The Echo of Friendship
Evening draped the village of Willowbrook in a soft hush, moonlight trembling upon the river’s surface, mirroring the cold sky. The Harringtons hadn’t moved here for rural charm—doctors insisted their youngest, seven-year-old Oliver, needed fresh air to mend his lungs, weakened by city smog.
Was it worth building an entire house for?
Edward Harrington, a successful businessman, had constructed shopping centres before, so the house rose swiftly—less than a year. The riverside mansion became the talk of the village: who’d have thought such wealth would grace their quiet corner?
—
The Harringtons’ brick, two-storey home sat right by the bank, where the woods met the water. A tall fence shielded it from prying eyes. They’d even built a sandy beach—smooth stones, a wooden jetty with a gazebo overlooking sunsets. It looked straight out of a magazine.
But the Harringtons rarely visited—only on weekends or holidays. Business kept them in the city. Oliver was left in the care of his grandmother, Margaret, and his strict nanny, Eleanor Crawford. Eleanor was immaculate—polished manners, her own car. Villagers whispered: such a job paid well, and many longed to work for the Harringtons, since jobs in Willowbrook were scarce.
—
On the village’s other end crammed the Wilsons. No one respected them: the father, perpetually drunk, vanished on benders; the mother, worn thin by life, seemed to birth a child every year. Six children weighed her down. She blamed them for her troubles, driving the eldest, ten-year-old Lily, to chores—cooking, cleaning, minding the little ones.
“Lily!” her mother barked. “Mop the floors, make supper!”
The girl longed to run out to her friends, but her lot was to carry the burden on slender shoulders. No one guessed fate had something extraordinary in store.
—
“No, Oliver!” Eleanor rapped her ruler against the chalkboard.
She wasn’t just a nanny but a seasoned tutor. The Harringtons hired her so Oliver could study at home—away from the village school—until his health improved. Later, he’d attend an elite private school.
“Eleanor, please!” Oliver sniffled. “Just once!”
She pretended not to hear, continuing to write. Yesterday had been a mistake: she’d taken him shopping, and he’d bolted toward children splashing in a puddle while she picked groceries. Calmly, she paid, loaded the car, then marched after him. But he was gone.
“Oliver!” she called, navigating muddy lanes in leather boots. “Oliver Edward, answer me!”
A scruffy boy trailed her, pointing: “They went that way!”
She found Oliver perched on the Wilsons’ grubby porch, stroking a mangy mutt.
“Oliver Edward!” She seized his wrist. “That dog could bite!”
“She’s friendly!” protested the grimy boy—Tom, apparently. “This is Patch!”
“He lives here!” Oliver beamed.
Eleanor pursed her lips, dragging him away.
“Why’re you pulling him? He’s not a baby!” Tom yelled.
“None of your concern,” she snapped. “Tidy this yard!” She nearly tripped over another child digging in the dirt.
*Good Lord, what a dump. Why do people like this even have children?*
—
Next morning, Oliver declared: “I want to play with the others! Why can’t I?”
“Oliver,” Eleanor sighed. “Your parents forbid leaving the grounds.”
“Why? What’d I do?” He stomped. “I won’t eat! I’d rather starve than be locked up!”
Eleanor knew he needed company. To cage him would break something inside.
“Edward,” she called his father. “Oliver needs friends. It’s vital.”
She explained—firmly—that isolation harmed him. Edward, distracted, cut in: “Find decent village children. Let them come here. We’ve a garden, swings—better than the streets.”
—
But “decent” children bored Oliver.
“I want Tom!” he demanded. “And his dog!”
“Your father will buy you a pedigree,” Eleanor said.
“No, I like Patch!”
Suppressing irritation, she drove to the Wilsons’ ramshackle house. The mother, exhausted, agreed to lend Tom—for a fee.
“Take him. He’s idle anyway,” she waved.
Eleanor, fighting disgust, bundled Tom and Patch into her car.
—
Tom gaped at the mansion’s luxury.
