The Wall Turned Out to Be Made of Sand
By the end of Year 9, Marianne had blossomed, and now many lads—even young men—couldn’t help but glance at the tall, graceful girl. Everyone in the village knew and respected Marianne’s parents. Her mother, Elizabeth, managed the local post office, while her father, William, worked as a mechanic. Their house was large—originally built with the hope of a big family—but after Marianne was born, Elizabeth couldn’t have any more children.
“Marianne,” her mother called, “come hang the washing out, love. Just finished washing it.”
“Alright, Mum, be right there…”
Outside, the summer sun blazed. Marianne stepped into the garden in a short sundress, carrying a basket of damp laundry toward the clothesline strung between two posts.
The villagers all knew this beautiful, spirited girl—fiery and bold. By sixteen, she’d come into her own, and now she eyed the men just as boldly as they eyed her.
“William’s girl’s turned into a proper beauty,” the local women murmured as they watched her. “She’ll twist more than one lad’s head before long.”
As she pinned up the washing, her gaze landed on Simon, who sat on a bench beneath the oak tree, smoking, his eyes fixed on her. He was her father’s friend, here with Colin to help lay paving stones in the garden. William had gone inside to fetch lemonade—the men were thirsty—while Colin hauled sand in a bucket.
Marianne glanced over her shoulder, her look so piercing Simon nearly choked on his smoke. Then, unhurried, she bent forward, arching like a doe, as she hung a large towel.
“Blimey, Marianne, what’s she playing at?” Simon thought, his pulse quickening. “Dancing about like that in front of me.”
But Marianne wasn’t done. Once the laundry was hung, she settled beside him so close he felt the blood rush to his temples.
“What’s the matter, Uncle Simon? Hot today?” She inched nearer.
“Bloody boiling, Marianne,” he muttered, wiping sweat from his brow.
“I can see you’ve caught the sun,” she teased.
“That’s just my complexion,” he replied, proud but guarded.
Then he looked up, squinting against the sunlight, arms crossed as if to say, *Enough*. She was just a girl—his mate’s daughter, no less. But when William returned with the lemonade, Simon’s gaze followed Marianne as she walked away.
Simon was thirty-four and still unmarried. Handsome, sturdy, with strong arms and dark eyes, he’d broken hearts across the village but never found the right woman.
That evening, as the sunset painted the sky pink, Simon stepped out of the makeshift shower William had rigged in the garden. He liked the quiet, the birdsong. Colin and William were already on the patio, and Elizabeth bustled about setting the table—workers needed feeding.
Simon, still in his shorts, barely had time to blink before Marianne appeared in front of him.
“Are you stalking me?” he asked sharply.
“Didn’t know you’d be here,” she said, shrugging coyly.
“Listen, Marianne, you’re too young for games like this.”
“Too young for what?” She planted her hands on her hips, chest rising defiantly.
“You’re still a kid. Go on, get inside.”
But she was quick-witted and wouldn’t back down.
“Maybe I want to marry you.”
Simon froze. “Marry? You’re not even legal. Get away with you!”
He skipped dinner, citing errands, puzzling William. Marianne retreated indoors.
At home, she thought of Simon. She’d fancied him for ages, counting the days until she turned eighteen. Now she’d been accepted to college in the nearest town and would leave come September, returning only on weekends and holidays.
Meanwhile, Simon wrestled with his own thoughts. Time was slipping by—no wife, no children. And now, Marianne haunted him. Beautiful, brazen—a splinter in his heart he couldn’t pry loose.
Time passed. Simon tormented himself, knowing Marianne was still out of reach. To distract himself, he took up with Vera. At twenty-nine, Vera was desperate, convinced Simon was her last chance. When he finally noticed her, she mistook it for fate.
“Oh, Simon, I do love you,” she whispered during their walks by the river.
She introduced him to her family as her future husband, dreaming of weddings and children—names already picked. But Simon never mentioned marriage. They dated, nothing more.
Then Marianne returned, college behind her. The wild girl had become a striking beauty. She hadn’t stayed in town, though everyone assumed she’d marry there. Simon saw her outside the shop, his heart lurching.
“Hello, Uncle Simon,” she said, her voice softer now.
“Hello, Marianne. You’re a proper stunner.” He fumbled for words. “Your dad home?”
“I’m eighteen now,” she replied, staring straight at him.
From that day, they were swept into a whirlwind of love. They met secretly—by the woods, at his place—but in a village, nothing stays hidden. Soon, tongues wagged: Simon, nearly twice her age, spending time with William’s girl.
Vera spat venom about Marianne at every turn. “That little witch stole my happiness!” Some pitied her; others laughed.
Eventually, word reached William and Elizabeth. They were stunned.
“Simon’s too old for her,” William grumbled—then reconsidered. “But we know him. He’s a good man.”
The wedding was loud and merry. The newlyweds, radiant, moved into Simon’s house. Marianne scrubbed away his bachelorhood.
For two years, they were happy—though no children came. Simon adored her but grew fiercely jealous, forbidding short dresses, seething when men looked her way.
“Simon, you knew what you married,” Marianne laughed. “Why hide what I’ve got?”
Then trouble arrived. A visiting technician, Charlie, handsome and smooth-talking, turned Marianne’s head. He spun dreams of travel, mocking Simon’s small-town life.
“You’ll never leave this village with him,” Charlie sneered. “With me, we could go to Spain—anywhere!”
Though nearly twenty-one, Marianne’s sense hadn’t caught up. Seduced by promises, she packed her bags one night while Simon worked late, leaving only a note: *I’ve fallen for someone else. Forgive me.*
Simon drowned in drink—his first time. Vera swooped in, cooing sympathy, but he couldn’t sober up, his heart in tatters.
Back at her parents’, William fumed. “Disgrace! Running off with some city boy…”
Villagers gossiped, but old Mrs. Whitlow defended her: “Who among you hasn’t sinned? She’ll learn.”
Life with Charlie was grim—a tiny, cockroach-infested flat. A neighbor shattered Marianne’s illusions: “Charlie’s drowning in debt. He’ll never give you a thing.”
One morning, while Charlie worked, Marianne boarded a bus home.
Autumn rain fell as she approached Simon’s house. The door was ajar; he was there, half-sober.
“Forgive me,” she whispered.
He turned. She stood drenched, waiting—not for an embrace, just his presence.
Days passed in silence. She cooked, cleaned; he worked, slept on the sofa. Then one day, she packed her suitcase.
Seeing her ready to leave, something snapped in Simon. He grabbed her hands.
“Don’t go. I’ve been lost without you. There was a wall between us—but it was made of sand. It’s gone now.”
Marianne clung to him. This was her Simon—her one true love. She’d never stray again.
That rainy autumn day, joy returned to Simon’s house. By spring, Marianne shared news: they’d be parents soon.
