My Aunt Fish
I once read somewhere that the brain has no capacity to remember pain, I would argue with that, so would every woman who has given birth I expect. I can’t remember if the writer was talking about mental or physical pain, he can’t have suffered either to come to that conclusion. Physical pain is brief for the most part, and what we remember of that is the event. Mental pain is a different animal; it feeds on fear and lurks in the dark corners of your mind until called again. Not much scares me these days, I’m too old to be scared, I have come to learn that what will be, will be, pain physical or otherwise is an old adversary. But I can still remember and recognise both, and I saw it a day or two ago.
My company works with disaffected and underprivileged young people. Yes we still have them in 2007. It’s a last chance given by the courts to drag them back from the brink of serious crime and educate them to a level that will allow them to see that they have worth, and are capable of better things than so far they have achieved. One of these youngsters stood in my office several days ago distraught and in tears asking a colleague to be allowed to go home. He had been bullied and not for the first time, It was of course dealt with, but I saw in his eyes the fear and self hate that I experienced when as an eight year old I made the mistake of telling the girl next door that I loved her.
She was a very pretty girl with blonde hair and bright blue eyes, and wherever she went she would skip happily. I adored her from afar, until the day I dared to tell of my affection for her, I did this in the classical way. I wrote her a poem, I’m sure it must have been a very bad poem, but it was heartfelt and genuine. I know I picked a bad time, I should have waited until we were alone, but I was impatient. It was middle summer and the street was full of kids playing in the sunshine. I was sat on my doorstep watching the girls involved in some kind of jumping about game, and when the object of my desire broke away from her friends to get her breath back, I seized the opportunity. I ran over to her shoved the piece of paper with the poem on it into her hand, kissed her quickly on the cheek, then I scuttled back to my doorstep.
My nemesis at that time was a big lad called Peter who lived at the top of the street, seeing this and also being somewhat enamoured of the blonde hair'd blue eyed girl came to investigate. I like to think that had he not been there, she would have dismissed the whole thing as just the actions of a silly boy. But egged on by her other suitor she began to taunt me and the scrap of paper with my heart written on it was passed around from kid to kid. She laughed, they all laughed and my heart shrank to the size of a peanut. I couldn’t understand how someone so beautiful could be so cruel; I walked away willing myself not to run, but as I turned the corner of the street the tears came and for the first time in my life I felt the dull ache of rejection.
I sat in someone’s back doorway for a long time going over in my mind what had happened and why. Long enough anyway for my Mother to have become worried and out looking for me. As it was my Aunt Fish who found me and seeing my distress took me to her house for tea and a jam sandwich, as I ate I told my story. She listened whilst she sewed shami leathers together on her treadle machine, when I had finished she came and sat beside me and putting her arm around me she said this.
There is someone for everybody in the world, you already have a girl David, she is out in the big world somewhere, you just haven’t met her yet, she is probably right now playing with her friends or having tea with her family. She goes to school just like you, she has birthdays just like you, and there are times when she is happy and times when she is sad, but she is as real as the jam on your face. I wondered how she could know all this and asked who this girl was. I don’t know she said, But how will I know who she is I asked her. When the time comes you will know. But what about now I said still miserable. She smiled, make a face up in your mind, and she can look however you want her to look, give her a name, and it can be your secret. Whenever you feel sad, or you’re in trouble you can imagine her and it will help to have a friend with you. Then when your all grown up and you meet you can tell her that you have known her all your life.
I felt a little better as I left her house, but I think that was down to the jam sandwich rather than her well meant advice. However that night as I lay in the darkness I put together in my mind the face of an angel, it was fuzzy and indistinct, but it had beauty. Over the years the face has changed from being that of a girl to being that of a woman, but it has always remained the same beautiful face, and often in bad times I have recalled my imaginary girl and been comforted by her presence.
