Julias Revenge
It was a somber autumn afternoon, with a steady drizzle pattering on the windowpanes of the minibus as I made my way home. Well, home I called the bustling city nowmy little studio flat in a tall block, not the place Id been born and raised. The village, with its slow-moving lanes, belonged to my childhood, where my parents still lived. Since leaving for medical school, and settling into city life full of mad schedules and never-ending commitments, the countryside became something distant, almost foreign.
Looking back, I felt a quiet pride in what Id achieved by the age of twenty-seven. Id earned my degree from St. Thomass Medical College, secured a position at a reputable beauty salon in London, and took every opportunity to attend workshops and upskill. It wasnt in my plans to return, but something unsettled me about my parents recent phone calls. When I spoke to my mum, my dad was always mysteriously absent, and vice versa.
Mum, is everything alright? Id ask over the phone.
Her replies grew evasive: Fine, darling, nothing to worry about.
It was just two hours from Heathrow by train. I barely noticed the journey, so accustomed Id grown to crisscrossing the country.
When the little bus pulled into the local station, everything seemed both familiar and subtly changedthe old grocers sign across from the station had modern lettering, and the trees I remembered as saplings were now full-grown. The sun peeked through the clouds, as if the rain hadnt reached this little corner of Oxfordshire. Id told Mum I was arriving, though didnt specify when.
A taxi was idling by the rank, the driver eyeing me with bored expectation. Where to then, love? he asked, rolling my suitcase across the cracked pavement.
Fitzwilliam Avenue, number 52, I replied.
The house where Id grown up watched me approach with its familiar blue shutters flung wide. In the little front garden, the old bird cherry still blossomed, and beside the gate, three birches stretched skywardjust as my father had planted them when Id finished primary school.
Julie! Mum, Margaret Heath, scurried to the door as soon as she saw the car. Julie, sweetheart, at last! She hugged me tightly, tears and laughter mingling in her eyes.
Oh Mum, I missed you too, but theres no need to cry! I chided gently.
Its pure joy, Julie, its been three years since Ive had you home.
I dropped my bag by the hall, took off my boots and coat, and flopped onto the old settee, stretching out my legs with a groan. Mum perched beside me and wrapped an arm around my shoulders. For two timeless minutes, we simply sat, holding each other and trading silent glances.
Finally I summoned the question Id been holding back: Mum, is Dad about? Isnt he home?
Lets get some food in you first, then well chat, she replied, shifting the subject.
My eyes drifted around the kitchena new floral tablecloth, a china tea set I didnt recognise. The home I remembered was here, yet it felt distant. In London my flat was stark and modern, functional and efficient.
But her cooking hadnt changed: thick, fluffy meat patties that tasted of my childhood; a salad from the kitchen garden; scones and pies lined the counter as they always had.
Mum, is Dad on some kind of business trip? I pressed.
On a trip, yes, Mum became serious. Julie, theres something weve put off telling you. Your father and I… its not an easy thing to talk about by phone. Youve always been busywork, study, and all that. Im sorry we didnt share it sooner, but we didnt want to upset you. Your father and I… weve separated.
What do you mean, separated? I set down my cooling cup of tea, got up, and peeked into their old bedroom. The wardrobe was half-empty. No sign of Dads suits.
Where is he then? I asked.
Sit down, please, Mum said softly. Sometimes marriages just run their course, even after so many years. Your father and IJames and Ihave gone our separate ways.
But Mum, you two seemed fine, I protested, my lower lip jutting, not all that different from when I was a little girl in a polka-dot dress, demanding a bicycle at the foot of my cot.
Dad always gave in. Through my school years and into my teens, if I hinted hard enough, he found ways to provideeven took extra shifts when, at thirteen, I insisted on a pricey hi-fi. At uni, I never went hungry or lacked smart clothes: most of Dads salary was spent on me, with my parents making do on Mums wages. It meant my start in life wasnt from scratchbut I managed money sensibly, and Mum knew I appreciated it.
Still, I wasnt entirely spoiled. Id worked hard for my place at medical school, and theyd been so proud. I knew that.
And you said nothing?
It only happened recently, Mum explained, though the truth is its been coming for some time. But Julie, you must understand: for us, youve always been at the heart of everything. Your father still loves you as much as ever.
