Writings

The First Time

It was time to enter the enchanted world of boyfriends enjoyed by former classmates, sophisticates, it had seemed to her, for years. She and her best friend were going down to the fair most evenings, skin still perfumed with ambre solaire after a day sunbathing in the garden and working themselves up into a romantic fervour over the boys they were admiring.

She thought she'd met someone wild, but he was only a kid who pushed the waltzers around at the fairground. He wasn't enigmatic, he just had nothing to say. But being young, looking a little louche, cigarette dangling in an insouciant way, he seemed interesting.

He was amused by her attempts to talk, recognising the type, insecure and moral, but wanting it. He played her a little, lazily waiting to see if she would put out. He wasn't that bothered, for at that time in his life, there were plenty of girls who did.

She was attracted by his dark blond looks, the deep tan showing on broad bare shoulders and the full lipped, laid back grin he gave her by way of reply to her chatter.

She wondered about him and his life. He thought, nice tits, not used to it maybe but hell why not if she wanted to, probably needed a drink to take the edge off her virginity though.

It wasn't as she'd imagined, of course, more an understood progression than a passionate moment. The smooching was great, although chewing gum being neatly pushed behind his teeth to free his tongue for French kissing was unexpected, if proficient.

She was used to foreplay, though she wasn't entirely certain about what came next. When it did, although he applied his skills, she felt strangely distanced, finding herself listening to music playing in the room below in his lodgings and wondering what it was supposed to feel like, nerves taking away her spontaneity.

After a while it was over. He looked down at her, leaning on his elbows, smiling slightly and she knew her ignorance found out. He didn't seem to mind, however, and in comradely fashion, offered her a fag to share, saying nothing of it, then took her home.

They didn't meet again then as she was too embarrassed to go back and soon the fair moved off for that year. She thought of him wistfully for a while and imagined receiving letters, or perhaps a postcard, which of course, she didn't.

It was some years later , when buying a hot dog from a stand, and a plump, cheerful seeming and balding young man asked her how she was, that she realised, having wondered how he knew her, who he had been, only the smile remaining of what she remembered about him.

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Two teddies are now

Both in my keeping,

Gifts to toddler grandchildren, us.

When new, Bruin was purple, larger,

With a deep growl.

My brother's.

Teddy was smaller, fawn,

Mine.

He lost his growl after an unfortunate fall 

And a sink bath.

I loved Teddy with a depth which included emotional guilt.

I was jealous because Bruin was bigger and purple

And  my own ted  must never know of that.

I was the oldest but the girl.

Perhaps that played into who got which bear.

Bruin is no longer purple,

Faded after decades on my brother's windowsills,

At home and in his flat.

For a few years now, both have looked down from

The high shelf beside my daughter's childhood raised bed.

They leaned together, slightly forward,

As if wanting to come down.

I climbed up to get them the other day and soon saw why.

Both lambswool, moths have pecked their back legs into small

bald patches.

It's been a poignant time as my mother has lately died too.

I felt I had let them down, the two teds, 

Neglected while cherished still.

I've dusted them off and put them on the coverlet

Of the single bed below,

Where they seem more contented, two old men together.

Better now, their worn little faces seem to say.