When I saw that young man in my office, desperately unhappy and in tears I recognised the pain in his face, there perhaps for a different reason, but without doubt the dull ache of rejection. I wanted to talk to him, I wanted to tell him that everything will be all right, to give him some snippet of hope like my Aunt Fish had given me. But I couldn’t, our remit is to listen not give advice, anyway kids are different these days, and I’m not sure he would have appreciated a friendly arm on his shoulder, political correctness forbids it anyway, and I think that a pity.
The name of my imaginary girl? It’s a secret.
My company works with disaffected and underprivileged young people. Yes we still have them in 2007. It’s a last chance given by the courts to drag them back from the brink of serious crime and educate them to a level that will allow them to see that they have worth, and are capable of better things than so far they have achieved. One of these youngsters stood in my office several days ago distraught and in tears asking a colleague to be allowed to go home. He had been bullied and not for the first time, It was of course dealt with, but I saw in his eyes the fear and self hate that I experienced when as an eight year old I made the mistake of telling the girl next door that I loved her.
She was a very pretty girl with blonde hair and bright blue eyes, and wherever she went she would skip happily. I adored her from afar, until the day I dared to tell of my affection for her, I did this in the classical way. I wrote her a poem, I’m sure it must have been a very bad poem, but it was heartfelt and genuine. I know I picked a bad time, I should have waited until we were alone, but I was impatient. It was middle summer and the street was full of kids playing in the sunshine. I was sat on my doorstep watching the girls involved in some kind of jumping about game, and when the object of my desire broke away from her friends to get her breath back, I seized the opportunity. I ran over to her shoved the piece of paper with the poem on it into her hand, kissed her quickly on the cheek, then I scuttled back to my doorstep.
My nemesis at that time was a big lad called Peter who lived at the top of the street, seeing this and also being somewhat enamoured of the blonde hair'd blue eyed girl came to investigate. I like to think that had he not been there, she would have dismissed the whole thing as just the actions of a silly boy. But egged on by her other suitor she began to taunt me and the scrap of paper with my heart written on it was passed around from kid to kid. She laughed, they all laughed and my heart shrank to the size of a peanut. I couldn’t understand how someone so beautiful could be so cruel; I walked away willing myself not to run, but as I turned the corner of the street the tears came and for the first time in my life I felt the dull ache of rejection.
I sat in someone’s back doorway for a long time going over in my mind what had happened and why. Long enough anyway for my Mother to have become worried and out looking for me. As it was my Aunt Fish who found me and seeing my distress took me to her house for tea and a jam sandwich, as I ate I told my story. She listened whilst she sewed shami leathers together on her treadle machine, when I had finished she came and sat beside me and putting her arm around me she said this.
There is someone for everybody in the world, you already have a girl David, she is out in the big world somewhere, you just haven’t met her yet, she is probably right now playing with her friends or having tea with her family. She goes to school just like you, she has birthdays just like you, and there are times when she is happy and times when she is sad, but she is as real as the jam on your face. I wondered how she could know all this and asked who this girl was. I don’t know she said, But how will I know who she is I asked her. When the time comes you will know. But what about now I said still miserable. She smiled, make a face up in your mind, and she can look however you want her to look, give her a name, and it can be your secret. Whenever you feel sad, or you’re in trouble you can imagine her and it will help to have a friend with you. Then when your all grown up and you meet you can tell her that you have known her all your life.
I felt a little better as I left her house, but I think that was down to the jam sandwich rather than her well meant advice. However that night as I lay in the darkness I put together in my mind the face of an angel, it was fuzzy and indistinct, but it had beauty. Over the years the face has changed from being that of a girl to being that of a woman, but it has always remained the same beautiful face, and often in bad times I have recalled my imaginary girl and been comforted by her presence.
When I saw that young man in my office, desperately unhappy and in tears I recognised the pain in his face, there perhaps for a different reason, but without doubt the dull ache of rejection. I wanted to talk to him, I wanted to tell him that everything will be all right, to give him some snippet of hope like my Aunt Fish had given me. But I couldn’t, our remit is to listen not give advice, anyway kids are different these days, and I’m not sure he would have appreciated a friendly arm on his shoulder, political correctness forbids it anyway, and I think that a pity.
The name of my imaginary girl? It’s a secret.
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home