What’s there?”
“Marianne. Beg her. You owe her that.”
His heart lurched.
Theresa was in the garden when his van pulled up. She just sat on the step, holdin’ Tommy—then Marianne came flying out.
Jay dropped to his knees, clutchin’ his chest.
“Jay?!” Marianne gasped, tugging at him.
“I’ll die without you two,” he whispered. Looked up—and there it was. Happiness.
They never went back to the village. Nigel visits, dotes on Tommy. Patricia? Won’t set foot near.
Theresa watches ’em sometimes—Jay and Marianne, Paul and Sarah all laughin’—and thinks: *If they’re meant to be, no distance or lies can keep ’em apart.*
