“Vera, what’s taking you so long?” called Mike as she finally dashed out of her house. They were in the same class at school. “We’ll be late!”
“Had to wait for my tea to cool—Mum poured it boiling hot!” Vera laughed, tucking her scarf tighter. “We won’t be late; it’s just down the road.”
They’d been neighbours since childhood, separated only by a garden fence. Their parents were close, often joking that the two should marry someday—they’d always been inseparable.
Mike was the only son of Margaret and John. His mother doted on him, convinced he was the cleverest, handsomest lad in the village, and truth be told, he’d grown up decent enough. Vera was quiet but practical, already skilled at sewing and cooking by sixth form, thanks to her mum.
“That Vera’s the right match for our Mike,” Margaret would say matter-of-factly to her husband.
“Aye, if they wed, we could knock the fence down and live as one household,” John would chuckle.
The village assumed it was only a matter of time. Mike fancied Vera well enough, though not madly—just a steady, comfortable friendship. Vera, though, often glanced at him with hopeful eyes.
Then, in Year Eleven, a new girl arrived—Marianne. Mike fell for her at once. Dark-haired, with a dimpled chin and sorrowful eyes.
She and her mum, Theresa, had moved from Manchester after her father drowned saving a neighbour’s boy. The grief clung to Marianne. “I can’t even look at that boy,” she’d whisper.
Theresa rented out their flat and bought a cottage in the village, desperate to escape the memories.
Vera befriended Marianne, pitying her plight. She noticed Mike’s infatuation but bore no grudge.
Time passed. Mike and Marianne became sweethearts, much to Margaret’s displeasure.
“Mike, it’s cruel to lead Vera on. You’ve known her forever! This city girl—who knows what she’s about? Vera’s already a proper homemaker.”
“Mum, you don’t know Marianne. And I never promised Vera anything—that was your idea.”
John stayed silent unless Margaret pressed too hard. “Let the lad choose his own wife, Margaret. It’s his life.”
“His life? He’ll ruin it with that outsider. You’d think he wasn’t your son at all!”
John’s patience frayed—his mother and Margaret had feuded for years, ever since his mum had sneered that Mike “wasn’t his father’s image.”
After school, Mike and Marianne married quietly. When they returned home, Margaret erupted.
“That girl won’t cross my threshold!”
Mike moved in with Theresa. He didn’t speak to his parents, not even when he left for basic training.
“I’ll visit for your passing-out parade,” Marianne promised.
She came, and there, she whispered, “Mike… I’m pregnant.”
Overjoyed, he wrote to his parents. They never replied. When their son was born, Marianne ached—her mother-in-law refused to acknowledge them.
Mike returned from service and went to his parents’ first, longing for reconciliation.
“Oh, son!” Margaret fussed, pouring him whisky. “You’re back!”
Mike, unused to drink, grew woozy. Seizing the moment, Margaret hissed, “That boy isn’t yours. When you were away, some lad visited Theresa’s—supposedly Marianne’s cousin, but I don’t buy it. The boy looks just like him.”
Drunk and furious, Mike grabbed his dad’s shotgun and stormed out. Margaret chased him, horrified at her own scheming.
Bursting into Theresa’s, Mike levelled the gun at Marianne and their son. Theresa shielded them. Margaret shoved Mike—the gun clicked, unloaded.
“Mike, don’t!” Margaret wailed.
Theresa slammed the door on them. Mike pounded it, then let his mother drag him home.
“Theresa’s right,” Marianne wept. “We have to leave.”
They vanished that day. Margaret, smug, threw a welcome-home party. Only two neighbours came. Mike was found drunk on a bench outside the pub.
Vera refused to attend.
“Aunt Margaret, d’you really think I’d want Mike now? After what you did?”
“What did I do?”
“You lied. You robbed him of his son. D’you think he’ll ever forgive you?”
Margaret paled. She’d never considered consequences.
Mike drowned in drink until his mate Paul shook sense into him.
“Your mum tried to get me to slag off Marianne. That ‘cousin’ was Theresa’s nephew—he fixed their fence! You’ve been played.”
Mike confronted his dad. “You knew?”
John looked away.
“I’ll never forgive you.”
He moved back into Theresa’s empty house, working gruelling hours as a van driver to numb the pain.
Years later, he ran into Vera.
“Paul and I are getting married.”
“Good lad. I’ll be at the wedding.”
“Mike… go to Pinebrook. Marianne’s there. Apologise. You wronged her.”
His heart lurched.
He drove straight there. Theresa was in the garden when his van screeched to a halt. Marianne rushed out. Mike dropped to his knees, clutching his chest.
“Does it hurt?” she cried.
“I’ll die without you and our boy,” he whispered.
They stayed in Pinebrook. John visited his grandson; Margaret never did. At Paul and Vera’s wedding, Mike and Marianne danced.
Theresa watched them, thinking: If they’re meant to be, no distance or deceit can keep them apart.