Has he moved into Grannys old house?
Well, its his familys cottage. Would be a shame to leave it empty.
I need to speak to him, I insisted, grabbing my coat.
Hes away with Mr Simmons from work, back tomorrow. Wait, please.
Mum, it just seems… so sudden. Did he meet someone else?
Mum let out a sigh. Hes not alone now, yes. Its not unusual, Juliehes not so old.
How much younger is she? I demanded.
About ten years or so.
StillMen like him are all the same. A traitors a traitor.
Julie, dont speak that way. Your dad cared for you every day. Im sorry I didnt tell you soonerit was my failing, not his. He did want to say something, but I kept waiting for the right moment.
I glared at her. Maybe you forgive too easily, Mum, but Iwell, I believe in justice. If someone betrays you, dont just stand by. I want nothing to do with Dad now.
Mums voice nearly cracked as she watched me, but she didnt protest further. After a short rest, I changed into my tracksuit, threw on a hooded jacket, and wandered outside. The air, thick with the scent of damp grass, was overwhelming after years in London. I thought of my old school friends who Id stopped keeping up withif I ever bothered with social media at all, I told myself it was a waste of time.
Mum, Im off for a walk down by the river.
Mind the rain, darling.
I wont be long.
The old cottage loomed at the end of the lane, weathered but stout. I slipped through the gate and up the stone steps without hesitation. In the scullery, a womanmaybe forty or so, I guessedstood stirring a pot on the little gas cooker.
So, youre playing lady of the house now? I asked coldly, eyeing her.
You must be Julie? she stammered. James showed me your photograph. Come in, if you like.
Im not here to see you. This is my grandparents house, and always will be.
She shrank away. Theres no need for that. James has been waiting to see you. Ill put the kettle on.
Whats your name? I snapped.
Clara, she replied quietly.
Well, Clara, I suggest you pack your bags. Youve no place in this house.
She set down her ladle, tense. James brought me here, and Ill not go until he decides. Ive done nothing to harm you.
You broke up a family, I said. You havent a right to be here.
Thats not fair. I didnt
Just then a boy, about twelve, appeared at the doorway, glancing between us curiously.
Go play outside, Timothy, Clara said gently.
I just want to go for a ride.
Alright, off you go.
When hed gone, I turned on her again. You wont be living here for long, I promised, before making my exit.
On my walk home, rainwater seeping into my shoes, I seethed. Trust Dad to arrange matters so I return to find a stranger sleeping in Grans old rooms. I wanted to march back and tell him just how wrong Id been about his kindness. But in truth, I realised I was powerless to oust Clara, and that made me angrier still.
Years of London life had hardened meperhaps a necessary shield for city work and endless tasks. Independence and ambition replaced old village values.
Yet, now I was here, back in the cottage kitchen, I felt the old ache: Id longed to sit at this table, leaf through the photo albums, and find warmth with the two people whod always stood at my side. The divorce felt like a blow to the chest. For all my grown-up resolve, I suddenly felt like a little girl again, and the only thing I could reach for was that bitter taste of revenge.
Mum noticed the change when I returned, my hair damp, cheeks flushed. Where have you been, Julie? The river?
I saw herClaraand her son. Now Dads raising someone elses child.
Mums face drained of colour, her hand fluttering to her throat.
Why did you go? she croaked. Did I ask you to?
Mum! And youre just fine with this? You were married over twenty-five years! Dont you feel anything? Dont you want revenge? Its not right.
Im not angry anymore, Mum said, voice trembling. No sense in it, not after everything. Your father lived here for you. We both did. For each otherwell, perhaps there was never real love. It was you, always you that held us. When you left for London, thats all we had left in common.
Mumwhy didnt you ever tell me?
We never wanted to worry you. And you were always so busy. James told me straight when she arrived in the next village, and I had to face it. Shes not even from round herea single mother, ran from an awful husband. James was always honest with me.
You should have talked. You could have tried hardergone to a counsellor, maybe.
Darling, therapists arent really the done thing out here, Mum said with a sad laugh. Everyone just gossips over garden fences. It was strange knowing he had someone else, but its past now.
Youre so calm, I sighed. You chased him when you were young, wouldnt let upnow you just drift. Why?
