Sisterly Bonds…

15October

Mother whispered that Emily Robinson had arrived, and she ladled a bowl of green soup into my hands. They say she was seen yesterday at the old cemetery, she murmured, arranging a wreath of flowers around the Roman family gravestone. Grandma Margaret wasnt left out, either theyre talking about erecting a new monument for Arthur.

I stirred the soup with my spoon, trying to hear every word she said, while a dull ache throbbed in my chest. Would I recognise her if I saw her? Yesterdays gossip had already reached my garage; the news travelled fast in this village. Whenever an unfamiliar car rolls into town, Billy the village simpleton is already looking for a quick profit.

Give me a client, Sam Whitfield, Billy called, flashing a grin. And Ill buy you a pint. He leaned in, as if the tyre was about to burst. Wholl come? You, Sam Whitfield?

Dont you dare! I snapped, my temper flaring. I dont need deceitful customers.

Your business is yours, Sam, mines mine. And theres a lady driving a car, a warmhearted woman with a pocketful of cashArthurs daughter, Emily.

Dont you even think about it! Im not looking at your head for a moment. Go to the depot

The news settled in my gut like a stone, draining my strength. How many times had I not seen her? Since the day we were together, when I finally confessed everything that lived inside me

That evening, as soon as I heard shed arrived, I drove to the gate of her familys old farm. A red car sat in the yard, its lights glowing in the windows. I sat on the curb and stared at those panes, a wave of melancholy washing over me. I barely knew her; after the last time we met, she vanished for years.

Whats the matter, son? Its gone cold, Mother asked, looking into my eyes.

I just dont feel like it Ive got work to do. The lads need the trucks ready for the front line. Itll be late

Later, deep into that dark night, I buried myself in the garage, trying not to let my thoughts drift. Billy and Paul, my helpers, were already calling out, MrWhitfield, time to go home. Tomorrows another day.

Go on then, I muttered. Ill stay a bit longer.

They whispered, He could work all night. No wife, no kids a lone wolf. I heard every word. It was trueI was that lone wolf, with no family, no wife, no children. I had never met the one person who could free my heart from its stubborn shacklesEmily.

Just before eleven, I climbed back into my van and wound through the narrow village lanes to the cottage by the woods. A light still flickered in her window. I lit a cigarette, watching the greyblue smoke swirl, remembering that a wound to my lung had taken away a breath Id never truly recovered. Still, the nicotine soothed the ache, calming the restless spirit inside.

Sam, fetch the spade for Uncle Arthur, my father called, wiping his sweaty brow with a greasy hand. The devil knows where my tools have vanished to.

I tossed aside the weedsno mans work, my mother had scolded me for not finishing the two pages of Enchanted Riverand hopped onto my iron horse, pedalling toward the far end of the village, right up to Uncle Arthurs cottage, hoping the spade would somehow lead me to Emily.

The wind lifted dust as I raced on my bicycle. By the gate, Emily stood in a sundress patterned with tiny flowers, her hair tied with pink ribbons.

Are you one of us? she asked, squinting against the bright sun.

Yes. I came for the spade at your fathers request. Where are you headed?

To Grandma Margarets for milk. Want to come?

Id love to, I replied, leaving my bike by the gate. Her presence was blinding, like the sun that erased all memory of the spade. It mattered little that my father waited; Emilys call to Grandma mattered more.

Grandma Margaret lived on the opposite side of the village. We sprinted together through the garden rows toward a narrow stream, its water sometimes a thin ribbon, other times a swelling pool. An old, creaking footbridge spanned it, its wooden planks wet and green with moss.

Shall we cross the bridge, Sam? Emily asked, a hint of fear in her voice.

Dont be frightened, I said, offering my hand. The bridge will hold.

It looks as if an elephant could tip it, she giggled, clutching my fingers. Carefully we stepped, testing each plank.

See? Nothing to fear, I whispered as she reached solid ground. She smiled, and I felt a rush of heroism.

