Echoes of Friendship
Evening blankets the village of Woodbridge with a quiet hush, the moon’s glow shimmering on the river’s surface, mirroring the cold sky. The Harringtons hadn’t moved here for the rural idyll—doctors insisted their youngest son, eight-year-old Oliver, needed fresh air to recover from the city’s smog.
Was it worth building a house for this?
Philip Harrington, a successful businessman, had constructed shopping centres before, so the house in Woodbridge rose swiftly—finished in under a year. The grand riverside mansion became the talk of the village: who’d have thought such wealthy people would settle in their quiet corner?
—
The Harringtons’ red-brick, two-storey home stood right by the water, where the woods met the river. A tall fence enclosed the property, shielding it from prying eyes. They’d even built a makeshift beach—soft sand, smooth pebbles, and a wooden jetty with a gazebo overlooking sunsets. It looked like something from a magazine.
But the Harringtons were rarely there—only on weekends or holidays. Business in London demanded their presence. Oliver was left in the care of his grandmother, Philip’s mother, and a strict nanny. Eleanor Whitmore, the nanny, was immaculate—polished manners, tailored clothes, and her own car. Villagers whispered: she must be paid handsomely, and many envied her position—jobs in Woodbridge were scarce.
—
At the other end of the village lived the Millers. Nobody respected them: the father, always drunk, vanished for days, while the mother, worn thin by life, seemed to have a new baby every year. Six children had become her burden. She blamed them for her struggles, and the eldest, twelve-year-old Emily, bore the brunt—cooking, cleaning, minding the younger ones.
“Emily!” her mother barked. “Mop the floors, make supper!”
The girl longed to join her friends outside, but duty weighed on her thin shoulders. Little did she know fate had something extraordinary in store.
—
“No, Oliver!” Eleanor rapped her ruler against the desk.
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, they planned to send him to an elite boarding school.
“Miss Whitmore, please!” Oliver sniffled. “Just once!”
She pretended not to hear, continuing to write on the board. Yesterday had been a slip-up: she’d taken him to the shops, and while she was picking groceries, he’d dashed off toward children splashing in a puddle. Eleanor, keeping calm, paid, loaded the car, then marched after him. But he was already gone.
“Oliver!” she called, stepping cautiously in her expensive shoes. “Oliver Harrington, answer me!”
A grubby boy trailed behind, pointing. “They went that way!”
She found Oliver in the Millers’ yard, perched on a rickety step in his cashmere coat, stroking a scruffy terrier.
“Oliver!” She grabbed his arm. “That dog could bite!”
“She’s friendly!” protested the muddy boy—apparently the owner. “This is Dusty!”
“This is Jack,” Oliver beamed. “He lives here!”
Eleanor pursed her lips and pulled him away.
“Why’re you dragging him? He’s not a baby!” Jack called after her.
“None of your concern,” she snapped. “Tidy this mess first!” she muttered, nearly tripping over another child digging in the dirt.
*Good grief, what a dump. Why do people like this even have children?*
—
The next morning, Oliver announced, “I want to play with the other children! Why can they go out and I can’t?”
“Oliver,” Eleanor sighed. “Your parents said no leaving the garden.”
“Why? What did I do?” He stamped his foot. “I won’t eat! I’d rather starve than be locked up!”
She understood—he needed companionship. Keeping him isolated would break something in him.
“Philip,” she called his father. “Oliver needs friends. It’s important for his development.”
She explained, delicately but firmly, that isolation wasn’t healthy. Philip, distracted, cut in:
“Find him decent village children. They can come here. We’ve got a garden, a swing set—better than the streets.”
—
But “decent” children bored Oliver.
“I want Jack to come!” he declared. “And his dog!”
“Your father will buy you a pedigree,” Eleanor replied.
“No, I like Dusty!”
Suppressing irritation, she drove to the Millers’ ramshackle cottage. The mother, exhausted and indifferent, agreed to send Jack—for a fee.