I want to be loved for me, not to be just friends sharing a roof. Im not old, Julie, I want my own happiness, too. And with that, Mum broke down, sobbing in my arms as I gathered her close and whispered reassurances.
Its alright, Mum, youre beautiful and still young. Ill make sure you have all you need.
She dried her tears and managed a wan smile. I wish you hadnt gone to Clara. She had nothing to do with what went wrong between your father and me.
I shrugged. Ill never accept this, Mum. Maybe Ill never forgive him.
And if I happen to meet someone, will you cut me off too, Julie?
Oh, go ahead. I muttered.
Actually, I might have, Mum said shyly, Do you remember Emma Cartwright from your class at school?
Of course I remembered Emma. Wed been friends, once promising to write every week. But London swallowed those promises.
Shes got children now? Married? I guessed.
Yes, a family. Her father Andrew still pops in to help me with the garden. You dont mind?
I shook my head. No, Mum. I just kept thinking you and Dad would always be there, like before. Its hard to let go.
The next day, Dads trip stretched on, and he didnt return for three more days. He tried ringing me, and Mum, but I ignored his callspride and anger winning over reason.
When Dad finally came home, he looked older than I remembered: more lines, hair receding at the temples, tired eyes. He stood awkwardly in the doorway.
Wont talk with me, Julie? Wont give your old dad a hug?
Theres nothing to say. You have a new family now.
Thats not fair, lovethats Claras boy. Youre still my daughter, always will be.
Goodbye, Dad, I said and shut myself away.
The morning before I left, I decided to walk along the riverone last look at where things were simpler. I watched some lads tearing by on their bikes, and in one of them, I recognised Timothy.
Suddenly, a shout, then frightened voices: one boy was sprawled across a stack of timber, his bike twisted beside him. Running over, I saw immediatelyit was Timothy. Panic and pain clouded his blue eyes, a long gash above the knee, the other foot awkwardly turned.
I shrugged off my jacket for a pillow, settling into the role of mediccomfortable, automatic. Stay calm, youll be alright, I soothed, quickly phoning Dad and telling him to fetch us at once.
Within minutes, Dads old Land Rover rattled up. Clara rushed towards her son, wild-eyed with fear, and Dad lifted the boy into the car. I hopped in without thinking, guiding them to the local hospital.
Corridors were quiet at this hour, the receptionist nearly dozing. Doctor, please! Quickly!
Nurses descended, whisking Timothy away. Clara and Dad sat wringing their hands; I gave instructions about his wounds and hobbled leg before slipping outside for fresh air, suddenly drained.
***
By midday, Id packed my bag and stood with Mum on the village bus square. The sky was heavy, as though it might rain again any second. My leaving felt unfinished, the whole visit shadowed by sadness.
A small Vauxhall drew up, and from it emerged a man with a young boy and a familiar figure in a headscarf. Mum brightened. Emma! You made it.
It really was Emma Cartwright, older, a bit fuller, but with the same easy smile. Wish it were for longer, she said, giving me a hug.
And do you remember me, Julie? asked Mr Cartwright, swinging the boy onto his shoulders. Andrew Cartwright. Took you and Emma to your first day at schoolwe never let you two out of our sight.
I remember, I replied, smiling for the first time in days.
Just then Dad arrived with Clara and Timothy, who was limping but smiling bravely. Look, JulieI can nearly stand on my own! And I didnt cry much, he boasted.
I bent down. You were very brave. Call me Julie, not auntits friendlier that way.
Clara approached shyly. Julie, I was harsh with you yesterday. My sons all I have. Youre still Jamess only daughter.
I gazed at the grouptheir faces, familiar and new. Here, in this little corner, everyone seemed connected, a family by fate or choice. Tears streamed down Mums cheeks as the coach pulled in to take me back. The goodbye was gentle, heartfelt, with Dad pulling me close and smothering my face in kisses as if I were still little.
Youll come back, wont you, darling? Dad pleaded.
I will, I promised, clutching him, Mum, and Emma, as if to slow time. As the bus drew away and I waved from the window, their voices echoed across the car park.
Come soon, Julie!
I will, I whispered, tears pricking at my eyes. It wouldnt be right to stay away.
And as the bus rolled out, the clouds parted, sunlight streaming down on the square, glowing over the people I loved and the place Id once called home. The memory of that day still warms me, even now.
