a town hall. A small place to grow up, a place where everyone knows everyone. A place where they all look at me and quickly look away. Being different is bad. They think I am a strange boy. A boy who will be a strange man. They don’t like the look of me with my black hair and my black eyes. But I don’t care because the feeling is mutual.
I only love you, I will only ever love you. With your blue eyes and unassuming personality, you are not arrogant or insolent like everyone else. You exude something special, something precious. You make others flock to you, want to be your friend. Want to please you and comfort you and make you laugh. But you don’t see it. You are too good for that.
*
We sit in rows, waiting for Mr Philips to take us through our history lesson. A new teacher is going to take his place tomorrow. A girl Mother says is as ‘cute as a button’. I haven’t seen her yet, only heard how everyone adores her and yet she has only just moved into town. Mr Philips saunters in, balding head slick with sweat, and greets us all in his droning voice. As he begins his tirade on the Roman Empire, the boys and girls slump in their seats. They try to look interested because Mr Philips talks to their parents over coffee in the café but I can see how they really feel. Micro expressions flit across their faces. Tiny truths unveiling the boredom or irritation or even awe that sits there. One girl, smaller than the rest, ugly, looks at the tall, beautiful girl to her left with something akin to love. Her feet dance under the table and I wonder if she wants to step on the tall girl’s feet and spin round the room. The boy in front of me turns every few seconds to snatch a glimpse of a girl. Lust. Love. Hatred. Envy. Emotions are as transparent as glass. I see them all. And soon I will see you. Soon, you will crash into my life with more colour and sincerity than I have ever seen before.
Saturday 6 June, 1987
She stumbles into the classroom. Books fly out of her arms and land with a heavy thump on the floor. A strand of hair catches inside of her mouth. She swats it away and bends to pick up the books, blushing red. She gives a nervous smile to the pupils sniggering behind their hands. I can feel the embarrassment peeling off her in waves. It hits me in the chest and all of a sudden I want to scream at the girls and boys to stop it, stop it! Stop sniggering. I want to hurt them more than I have ever wanted to hurt anyone for making her feel this way. For making her feel small and silly. She is like you, Blue-Eyes. She is like Mary. She is special. A Good One.
She straightens her shirt and pushes her hair off her shoulders, standing a little taller, meeting the eyes of every pupil in the room; I sense Mr Philips has advised her to do this. A trick he uses when he wants our undivided attention.
‘Hello, class. My name is Sarah Hardman. I’ll be taking over from Mr Philips. Some of you might have seen me about – I’ve just moved into town.’ A pause. ‘I believe you’ve been learning about the Roman Empire and so we’ll carry on with that today.’ She folds her hands in front of her stomach; it is usually a gesture of self-satisfaction but with this woman I think it is a means of trying to make herself feel more confident. She smiles half-heartedly, snatches up a piece of chalk and fumbles with it for a moment before scratching across the blackboard. A girl behind me whispers to her friend, ‘Think I might just start liking school now! We’re not going to learn a thing.’ The friend sniggers.
They think she is an imbecile but I can see she is not. She is nervous and embarrassed. She is also clever, engaging and sweet. It shows in the way she moves, the way she holds herself. And sure enough, when she gets into the flow of teaching, the boys and girls around me stop pulling faces and pointing and instead lean forward, eyes glued to her, faces taut with concentration. She has pulled them from their silly habits. She has got their attention.
Before the lesson is over, they are looking at her as if she is hope at the bottom of Pandora’s Box; a light in their dark, boring lives. They stare up at her with big eyes, round with awe and amazement. And if she walks past them and smiles or praises them, they grin to themselves and look about the room, making sure others have noticed. It has only been one lesson and already they worship her. She is beautiful with her brown hair and hazel eyes but it is something sitting deeper than the surface. She emanates a quality that is irresistible. A sweetness and unassuming sincerity that makes her stand out from everyone else. The boys fancy her, the girls envy her. It is almost like a spell she has put them under. One she doesn’t know she has the power to cast. It is one of the reasons I love you so much, Blue-Eyes: you don’t realise how special you are.
She looks at me and I feel a flush of heat envelop my face. I count the seconds, one, two, before she looks away. And I know I want that look again. I crave it. I crave her attention and touch. I want it more than I have wanted anything ever before. I need it. It is a gasping, burning pull deep inside my gut. I won’t be able to walk home unless I know I will come back tomorrow and have it again. I know how it seems, Blue-Eyes, I know I sound like all the other boys and girls, but it is different. It is stronger.
Much stronger.
I am the last to leave when she finishes her lesson. I walk past her, inhaling her vanilla scent, revelling in the proximity between us. She has her back to me, bending over a book on her desk. I mumble a goodbye.
‘Bye, sweetheart.’
As I go, I reach out and touch her skirt. My fingers graze the fabric and make it sway. She doesn’t notice and I leave. But my fingers are alive with the essence of her. Later, I run them down my face and I think I can feel her on my skin. I sleep with my hand tucked under my cheek, lips sucking on my fingers like a baby.
John
Friday 4 December, 2015
The sonographer smears on the gel and runs the probe across Jules’s bump. ‘Ahh, here we are.’ She smiles at the screen. ‘All seems well. I know you asked for another scan because you were worried but this little one is a very healthy baby. Would you like to know the sex?’
John looks at Jules and she nods. There isn’t much point in keeping it a surprise now. ‘Yes.’
‘A boy. A little boy.’
Jules puts her head against the headrest and stares at the screen, her face awash with emotion. She covers her eyes but he can see the glint of a tear under her little finger. He leans forward and kisses her head. The doctor jumps up from her seat and makes her way to the door. ‘I’ll give you a minute.’
‘She… she secretly wanted a brother! She told us she didn’t mind but I saw her mark the calendar with the date her baby brother would arrive. She… she wanted a brother.’ Jules leans into his shoulder and sobs. John wraps his arms around her.
This is supposed to be a happy time. A time to treasure, but instead here they are like this. For a moment, John wonders if it is a dream. This can’t actually be happening. When they return home, Bonnie will be sitting on the sofa with a book or playing a board game with Don. She’ll look up at them and smile, running over, trying to look at the scan photo. That is the way things will be. Except they won’t, will they?
Jules rummages through her bag for a tissue, pictures and make-up falling out. John pulls one from his pocket and hands it to her. This is their reality: who can get a tissue quickest. He knows he shouldn’t be having these thoughts. He and Jules are healthy, their second child is on his way and they will find Bonnie. They have hope. Hope. Such a feeble thing, such a wavering, useless emotion. No. They must be positive, otherwise what’s the point? Bonnie, if – when – they find her, will return home to a mum and dad who are no use to her. They have to be positive.
‘Jules.’ He wipes hair from her eyes and smiles. ‘Jules, Bonnie would want us to enjoy this. She’d want to be here with us. Right now she’d probably be sitting here—’ he pats the examination bed ‘—and staring at the screen with that look she gets when she’s excited. She’d be jumping into my arms and telling me all the things she’s going to do with him.’ John wipes