Happily Ever After: -

By Colleen Elson

From early childhood, Vivien is obsessed with her plan to meet a rich man who will provide her with a mansion-like house and a happy life. In her efforts to fulfil this dream, she negatively affects not only her own life, but the lives of others, especially her daughter, rose. Ultimately, Vivien is placed in the position of having to explain her story to a legally-appointed panel. What happens to her next will depend on how well she can persuade them to see events from her point of view.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Mar 30, 2018
• ISBN: 9781528912051

Colleen Elson

Originally from Australia, Colleen Elson travelled the world before settling in Canada. Her work experiences have included many years as an educator and an actress. She is now using her past experiences and the many people she has met along the way to turn her hand to writing.

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About the Author

Originally from Australia, Colleen travelled the world before settling in Canada. Her work experiences have included many years as an educator and an actress. She is now using her past experiences and the many people she has met along the way to turn her hand to writing.

Dedication

For Mrs. Bertelson, 1947

Copyright Information ©

    Colleen Elson (2018)

The right of Colleen Elson to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781786291172 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781786291165 (Hardback)

ISBN 9781786291158 (E-Book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published (2018)

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd™

25 Canada Square

Canary Wharf

London

E14 5LQ

Now, let me get this straight! As I understand it, you five people are some sort of a committee. A panel I think, the lawyer said, and I’m supposed to tell you all about myself and what happened, so you can decide what comes next. As you probably know, there have already been so many questions thrown at me about this court case. I hope this is the last time I’ll have to explain it all. I’m getting pretty tired of this nonsense, so let’s get started.

The lawyer said that it’s important that you know everything there is to know about me, so you can make the right decisions, so I’m going to start way back. Yes, waaaaaay back to when I was a very little girl; a pretty little girl I might add!

The first mother I remember was a woman they later told me was my birth mother. I lived with her until I was about four or five. It was just the two of us together in a house somewhere up north. The house was just a little way out of the town. There were no close neighbours. We didn’t have a car, but we didn’t need one. We never left the house except to go to the bank in town or to the store to buy groceries. My mother didn’t work and she had no friends that I can remember. It was always just the two of us.

Our house wasn’t a shack or anything like that. She had her room and I had mine. We had nice furniture and there was always enough food. I had pretty clothes. We had electricity and heat. We also had a lovely, big fireplace and my best memory is of roasting marshmallows there sometimes. My mother would carry in wood from the pile at the side of the house and get a lovely fire going in the big brick fireplace. Then she would put a plump marshmallow on the end of a long stick so I wouldn’t burn my hand while I held it over the fire. She would put her hand over mine and show me how to turn the stick slowly so the marshmallow would brown a little without burning She must have loved me, at least a bit, to do that, but there were lots of other times when she scared me. To put it bluntly, she was nuts! I really don’t know what was the matter with her.

As I remember, she was quite beautiful; her long hair was brown, almost black, with a little curl at the ends and her eyes were brown too. Big and brown, with dark lashes that were thick and that curled up and out. The colour of her skin was almost bronze. It was smooth; so smooth that, when I dared, I would stroke it with my fingers. When she was calm or when she was asleep, I would like to stand still and look at her. If she had stayed like that all the time, beautiful and calm, my life would have been happy; but she didn’t and it wasn’t! I don’t know, to this day, why she was such an unhappy person, or what made her that way.

I guess she liked her own way, and if she didn’t get it, she’d throw a temper tantrum. You just didn’t want to be around her when she was like that. One minute she’d be cuddling me on her lap and saying nice things to me and the next she’d be screaming and swearing and throwing things and hitting out at whatever or whoever was closest to her, mostly me.

I remember that there were a few times when a man came to visit us. He came in a big, shiny car. Later, I thought he might have been my father but I didn’t want to ask my mother if what I thought was true. I thought it might upset her or make her angry. This man was very tall and very handsome and he always wore a lovely coat with fur around the collar. He would bend over to say hello to me and I would reach up and stroke the fur. It felt so soft and I thought I would love to roll around in something as lovely as that.

The man never stayed very long, and after he left, my mother would go into her bedroom and cry. I wanted to go in there, and climb up on the bed and hold on to her, but I was afraid of what she would do, so I just stood outside the door and listened to her. She didn’t cry. She sobbed.

The next morning, after these visits, when I came into the kitchen for breakfast, she had a look on her face that told me she was getting ready to have one of her fits; I was usually right.

I was somewhere around three years old when