No Wrong Intent (Short Fiction)

We were a big family, and I had a lot of cousins, first, second , and even third. They weren’t a bad bunch, mostly very likeable, a few so-so, but the Bedford boys I liked best of all. The middle one, James, was born within three weeks of my own entry into the world which, I always believed, gave us a particularly strong connection. Martin was two years older, Chris two years younger. Unusually, they got on very well as brothers, quite fierce in their loyalty to one another, and inclined to be a little cool to outsiders. It was a thrill then they accepted me, a girl, into their group on those occasions we came to visit.
    I suppose I saw them, on average, about three or four times a year. The distance between the towns where we lived being over a hundred miles, this limited visits mainly due to the cost of travel plus, at the very beginning, rationing was still on.
    Some of my earliest memories are of playing with train sets and toy soldiers on the floor of one or other of the boy’s bedrooms, most often Martin’s, and following his instructions closely in a bid to be thought of as an equal, not merely a girl. When the four of us were on our own, without any supervision, this was largely the case. I was ‘one of the boys’. It was our parents — the grown-ups — that made the distinction, even insisting on the difference in what is suitable for boys might not be so for girls. This was a frequent frustration because, in so many instances, we simply didn’t see it that way. Naturally, the grown-ups won their case every time.
    The crux came during the summer I reached eleven, had passed my exams, and was about to start grammer school that September. Something was going on between my parents, I had no idea what it was, and I didn’t want to know. Studying had thankfully given me ample reason to keep to my room and out of their way. Subsequently, I took to taking long bike rides just to get away from the brooding silence in the house.
    When the invitation came to spend a couple of weeks with my Beford cousins, I was overjoyed. This time my parents wouldn’t be going — family matters they needed to attend to. I would be put on the train and met the other end. It was all arranged. I felt very grown up travelling by myself. It felt like I’d reached a milestone in my life. I kept close hold on my small suitcase, and pushed the apprehension about starting a new school to the back of my mind.
    They were all at the station to meet me. Aunt Elsie remarked on my new haircut, saying how it suited me. I blushed, I think, slightly embarrassed in front of the boys, who were nudging each other and avoiding my gaze.
    Once indoors and upstairs in our rooms, the awkwardness melted away somewhat. James popped in while I was unpacking. ‘We’re going on a ramble — d’you wanna come?’
    ‘Yeah. Will it be muddy?’ Although he shook his head, I thought I’d better change my shoes anyway.
    We went the old route, the fields and copses much the same as they’d always been. But things between us weren’t as easy. Martin was very quiet — threw me the occasional sidelong glance, as though he was no longer sure of me. Perplexed, I couldn’t fathom what I’d done.
    The days drifted, the summer had lost its promise, the weather turning gloomy and colder than it had a right to be in August. The mood lightened, however, when Uncle Frank returned from work with a large canvas sack and a bundle of poles. It was an army surplus tent, complete with groundsheet. The boys, all of them, whooped with enthusiasm, even Martin, who immediately asked if they could erect it in the back garden and sleep in it that night. ‘Don’t see why not. Let’s see what we can do.’
    They trooped outside and started on the project. I hovered, wanting to join them, until Aunt Elsie took my arm and gently dissuaded me. ‘That’s boys’ stuff, dear. Come on, you can help me make tea.’
    It had seemed a tedious evening. We played different games out of a battered compendium from a long-ago Christmas. I didn’t win any of them. The boys were keyed up, anticipating their night under canvas. I didn’t bother asking if I could join them — I knew what the answer would be. The grown-ups would veto it, say it wasn’t suitable — their favourite phrase of late.
    Announcing I was tired, I said my goodnights early and went up the wooden stairs to Bedfordshire — my uncle’s well-worn joke. I lay on my bed listening to my cousins getting ready, the ease with which they had excluded me made me angry and resentful. The back door banged twice, then loud whispers from the garden. I opened my window a crack, so I could hear some of the exchanges. I watched the torch light bounce around the walls of the tent. At last all was dark and quiet.
    It was after one o’clock when I crept out, wriggled in beside James, who mumbled something sleepily and unzipped his sleeping bag. I’d barely got comfortable when he tent flap was thrown back. Aunt Elsie, hair in curlers, barked at me ‘You just come out of there, young lady!’
    I just couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about. Only Martin seemed to. He said it was because I was a girl. I was sent home early, confused and miserable, knowing I would never be invited to stay with the Bedford boys again.