Never on Sunday
"He wears his great, green Parka coat with the fur hood. He puts his arms around me and I put my face inside the coat. It smells a bit like tar, this coat. But I love it, and burrow my head inside it till my nose is on his chest. Then I smell the Brut aftershave that everyone wears. I have a bottle myself at home, just so I can smell it sometimes and think of him. The bottle itself is beautiful. It's a tiny green thing like a wine bottle with a long neck and it has a silver label around it's neck so you know it's the real thing.
To be anyone right now, 1972, you have to wear Sta-Prest trousers, checked Ben Sherman shirt, Doc Martin boots and a Parka coat - if you are a boy.
If you are a girl (first you have to have a boyfriend who dresses like this) then you have to wear more or less the same clothes. My mother won't let me have the Doc martin boots, or the Sta-Prest trousers. But she does let me have the Ben Sherman shirt; it's red and white and I wear it with tight, narrow-legged dark jeans. On my feet I wear black shoes with stupid thick soles, and heels that match the soles. I don't like them much because they make me too tall and when we stand to kiss, I am almost taller than him. I have to slouch a bit so that he seems taller than me.
I put my arms inside the coat around his back.He puts his up the sleeves of my coat and we warm ourselves for a few minutes.
"You wanna go now? It's getting dark."
"No", I say, "I don't want to go".
But it is getting dark so we had better. We get up from the beach and scramble up the cliff side to the field where we will walk around the edge to get home. He puts one arm round my shoulder; I put one arm around his waist.
This is how we walk.
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Dreaming
Her fingers aren’t as flexible as they used to be, the joints a little stiff with rheumatism. Her eyesight has never been too good and she leans forwards now her chin uplifted to read through the bi-focal lenses of her spectacles. The sheet of music propped up on the piano is creased across both sides as well as the corners being curled and folded and the paper yellowing. But though it is difficult to read, it is an easy piece for her and she has played it many times over the years. Her eyes glance over the first line, then she leans back again and closes her eyes.
She was trying to concentrate on what the minister was saying, but it was difficult, difficult for everyone in the congregation, as they all had other things on their minds. Her eyes drifted away from the pulpit and towards the large wooden framed clock on the side wall. 11am. The service had started at 10.45 as usual, one hymn had been sung and one short prayer said. She realised that already she could not remember what the hymn had been even though she had sang heartily and with pleasure as she always did. The hymns were her favourite part of the service. At fourteen it was not always easy to stay focussed on the preacher’s words but many of the Bible readings she knew by heart. She brought her eyes back to his face and her mind back to his voice.
”The people that walked in darkness have seen a great light and they that dwell in the land of the shadow of death, upon them hath the light shined. For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given: and the government shall be upon his shoulder: and his name shall be called Wonderful, Counsellor, The mighty God, The everlasting Father, The Prince of Peace”.
Her eyes were again diverted as Mr Brown, the usher and giver out of hymn books, hurried down the aisle and the rest of the congregation’s eyes turned to follow him. He reached the pulpit as the minister stopped speaking and bent his head sideways slightly to listen to the words that were murmured to him. A small frown could be detected on his face as a piece of paper was pushed into his hands, then his expression changed back to the hint of a reassuring smile as he tuned back to the congregation. Her eyes glanced again at the clock on the wall - 11.15.
“I am afraid there is an announcement that I need to make to you “the minister began. “The Prime Minister, Mr Chamberlain, has made a statement that I will read now. “
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The Story That Hasn't Been Written
There's a story that hasn't been written yet. About a girl called Mary. Mary sits ona swing in the garden of a large old house, in a photograph in a silver frame, which stands on my dressing table.
In the story that hasn't been written, she has a friend; a boy of her own age who in the photograph stands beside the swing, leaning on it casually with one arm, and his body half turned away from the camera. His look is that he does not care about anything at all. Mary smiles at the camera with her face turned up towards the boy. In the story that hasn't been written Mary is very happy.
Mary wears a thick tweed skirt which comes jus above her ankles and black laced boots. The jacket is short to the waist. She swings her legs and the boots back and forth and the movemnet can be seen evenin the still photograph. The boy weras longer shorts that come to just below his knees and a wool striped jumper. They play together most days, taking turns with the swing, but Mary has more turns because she is the girl and this is the way things are.
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Encounter
She wonders why she is here. Well, she knows - to meet him. What she means is, is it worth it?
Carrying her coffee to the sofa area of the hotel, she sits down and picks up a magazine, pretending to flick through it as she looks around her. Is he here yet? Could be; she hasn’t seen a photo of him.
“Claire ?” The unfamiliar name doesn’t register at first.
“Paul? Hi !” Too eager. That’s the nerves.
“You ready, then ?”
She follows him to the lift, making their way to room 42.
As she undresses in the bathroom she can’t believe she is doing this, but the money is too good to refuse.
She comes out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around her. He is sitting on the bed, naked.
“OK?” he says
She nods, opens the door and is almost blinded by the flashes of the camera - click, flash.
They both dress quickly and he puts a newly signed cheque into her hand.
“That wasn’t too bad after all.” smiles Claire.
“No” says Paul. “Just wish the damn wife would give me a divorce on incompatibility. I have never committed adultery in my life!”
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