**JANE THE COUSIN**
My cousin Jane was someone I looked up to as a child. Jane lived in Manchester, while I grew up in Bristol. Every summer, our parents sent us to the countryside to stay with our grandparents. There, Jane and I were inseparable—day and night. Those were joyful times.
I adored everything about her—her figure, her gorgeous curly hair, her city-girl outfits. Though looking back now, I realise Jane wasn’t exactly a beauty. When I see her childhood photos, she was short, plump, with uneven features of the face. And I remember she had a slight lisp. But her charm and cheerfulness made up for it. Boys always hovered around her in little gangs.
Jane could’ve been a ringleader, keeping the whole pack in line. The lads obeyed her without question. She was known as one of those bold, daredevil girls. Restless by nature, her antics often worried me. I was the quiet, obedient one…
One summer, Jane pinched a brand-new book about Winnie-the-Pooh from the village library. She took it to read and then brought it back to Manchester when we left. I trembled like a leaf—what if we got caught? We were only eight then. To me, what Jane did made no sense—we were good, honest kids! But secretly, I admired her for it. Eventually, we had to return the book. Our grandfather insisted, giving us an endless lecture. And our grandmother “reinforced” his words with a sting from her nettle switch. That day, we were punished harshly—no sweets, no mercy. I suffered for staying silent, as Granny put it, about an “unheard-of crime.”
“Don’t you girls know—in the village, every wall has ears! Just give the women some gossip, and they’ll spread it to every doorstep! Teacher’s granddaughters—thieves! Whatever next?”
In short, it was a scandal that shook the whole family. No wonder I still remember it.
Jane could swim like a fish, skydive (she was in a young parachutists’ club), and scrap with the boys like one of them. Three summer months with her gave me enough stories to last until next holiday. We were thick as thieves, even though we couldn’t have been more different. She was a live wire; I was more still waters run deep.
Our grandfather was a schoolteacher. Every summer, he “tortured” us with dictations and essays. I was the neat one—flawless work, elegant handwriting. Jane’s papers were a mess—letters crooked, mistakes everywhere. But she never cared. Granddad would scold,
“How can a teacher’s granddaughter write so poorly?”
Jane just waved him off—no big deal. Granny warned her,
“One day, our Jenny here will be headmistress, and you, my girl, will be sweeping streets!”
Hah—fat chance.
Years passed, and we grew up. We couldn’t wait for summer to see each other again. In winter, we wrote letters, sharing secrets—first childish, then girlish. They say sisters are like rivers and water—always flowing together.
Then came courting age. Though for me, it came too soon. I married at 17 (no regrets), had my daughter at 18, and later graduated from university. Jane barely scraped through school with steady Cs, then barely made it into teacher’s college. Honestly, I never got why she chose it—with her lisp and poor marks. Aunt Mary (Jane’s mum) had to butter up the college staff with gifts to get her daughter that diploma.
Yet later, Jane would try writing a dissertation. Her health failed, forcing her to quit. Wouldn’t surprise me if she picks it up again in retirement—she’s stubborn like that.
At 20, I visited London on a day trip—mostly just to see Jane. It had been years. I was eager to meet her new husband, Benjamin. Missed their wedding. Little did I know how that reunion would end.
First, I dropped by Aunt Mary’s with treats. She burst into tears about her son-in-law:
“Jenny, we all hated this rushed marriage! I had a good lad lined up for Jane—everything was set! Then this Ben turned up. A tyrant, a jealous fool, a flirt! The devil takes the pretty ones… Jane trailed after him like a doe-eyed fool. She’ll suffer with him, mark my words! I swear he hits her too. But what’s done’s done—now there’s a baby coming. No splitting them now.”
With Aunt Mary’s warnings fresh in my mind, I went to see Jane. She was heavily pregnant, glowing—but her eyes were full of quiet sorrow. Some women love playing the martyr.
After meeting Ben, I agreed with Aunt Mary. Yet Jane—proud, wild Jane—was utterly under his thumb. She gazed at him like he hung the moon, hanging on his every word. And his words weren’t poetry. I couldn’t believe the change in her. But as they say, man and wife—a matched pair. Ben acted like a king with such a meek queen. He basked in her adoration.
Did he love her? Doubtful. Though to be fair, Ben was handsome—tall, striking. The kind girls dream of. But charm aside, all I heard from him was orders. I pitied Jane, but she snapped,
“Don’t turn into Mum, Jenny. I don’t need anyone’s pity! I’m perfectly happy!”
Well, her choice.
That winter evening, we toasted my visit with champagne. We laughed over childhood mischief, joked around. Later, the three of us strolled through London—frosty but fun. When we got back, Ben ordered Jane,
“Rest, love. Bed. Jenny and I’ll walk a bit more.”
I objected, but Ben squeezed my wrist so hard I gave in. It spooked me. Jane just nodded and stayed.
Out we went, wandered into some park. We chatted about nonsense—then suddenly, Ben pulled me close and tried to kiss me. Wha—? Had the drink gone to his head? I almost laughed. Nice try, Ben. Aunt Mary warned me about you. I wriggled free.
“Let’s go back. Jane’s waiting,” I said.
Refusals didn’t sit well with Ben. His face darkened. He strode off into the dark. I followed—then he vanished. Lost in an unfamiliar park, late at night, in winter. Brilliant.
Panicking, I remembered—Jane had a huge fern in her window. A landmark. Thank heavens for lit windows. That fern led me back.
Sleepy Jane opened the door.
“I made you a bed in the kitchen. Where’ve you been? Night, sis.”
Ben was already snoring. Next morning, Jane cut me off. What lies had Ben spun? With my train ticket burning a hole in my pocket, I left—no explanations, just guilt I didn’t earn.
Jane’s grudge lasted 20 years. Our unbreakable bond? Shattered. All that time, I still asked about her.
Aunt Mary wrote that Jane had a son. Later, she nearly left Ben—no surprise. But they patched things up. At 30, she had another boy. For years, Jane banned Aunt Mary from seeing the grandkids—all because Ben wanted a foreign car and Granny wouldn’t pay.
The thaw came when Aunt Mary handed Ben the keys.
“For your family’s happiness. Be kind to her, Ben. I scold you, but I do care.”
Last summer, I visited London with my daughter and granddaughter. Reunited with the whole clan. Jane was round as a pudding now, glasses on, gold teeth in every other spot. She hid her smile. But that glorious mane of hers? Still splendid—the last relic of her youth.
We hugged, teary. Her sons? Fine young men—respectful, doting.
Ben was still handsome, though silver touched his temples. He still ordered Jane and the boys about—but gently now, with love. A proper family man. Who’d have thought? Clever Jane—saved her marriage, kept the love.
She’s not sweeping streets—she teaches at a college. That lisp? Never held her back. So much for steady Cs. Me? The A-student’s had two husbands. Never became headmistress—I arrange flowers now (with an engineering degree).
Our reunion was a picnic. Everyone circled the sizzling barbecue—all but me. I wandered into the woods, breathing the crisp air, listening to birdsong.
Bliss. Then Ben caught up.
“Jenny, first—I’m sorry about that night. Young and stupid. At 53, I finally see—my family’s my world. Our eldest just married—we’ll be grandparents soon. Time flies. Jane’s put up with so much… I want to marry her properly now. Spend my life making it up to her.”
Jane appeared, smirking.
“Secrets?”
Ben and I glanced at each other.
“Just love,” we said.
