An exercise in The Writer’s Chest Facebook Group was to start and finish a story using the opening and closing lines from a classic book.

“Not a soul was visible on the hedgeless highway, or on either side of it, and the white road seemed to ascend and diminish till it joined the sky.” [from Thomas Hardy “Jude the Obscure”, Book 1, opening chapter 3]

The white cement dust rose in clouds behind the classic MG sports car as Lizzy headed homewards. This was her first visit in three years and she wasn’t looking forward to it. When she left, she swore it was the last time she would see the place. But her half-sister Molly was getting married at noon today and she was almost the only family Lizzy had left. She’d only opened the posted invitation the day before yesterday.

The ancient parish church of St Martin’s was atop a low hill, and had a single rather ancient car parked outside, although it gleamed with fresh wax polish in the bright sunshine. At ten minutes to twelve noon, Church Lane should have been packed with guests attending the wedding. Lizzy slammed her car door and determinedly marched up to the lych gate. There in the shade stood the Vicar, dressed in his best vestments, waiting.

“Where’s my sister and ... Stephen!?” she screamed at the Vicar.

“They are at the cottage hospital, Elizabeth,” the priest responded gently.

“But the hospital has been closed for years!”

“It’s open now,” the Vicar replied, “and has been for some months.”

As Lizzy spun around angrily, the priest smiled, taking his car keys from a pocket below his cassock.

Lizzy jumped back into her car and drove down the hill, through the chocolate box village of her childhood, and past the old cement works. There were wisps of smoke coming from some of the old kilns, she noticed. The cement dust on the road was thicker than she remembered; they must have restarted the works that “Daddy” once owned, she thought.

She sobbed at the single recollection that was brought to mind, the one that wrecked everything for her.

“Adopted?!” she had screamed three years earlier. That’s what “Daddy’s” last will and testament had said clearly, drily emphatic in its declaration. The solicitor had read out the words, “my adopted daughter, Elizabeth”, in that deadpan voice that lawyers have universally developed.

Lizzy couldn’t believe what she had heard. It sank in for barely a moment before she jumped up and shouted, “No!”

But around the room everybody nodded; they all knew, without exception. Her fiancé Stephen was clearly aware, her step-mother and baby sister Molly, dressed like her in their funereal “widow’s weeds” knew. Nor were the aunts, uncles and cousins present shocked by what had been a devastating revelation for Lizzy. Even “Daddy’s” closest friends and trusted retainers seemed not in the least bit surprised. Finally, Nurse Cloë, who had looked after both girls for as long as Lizzy could remember, nodded that she too was aware of Lizzy’s adoption, with tears running down her own cheeks. Everybody knew that Lizzy was adopted, that her “Daddy” was not her natural father. Everybody knew, that is, everyone except Elizabeth.

Lizzy had long ago accepted that Molly was only her half-sister. “Daddy” married his second wife, Molly’s Mummy Mavis, when Lizzy was about five. Lizzy called Mavis Mummy immediately, not knowing her by any other name. Molly came along to complete their happy family about five years later.

Lizzy had always assumed that her own mother was “Daddy’s” first wife, whose marriage broke up in an unceremonious manner, shortly after Lizzy was born. The divorce was acrimonious apparently, and “Daddy” lost the London house and there was no longer enough control or capital left in the family to keep the cement works open. As a consequence, Lady Lesley was never to be mentioned in the house.

Lizzy gained what little she knew of Lady Lesley by questioning Nanny Chloë. Lizzy had never had contact with her natural mother and learnt early on not to expect anything from that direction. Her step-mother, Mavis, on the other hand, had made it perfectly clear from Lizzy’s earliest memories of her, that she would love Lizzy as much as any real mother could. And as for the love of her father, Lizzy had never been in any doubt. From that moment on she was secure and gloriously happy in the sanctity of her family.

That dry as dust lawyer had stopped reading the Will at Lizzy’s outburst. Before he could continue reading out the details, Lizzy stormed out of the room in tears, brushing off all protests, ignoring all calls and messages, including that of her fiancé. Back at her London flat, she packed lightly and jetted off to the south of France. From there she lived a nomadic existence, trying to “find” herself. As an experienced investment banker, she set herself up in business, using her trust fund as capital, and worked successfully from abroad.

Lizzy tried to contact her “mother”, Sir Malcolm’s first wife, Lady Lesley, but was continually rebuffed by her until she eventually gave up. By shutting off all contact with her family and filling her time with work, she built herself a life of sorts. A life devoid of kith, kin and companionship. Eventually her snail mail caught up with her habitual global travelling. The wedding invitation came a week ago, along with a sackful of other communiques, so she only got around to opening it the day before yesterday.

The invitation, which shook Lizzy out of her self-imposed exile, was to attend and celebrate the marriage of her kid sister Molly to Lizzy’s ex-fiancé, Stephen. Did they both disrespect her so much to add this insult to her tragic tale? She caught the first flight back to London and extracted her classic sports car from the garage which regularly maintained it.

She pulled up outside the old hospital in a cloud of choking cement dust. The hospital had been spruced up since she had last seen it, the tarmac surface of the car park recently renewed and chock full of vehicles.

Lizzy stormed through the entrance into the waiting room, where many of the guests stood around drinking sherry or fruit juice, all dressed up in their finery. She recognised most of them as local villagers.

“Where’s Molly and Stephen?” she screamed at whoever would listen. All fingers simultaneously pointed to a set of doors leading into the heart of the hospital. She followed their direction and threw open the doors to a tiny ward, decked out in flowers, a table in the middle of the room covered with a white cloth, apparently ready for a civil ceremony. There was Molly and Stephen standing near the table, either side of the old nurse Chloë, who sat in a chair. By Stephen’s side was Mavis, Molly’s mother. Alongside Molly stood a tall young man that Lizzy didn’t recognise.

“What’s going on, Molly?” Lizzy spat, “How could you and Stephen go and get married behind my back?”

Molly smiled, “Hi, Sis. You look fit and tanned; you’re just in time for the wedding, although...” she looked her sister over, “Your dress could have been a tad more appropriate than jeans and tee. Good job we planned to have a change of clothing for you behind that screen.”