“So many toys!” He marveled. “You’ve got a scooter?!”
While Eleanor scrubbed Patch, the boys chattered in the playroom. Tom, washed and borrowed clean clothes (luckily, he and Oliver were the same size), beamed.
“I’ve got a real friend!” Oliver glowed.
“I wish I had a scooter,” Tom murmured.
“You don’t?” Oliver frowned.
“Mum says we’ve no money.”
“Want mine?”
“Won’t you get in trouble?”
Eleanor and Margaret stayed silent when Tom left with the scooter. If Oliver insisted, arguing was futile.
“Friends like these,” Margaret sighed—stylish, barely looking like a grandmother. “Nothing but expense.”
—
But Tom wasn’t just a friend. He taught Oliver to climb the fence. That’s how Oliver first escaped. Tom waited by the river—not alone. A girl, slightly older, perched on the scooter’s rack.
“Who’s that?” Oliver asked.
“My sister, Emily,” Tom muttered.
Emily looked like a living doll—long hair, huge eyes—but her gaze was weary, old.
—
“I want a sister too!” Oliver announced at home.
Eleanor and Margaret exchanged glances. This Tom wasn’t just stealing Oliver—now he’d put ideas in his head!
“Oliver, sisters don’t just appear,” Eleanor said gently.
“Tom’s got one! Why can’t I?” he pouted.
“That boy’s a bad influence!” Margaret snapped.
“Don’t shout,” Eleanor interjected. “I’ll speak with Edward.”
After a brief talk, she returned to the Wilsons. The mother refused to spare Emily:
“She’s the eldest. The house’ll fall apart. Take the little one, Sophie.”
“We want Emily,” Eleanor insisted. “She’ll come with Tom for a few hours. We’ll pay—you keep the money.”
At “pay,” the mother agreed.
“Fine, take both. But no more than two hours.”
—
Oliver was ecstatic. He had Tom and now “sister” Emily. He begged his father for another scooter to tow her. At twelve, she shrank from everything—her chapped nails, plain braid, the mansion’s opulence. Its sterile cleanliness scared her; she feared breaking things. Yet the Harringtons’ life enchanted her like a fairy tale.
—
Years passed. Oliver grew attached to Tom—and especially Emily. At thirteen, he’d watch fifteen-year-old Emily and wonder: Can love exist this young? Maybe.
—
“Emily, clear the dishes,” Eleanor said coldly when she turned sixteen.
“Alright,” Emily whispered, head bowed.
“Just ‘alright.’ No backchat.”
Emily became near-servant. She studied with Oliver and Tom, learned grooming, yet always felt out of place. She couldn’t leave—home saw her as a paycheck. Only Oliver treated her as more.
“Why’re you cleaning again?” He stormed into the kitchen. “That’s not your job!”
“Ollie, it’s fine,” she murmured.
“You’re a guest, not staff!” He snatched the plates, dragging her to the lounge.
“If you act like this, they’ll never let me marry you.”
“Marry?” She froze.
“You didn’t know? I want you with me. When I’m older. Seventeen’s too soon, right?”
“Ollie, you’re silly,” she blushed. “Don’t say it loud. They’ll throw me out if they think you— I’m in the way. But I’ve nowhere else. Mum’s written me off. No jobs here, no school…”
—
“That girl’s fooling around with our Oliver,” Margaret complained to Edward’s wife, Charlotte, in the city. “Send him away to school.”
Charlotte, eyeing a young waiter, shrugged.
“So? He’s young. Let him have fun. She won’t get pregnant. She’s clean, vetted. You taught her everything—teach her contraception.”
“What?” Margaret stared.
“Relax, darling. Let her stay, work. Oliver’ll be home, not in alleys. It’s controlled.”
“You don’t care about your son?” Margaret said icily.
“I didn’t say that.”
Margaret relayed it to Edward. She expected outrage, but he nodded thoughtfully:
“Charlotte’s right. It’s natural. If something happens, it’s fine.”
