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Non-Fiction
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| first love (1537 words) | |
| By Snodlander | ||||||||||||||
| 06 November 2006 | ||||||||||||||
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My bother invited some friends from 30 years ago to his birthday party this weekend. It was a bit of a shock. I had been chatting to Jeannette. It had been over 30 years since we had seen each other. Friends Reunited had reunited her with my brother Tony a couple of months before, and so he had invited her to his 50’s and 60’s birthday party. I remembered her, though she hadn’t been one of my closest friends. She had joined the youth club with Lynda Howard, and had been Tony’s first girlfriend. It was never serious and didn’t last more than a month or so, but in those days we were all a tight bunch. St Faith’s Youth Club on a Saturday evening, and then the hardcore of us meeting for Youth Fellowship Sunday evening. Pairs linked and unlinked in the rush of youth, all caught up in puberty and friendship, love and lurve swirling into a mix we thought was going to last for ever. So there were past and future partners, rivals, winners and losers, but most of all there were Friends. She looked the same. Well, of course she didn’t. Life had etched little vertical lines over her lips, and there was a little sadness around the eyes. But I recognised her immediately, deserted my family after a decent interval and sat down with her to chat about the good old times, and how kids today don’t have a clue. So I wasn’t in my normal state of alertness as I made my way towards the buffet. Tony was near the village hall door, greeting a couple who had arrived. As I passed he caught my arm. “It’s Linda and Steve.” I shook hands with Steve,”Steve, Linda”, then offered Linda my hand, mind on the sausage rolls. She laughed. “A handshake? Come here!” and held her arms wide, and then it hit me like a locomotive. Linda Bellfield! The source of a week’s heaven and two years of absolute hell. What was I thinking of? She hadn’t changed a bit. I swear, not one line, not one pound. She was there, just like I remembered her. We hugged, and then I repeated, this time with more passion and sincerity, “Steve, Linda! How are you? Sorry, I was miles away.” Steve looked much more mature, and now that I knew who he was I could lay his features over the acned youth that had stolen my light away. Linda laughed “I know, it’s the wig, isn’t it? It makes me look totally different.” And she pulled the blonde curls off to reveal the short dark bob underneath, shorter than those early 70’s days, but now unmistakably hers. “You should worry” I answered, pulling the hot quiff from my head, immediately wishing I hadn’t. She laughed at my grey hair, trimmed tight to the sides of my head, missing entirely from the top. I was acutely aware of what I must look like, thirty years older, six stones heavier, two years her elder but looking much older, ridiculous in my Teddy Boy costume. How could she have recognised me? How lucky she must feel to have chosen Steve. I remember our first date. And for me it was truly my first date. Ever. For some time I had been aware that she fancied me, but as she was only fourteen and I was a grand old sixteen I had felt awkward about it. But then I decided, what the hell. I had sat next to her at Youth Club. I would ask her out on Wednesday. As soon as the second hand hit the twelve on the wall clock, I’d ask her. Just like that. OK, the next time the second hand hit the twelve, that time didn’t count. And so we sat there awkwardly for minute upon cowardly minute, conversation between two close friends stilted and awkward. On reflection, she must have suspected. Youth is so wasted on the young. If I had had my roguish charm and outgoing personality back then… And then the bomb shell. No she didn’t want to go to the pictures on Wednesday. There was a speaker at St Luke’s she wanted to hear who had smuggled bibles into Russia. But Joy! She’d love it if I could take her! For the next few days I must have been unbearable. Think of a cliché about romance. Multiply it by a hundred. That was me. I remember literally dancing to school, my briefcase clasped to my chest, humming the Sleeping Beauty waltz. I started to listen to Radio 2, the radio station of choice for my parents, because the songs were much more romantic. I grinned so much my cheeks hurt. I can’t remember much of the detail of the early part of Wednesday, except that it was a hot summer evening. We had arranged to meet at St. Faith’s by the bus stop. I know that I was there early, dressed in the height of 70’s fashion, or as high as I ever got. Maybe I was wearing my purple shirt with the huge round collar that I was particularly proud of. I don’t remember. But she hopped off the bus, and because this was officially a date we walked hand in hand to St. Luke’s. After the talk we walked back into the centre of town. It was close to sunset, but still balmy. We stood at the bus stop, arm around each others’ waist. And screwing up all my courage I leant down and kissed her, briefly, gently on the lips. She uttered an ‘oh’ of surprise as I pulled back. This wasn’t her first date, and I suspected that she was expecting something a little longer in the way of a snog. Well, what the lady wants, the lady gets. And the bus arrived too soon, and I watched after it until it disappeared over the bridge. When it was gone I leapt over the railings and ran home, feet on air, chest bursting with happiness. I counted the seconds to Saturday evening, Youth Club night, when I would see her again. We sat down together at the start of the evening, and she told me that she didn’t want to go out with me any more. Just like that. I can’t remember the words she used. I know she didn’t explain why. My erudite defence was along the lines of “OK”. My entire insides were ripped out. I was a shell. I waited until I went to bed that night before I cried, silently so that Tony in the other bed would not hear me. And for two years afterwards I pined for her. Even after I had started dating her best friend Linda Payne. Two years of misery. Two years of hoping beyond hope that somehow she would realise her mistake. In my memory of that time it is always summer, bright sunshine pouring through the high west windows of the church hall, sweating through rambles in the Kent countryside, scavenger hunts paired up (but never with her, never with her) through the warm streets of Maidstone. I remember when she first met Steve. It was at a meeting between the girls’ and boys’ grammar schools at our school. Afterwards I saw them walk down the road together, and I knew. From that very first moment, even before they knew themselves, I knew. But I still wallowed in the hopeless, romantic misery of it all. And then one evening I decided enough was enough. I spoke to her, apologized, asked if we could be Friends again. And she agreed, relieved, I think, that the tension on both sides had been broken. And from that simple two-minute conversation we were Friends again. Forgiven. Born again. And here she was again, in the 60’s-style mini-dress borrowed from her daughter, so much like what she looked like then that I was breathless. We sat down with Jeannette and reminisced about those times, laughing at our foolishness. Steve sat on the periphery again. He was always a St. Luker, allowed into the St. Faith’s ring as an associate, but never quite part of the inner ring. My daughter Grace came over, beautiful in her Marilyn Monroe costume. “Grace, this is Linda. She could have been your Mum. In fact, if I could have afforded that hit man, she would have been.” We all laughed. Steve’s smile seemed a little embarrassed. Was he a tad jealous that I had kissed her before him, even for those few brief moments at that summer bus stop? Did he feel defensive about me joking and flirting, even now? I hope so. She deserves every happiness, and if she had decided that it was Steve, rather than me, that gave her that happiness, it was good to remind him. And now I am thinking of those times, and those great friendships that were destined to last forever, but that we casually tossed aside for other, lesser things. What did happen to Linda Payne? Nigel? David? And what of the youth leaders we had? Bill and Vera? Terry and Jenny? Would they remember me? Would they want to? Could we ever regain those innocent, passionate times? Maybe I’ll look them up again. But then, maybe I’ll let them sleep on in that never-ending 70's summer.
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