**BETTY-COUSIN**
My cousin Betty was my childhood idol. She lived in London, while I grew up in Bristol. Every summer, our parents sent us to the countryside to stay with our grandparents. There, Betty and I were inseparable—those golden days were pure bliss.
I adored everything about her—her poise, her glorious curls, her city dresses. Though now, with the wisdom of years, I see Betty was never a beauty. Flipping through old photographs, I find a short, round-faced girl with uneven features. She even lisped terribly. Yet her charm and cheerfulness outshone it all. Boys flocked around her like moths to a flame.
Betty could’ve been a ringleader, commanding the whole gaggle of children without question. She was bold, reckless—her restless nature often unsettled me. I was quiet, obedient…
One summer, Betty stole a brand-new Winnie-the-Pooh book from the village library and smuggled it back to London. I trembled like a leaf—what if we were caught? We were only eight, proper little Brownies—honesty was our creed! Yet secretly, I admired her daring. In time, Grandad made her return it and lectured us endlessly. Grandma “reinforced” his words with a switch. That day, we lost our sweet rations—punished for silence, as Gran put it:
*”Girls, haven’t you learned? Village walls have ears! Gossip spreads faster than butter on hot toast! Granddaughters of a schoolmaster—thieves! The shame!”*
It became a family scandal, which is why I remember it still.
Betty swam like a fish, leaped from planes (she joined a young parachutists’ club), fought like a boy. Those summer adventures fed my imagination till the next holiday. Despite our differences—she wild as the wind, I still as a pond—we were thick as thieves.
Grandad, a schoolmaster, “tortured” us with dictations and essays. Mine were flawless, my handwriting elegant. Betty’s scrawl was a mess, riddled with errors—yet she shrugged it off. Grandad fumed:
*”A teacher’s granddaughter, writing like this?!”*
Gran warned, *”Our Vera will be a headmistress one day, while you, Betty, sweep streets!”*
Years passed. We grew, counting days till summer reunions. Winters, we wrote letters—first childhood secrets, then girlish confidences. A sister’s bond runs deep as a river.
Soon, marriage beckoned. Too soon for me—I wed at seventeen, never regretting it, bore my daughter at eighteen, earned a degree. Betty barely scraped through school, eked into a teachers’ college. I never understood her choice—her lisp, her grades… Aunt Mary (her mother) bribed the faculty just to secure her diploma. Yet later, Betty aimed for a doctorate—until health failed her. Knowing her, she’ll revisit it in retirement. Stubborn soul!
At twenty, I visited London on a day trip, desperate to see Betty after years apart, to meet her husband, Benjamin. I’d missed their wedding. Little did I know how that reunion would end.
First, I called on Aunt Mary, who wept over Benjamin:
*”Vera, we opposed this rushed match! I’d lined up a fine lad for Betty—then this Benjamin! A tyrant, a flirt! She trailed after him like a lamb to slaughter! Mark my words—she’ll suffer!”*
Armed with these warnings, I visited Betty, now heavily pregnant, glowing yet her eyes held quiet sorrow. Some women relish martyrdom…
Benjamin was every inch the brute Aunt Mary described. Yet my proud, fierce Betty was utterly his. She hung on his words, though they were coarse. The change in her bewildered me. But as they say, man and wife are one life. Benjamin, with such a meek spouse, played the king, basking in her devotion.
Did he love her? Doubtful. Yet he was handsome—*truly* handsome—the sort maidens dream of. *”Fair face, foul heart.”* He barked orders. I pitied Betty, but she snapped:
*”Don’t turn into Mother, Vera. I need no pity—I’m happy!”*
That evening, we toasted my visit with champagne, reminiscing over childhood scrapes. Later, Benjamin ordered:
*”Rest, wife. Vera and I’ll stroll.”*
I protested, but his grip on my wrist forced compliance. Fear prickled my spine. Betty obeyed.
In the park, after idle chatter, he tried to kiss me—drunk on cheap spirits, no doubt! I laughed, dodged. *”Aunt Mary warned me of you!”*
Rebuffed, he stormed off, abandoning me in the dark. Lost, I recalled Betty’s house by the ficus in the window. I found it, but Betty greeted me coldly:
*”Your bed’s in the kitchen. Where’ve you been? Goodnight.”*
Benjamin snored already. Next morning, Betty froze me out—what lies had he spun? With my train ticket, I fled, guiltless yet guilty. *”Give a dog a bad name…”*
Her silence lasted twenty years. Aunt Mary wrote of Betty’s sons, her near-divorce, her estrangement when she barred the grandsons—all because Benjamin wanted a car Aunt Mary wouldn’t buy.
The thaw came when Aunt Mary handed him the keys: *”For your happiness. Don’t hurt her.”*
Last summer, I visited London with my daughter and granddaughter. Betty, plump now, gold-capped teeth behind shy smiles, still treasured her crowning glory—those lavish curls.
We embraced. Her sons were strapping lads, dutiful and kind. Benjamin, silver at the temples, still commanded—but gently, a loving patriarch. A picture-perfect family. Clever Betty! Through storms, she’d saved her marriage, her love.
She doesn’t sweep streets—she lectures at a college. That lisp? No barrier. So much for the eternal C-student! Me? I’ve had two husbands, ditched engineering for floristry—flowers suit me.
At the picnic, amidst smoke and laughter, I wandered into the woods. Benjamin followed, confessing:
*”Vera, forgive that winter night. Foolish youth… At fifty-three, I see my family is my world. Our eldest just wed—soon, a grandchild. Time flies! My Betty’s endured so much… I’ll atone forever.”*
Betty appeared: *”Secrets?”*
We chorused: *”Just love.”*