We were both ten, yet the bond between us felt strange, beyond simple brotherly affection. My heart raced whenever she was near, a feeling that was more than friendship.

Grandma Margaret poured a tin of cold buttermilk. She gave me a larger mug, Emily a smaller one, spreading plum jam on buttered bread until the kitchen filled with sweet scent.

Dont spill that, Sam, youll make a mess, she warned, eyes halfdeaf.

Ill be careful, I replied, laughing with Emily beside me.

Later, Miss Tessa Lawrence, the schoolmistress, scolded us for talking during dictation. She read each word slowly, repeating sentences; I watched Emilys golden hair catch the sunlight through the windows. She traced a line of ink on her notebook, touching her cheek with the tip of the pen, then whispered, What? when she noticed my gaze.

I felt a sudden surge of courage, a whisper of something I couldnt name. I wrote slowly, realizing Id missed much of the dictation and would surely get a low mark. My mother, the teacher, would likely call me out for not trying.

The lesson ended, and I sensed the same strange ache when Emily laughed with Michael Turner at break, twirling her hair and smiling brightly. Later, Michael escorted her home, and I followed, imagining him tripping and falling, or a stray dog tearing his trousersany fantasy that eased the pain of watching her hold his hand.

Can I kiss you? Emily asked one afternoon while picking raspberries in the brambles, her voice barely above a whisper.

Yes, I answered, and we leaned in, my lips meeting hers with a yearning that felt like drinking honey.

You fool! she shouted, flinging me away, her cheeks flushed. She darted away, almost knocking over Grandma Margaret.

Later, while we were gathering raspberries, she muttered, If you dont laugh, youll end up arguing. Who will pick the berries then?

Give me a branch for the firewood, Grandma Margaret said, eyeing the young cherry trees. I hacked at them with vigor, startling her.

Whats wrong with you, boy? she asked. Are you not yourself?

Everythings fine, I replied, shouting a bit too loudly.

Why arent you with Emily? Youre like twins, she teased.

Shes with someone else now shes dating someone good. Shes getting married.

Her words cut deep, but I kept my work.

Years later, a school leaving ceremony swirled with a light waltz. I could barely tear my eyes from Emily, who floated across the dance floor like a whiteclad butterfly, radiant and joyous. The celebration lasted till late, and as dawn approached, classmates drifted home. Michael walked Emily back to her house. I had arrived earlier, hoping to speak with her, but she kept dodging my attempts, laughing at every turn.

Cold? Michael asked, draping his jacket over her shoulders. He tried to kiss her; she pulled away, saying, Goodbyes.

I approached her, heart pounding.

Emily Im exhausted, I just want to lie down. What are you talking about?

I love you, I whispered, barely audible.

Youre sick, Sam. You cant love me. Im your sister, she retorted, eyes wide.

My blood runs differently than yours, I protested.

What do you mean? she snapped, tears welling.

Your father isnt my real father, I said.

Youre ill! You need treatment! she cried, storming out.

I stood there for a long minute, then walked home.

For two weeks I saw no sign of Emily. When we met near school, she was with her friends, never looking my way. She seemed sad, her eyes dim, laughter gone.

In July, Emily and her mother left for Oxford to start medical school, never returning. Grandma Margaret whispered that Valentine, Emilys mother, only wanted to flee.

Rumours swirled that Uncle Arthur was behaving oddly, visiting his estranged wife in Oxford. No one really knew the truth.

In August I received a call-up notice; by October I was conscripted and sent to serve in the army near the north.

After returning, I was aimless, working as a driver for a construction firm. A village acquaintance suggested I look for work in Poland.

All I knew of Emily came from my mothers stories: she was studying medicine, had visited Uncle Arthur to ask forgiveness, and claimed I would always be her father. Uncle Arthur had drowned his sorrows in the local pub after a bitter marriage. He turned to beekeeping and farming.