“Take him. He’s just loitering anyway,” she waved.
Eleanor, fighting distaste, buckled Jack and Dusty into her car and brought them to the Harringtons.
—
Jack gawked at the luxury.
“So many toys!” he marvelled. “You’ve got a scooter?!”
While Eleanor scrubbed the dog, the boys chattered in the playroom. Jack was bathed and dressed in Oliver’s spare clothes—they were the same size.
“I have a friend now!” Oliver grinned. “A real one!”
“I wish I had a scooter,” Jack sighed.
“You don’t? Why not?” Oliver frowned.
“Mum says we can’t afford it,” Jack muttered.
“Want mine?”
“Won’t you get in trouble?”
Eleanor and Oliver’s grandmother, Margaret, stayed silent when Jack left with the scooter. If Oliver insisted, arguing was pointless.
“These ‘friends’ will be the death of me,” Margaret sighed—stylish, despite being a grandmother. “Nothing but expenses.”
—
But Jack wasn’t just a friend. He taught Oliver to climb the fence. That’s how Oliver first escaped. Jack waited by the river—not alone. A girl, slightly older, sat on the scooter’s back.
“Who’s that?” Oliver asked.
“My sister, Lucy,” Jack mumbled.
Lucy looked like a porcelain doll—long hair, huge eyes—but her gaze was weary, far too old for her age.
—
“I want a sister too!” Oliver announced at home.
Eleanor and Margaret exchanged glances. This Jack wasn’t just a bad influence—he’d put ideas in Oliver’s head!
“Oliver, sisters don’t just appear,” Eleanor said gently.
“Jack has one! Why can’t I?” he pouted.
“That boy is a terrible influence!” Margaret fumed.
“Don’t shout at him,” Eleanor interjected. “I’ll speak with Philip.”
After a brief call, Eleanor returned to the Millers. The mother refused to send Lucy:
“She’s the eldest. The house falls apart without her. Take the youngest, Sophie.”
“No, we want Lucy,” Eleanor insisted. “Let her come with Jack for a few hours. We’ll pay—you keep the money.”
Hearing that, the mother agreed.
“Fine, take them both. But no more than two hours.”
—
Oliver was overjoyed. He had Jack—and now “sister” Lucy. He begged his father for another scooter to take her riding. At fourteen, Lucy was shy—gnawed nails, plain braid, intimidated by the mansion’s sterility. Yet the Harringtons’ life fascinated her like a fairy tale.
—
Years passed. Oliver grew attached to Jack—and especially Lucy. At fifteen, he watched her, wondering: *Can you be in love this young?* Maybe.
—
“Lucy, clear the dishes,” Eleanor said coldly when she turned seventeen.
“Of course,” Lucy murmured, head bowed.
“Just ‘of course.’ No backchat,” Eleanor snapped.
Lucy had become near-servant status. She’d learned poise, but still felt like an outsider. She couldn’t leave—home meant being her mother’s cash cow. Only Oliver treated her kindly.
“Why are you cleaning again?” he demanded, storming into the kitchen. “That’s not your job!”
“Ollie, it’s fine,” she whispered.
“You’re a guest, not staff!” He snatched the plates away and dragged her to the lounge.
“If you act like this, they’ll never let me marry you.”
“Marry?” Lucy froze.
“You didn’t know? I want you with me. When I’m older. Seventeen’s too soon, but—”
“Ollie, you’re silly,” she blushed. “Don’t say it so loud. I’m scared they’ll throw me out if they think you— I’m already in the way. Where would I go? Mum’s written me off. No jobs here, no way to study…”
—
“That girl’s fooling around with our Oliver,” Margaret complained to Philip’s wife, Claire, in London. “Send him away to school.”
Claire, sipping wine, shrugged.
“So? He’s young, let him have fun. She won’t get pregnant—sheDespite their fears, Oliver and Lucy held on to their quiet promise, knowing that one day, the echoes of their childhood friendship would shape a future no one could take from them.