Page 7 of Little Wing
Dougie was aware of it. When he first moved to London, he would say so quite pedantically because London was home and he had to believe it. Nowadays, he did so automatically. He looked at the framed photograph hanging next to the map, of Luskentyre at the setting down of the sun, which he’d taken all those years ago with his first proper camera that God knows his parents must have saved and saved for.
‘I’m glad you’re well, Dad,’ Dougie said quietly. ‘I will look into dates. I’ll keep you posted.’
‘Aye – you do that.’
Dougie paused. ‘It has been too long.’ He paused again. ‘And I’m sorry for that.’
He looked once more at the map drawn so fastidiously by his great-grandfather; for posterity, for future generations of the family – for someone just like Dougie who’d left the island without much of a backward glance. The map that said this is where we are. This is who we’ve always been. This place of yours that will always be here. This place you can always call home.
‘Bye, Da. Bye for now.’
‘God bless you, Douglas.Oidhche mhath leibh.Goodnight to you.’
Colchester, December 1968
Not a baby.
Mum and George were going out for cheese and wine at their friends on Saturday and they – or rather Mum – had asked Wendy to babysit. Those actual words. Wendy was as mad about this as I was.I am not a baby and my sisterdoes not want to sit her way through a Saturday evening. It occurred to me that I probably wouldn’t have to sneak out now – that I could just tell her. But part of me was quite looking forward to furtively stealing into the night. Wendy’s only ten years older than me – she can’t have forgotten what it’s like to be my age.
Almost as soon as Mum and George left, Wendy’s boy Jimmy arrived and suddenly it struck me that there might very well be a God so I laid the dress out on my bed, put the lipstick and false eyelashes next to it and then went downstairs.
‘Wendy,’ I said, ‘you’re cool if I go to Joan’s, aren’t you?’ Everyone knows she’s my best friend.
Just then Jimmy came in with two Martinis and he said, ‘Let her go, Wendy.’ And I’m assuming he didn’t mean for me to see the wink he gave her.
Wendy looked at me and I knew exactly what she was going to say. ‘It’s your life; it’s your funeral.’ She said exactly the same thing when she caught me on the high street, when I played hooky from school. ‘Your life, your funeral,’ she said.
Well, skipping school didn’t kill me – but being there threatens to do precisely that. I know what I want to be and I don’t need school for it. I am going to be an artist – and to be an artist you need to be a free thinker, and that’s something that boring old school does not encourage. My teachers say I’m bright – exceptional, even – but I say school dulls me right down.
So Wendy caught Jimmy’s wink and probably couldn’t wait for me to get out of the house anyway.
I went up to my room, changed into my handmade dress, and I glued on the falsies and added my cat’s eyes perfectly in one swoop of black liner. And then I very casually walked down the stairs, checked myself in the mirror in the hallway and applied more lipstick. I didn’t need rouge – my cheeks were pink and glowing with excitement. The sitting-room door was shut and I called out goodbye.
I said, ‘Goodbye, kids!’ I said, ‘Don’t wait up!’
It was only Jimmy’s voice that replied. ‘Be good!’
Of course our mother doesn’t approve of Jimmy. She always looks pained when he calls on Wendy. Mind you, there’s little in life that doesn’t pain our mother. Wendy would have to marry a vicar for Mother to be halfway happy. Anyway, Jimmy was on side and I pretty much skipped all the way to the party, singing to myself thank you God thank you God thank you.
There were so many people! Everyone was like me – like we were a tribe; it was such a groovy vibe. ‘Hello, I Love You’ by the Doors was playing just as I arrived. It was perfect. Everyone was talking , singing , dancing. Friends from school and new people hanging out. But – best of all I met this boy, this dearest boy, an absolute knockout. None of us knew him – he turned up with Gerald and Martin and that lot. But as soon as I saw him oh! the flutter and the swell and if that’s love at first sight then let my eyes see nothing else!
Even when I was really having a good talk with Joan about Sid, my eyes were pulled to him. But it was too much when he caught my gaze! I felt this incredible heat come over my cheeks and my chest, my skin prickled and my breath caught. I didn’t know what to do about it – I asked Joan and she said, look! he’s over there by the punchbowl. She said, just go over as if your main interest is a glass of punch and see, she said, just see.
So I did.
I went over to the punchbowl and drat! his back was turned but as I took a glass I could sense him, like he was as drawn to me as I was to him. As if our souls were sending out electric charges that were reacting mid-air, propelling us together. My hand was shaking as I spooned punch into a glass. It’s excellent stuff to calm the nerves, is punch! And then I hear this lovely voice and I know it’s him and he’s saying , wow – I dig your dress! Far out!
And that’s when I felt I could turn and look at him and I told him I made it and he said that it was the coolest thing. Somebody had put Jimi Hendrix on and everything just seemed magical, so clear and real, so right and so – in the Now.
We chinked glasses and our eyes were absolutely locked as we sipped at the punch. Which was very strong.
‘I’m Peter,’ he said.
We tapped our feet and nodded our heads in time with the song – and soon enough we were dancing. And when we weren’t dancing we were talking. It was as if we’d known each other our whole lives. He’s from South Africa but his family don’t live there any more, now they’re renting on the other side of the park – the well-to-do side. We talked for ages, we drank the rum punch, which was like the best pop in the world but with this hot and sharp delicious aftertaste that made you squint your eyes shut.
‘Rum,’ Peter said. ‘Rrrrrum!’ And he said it like a lion starting to roar.
We only had eyes for each other, we didn’t care to talk to anyone else from that moment on. We’re so similar. We danced and danced and it was as if everyone else at the party just melted into a silent background. Like they were black-and-white cutouts, like scenery. Really, there was just Peter and I. Someone had put on ‘All Along the Watchtower’ and he kissed me. And then oh how we smooched and I couldn’t have told you what was playing then and I couldn’t have cared who was looking. Jimi himself could have been right there, wanting to make my acquaintance, and I wouldn’t have stopped. And I’ll say this: I know that no other kiss will ever feel quite like it.