With a modest sum, I bought my first car in Poland, flipped it quickly, and opened a garage. I began importing used cars from abroad, throwing myself into the business. I drove to Oxford, hoping to see Emily, but the address Uncle Arthur gave me was empty. Through a former army mate I learned that Emily was now engaged to a good man and living on holiday in Montenegro. The pain tore through me like a hot needle.

Years passed like a raging firestorm, burning everything inside me. Uncle Arthur died; Emily came with her mother for the funeral, but that very evening they returned to Oxford, screaming that Valentine had killed Arthur. Emily seemed a stranger, cold and distant.

My mother kept urging me to think of family, but my father never saw his grandchildren. Ten years after Uncle Arthurs death, I still could not form lasting relationships. I kept searching for that ideal love Id imagined since childhood.

In 2012, during a summer, I was driving a colleagues twinborn sons to Oxford. Their grateful wifes husband, Ghuram, offered me a bright red car as thanks. It arrived the same day in the maternity ward, and there, among the nurses, I saw Emilynow DrEmily Robinson, delivering babies. Joy and an inexplicable happiness flooded me. I didnt go straight home; after she finished her shift I invited her to dinner. She accepted. We talked all night, then strolled along the riverbank until dawn. She told me she was married, childless, workdriven, and that she helped bring new life into the world yet felt she herself had none. I tried to comfort her, saying there was still time.

We even swam together in the night sea, the cold water making us feel like children again. I kissed her wet lips, and she didnt pull away. Later, in a hotel room, we spent a night of passion.

I love you, Emily, I whispered. Ive loved you all my life.

She woke, sighing, Its wrong. Lets forget this night, never speak of it again.

I tried to meet her again, called repeatedly, but she changed jobs and vanished. Eight long years slipped by.

Ghuram, find her for me, I begged a friend. He replied, No, mate, respect a womans choice. Shes like a cat; you cant force her.

When the war broke out, I volunteered at the start, was wounded twice, and after a third injury I lost a lung and part of my liver. Doctors said Id survived a bullet that passed three millimetres from my heart. I joked, Maybe it was Cupids arrow.

The last time I heard about Emily was from my mother, who said shed been seen in the local shop with a baby girl. Invite her over for tea, Sam, stay at the garage late, well have a chat about the family.

I left the house, the fresh wound on my side throbbing, half physical, half emotional. I wanted to see her, to hold her, to never let go again.

Around seven I entered the house, listening at the hallway.

Her husband died early in the invasion, Emilys mother said, voice trembling. He was a military medic. The days were hard I spent them in bomb shelters, delivering babies, thinking of my child.

I stepped in.

Good to see you, I said, my throat dry. Emily moved close, pressing against my chest, her eyes warm.

Grey hair, she noted.

Yes, age does that.

This is my daughter, Kitty, Emily added, pointing to a tenyearold girl.

Nice to meet you, Im Uncle Sam, I replied, handing her a soft plush tiger.

Thank you, Kitty smiled, and in that smile I saw my own childhood reflected.

We talked for hourslife, death, hope, faith, the coming victory.

Ill guide you, I said after dinner, seeing Emily thank her mother for the hospitality.

Night fell, heavy rain drummed on the roofs, the wind howling through the hedgerows. Kitty led the way with a phone torch, Emily and I following.

How long will you stay? I asked after a long silence.

I want a monument for my father well see Im exhausted.

She rested her head on my shoulder.

Goodnight, Uncle Sam. Thanks for the tiger, Kitty whispered.

Goodnight, little flower, I replied.

She lingered a moment longer, then leaned into me again, and I felt her heartbeat against mine.

Kitty is my daughter? I asked, a strange mix of hope and doubt rising.

Thank you for her, she whispered.

May I stay in your life? Look after you, protect you?

Yes, she replied.

A sudden downpour began, the rain heavy and relentless, splattering on the thatched roofs, drumming on the garden path, echoing through the woods. The world felt washed clean, and for a fleeting instant, I thought maybe, just maybe, I could find peace.