Hello, happy people, and again, welcome back to the mullers and packers union. Today for your pleasure and enjoyment we, here at the mpua hq, are proud as punch to present a work of creative fiction that's sure to delight. It's handcrafted, it's original, it's stylish as buggery, and it's locally produced. As is the author who's a real bright spark from way back. So settle in, listeners, get comfy, pour a drink, make a spliff, plate up that chocolate eclair. Kick back and enjoy the ride.......The story goes something like this:
Letter from a boy in London
It's there. In the letterbox. I can't breathe. I can't move. I'm all eyes as big as saucers and sharp intake of breath. My grin breaks wide and splits across my face. I savor this feeling, hand on letterbox, lid up. Frozen in this moment this letter. This letter from a boy in London. Pete Jones.
In London for the christmas holidays with his family. a long, long, longest way aways.
On blue heavy linen paper and written in spidery bic ink is my true loves hand. His hand spells my name across the oceans. On this missive he's drawn a sex pistols kind of hms flagg-y thing. In my letterbox is word from abroad. From a boy, not just any boy, he's the boy for me. And me for him.
He's been my friend for ages, years and years, since littlies, and the funny thing, it's deeper now. Scary deeper friends. The stuff that knocks the breath from out of you. Each and every time you see each other deeper stuff. Aqua Profunda kinda stuff. Latin is too easy sometimes.
He's a year or so ahead of me at school.
And tall.
And the sweetest face.
Like an angel.
And mannered.
And smart.
And funny.
And kind.
And handsome.
And soft hearted sweet for me.
He schools at the local boys high, and I travel a bit further again, to a posh, not so local girls school. He lives about a half a mile from me so we catch the same bus of a morning. It really is the best part of the day. It's on account of him that, over time, I shorten very very subtly the hem of my uniform. Oh, and very much on his account that I also run in the upper seams and darts on an otherwise very dowdy school dress.
He's in London for our summer, and I miss him greatly, as my heart stands still, and simultaneously threatens to burst out of my chest, when I see his letter in the post today. Slowly I let my breath out, and my hand steals in and gently lifts out the letter, and I do! I hold it clasped to my bosom, and a tear hits my throat to know he writes to me. It's too real. There's the rub. It's too big, this feeling of Oh! he writes across oceans and a family christmas in London to me.
I kiss it and slide it into my back pocket, scoop up the rest of the mail, and slowly make my way back down to the house. I'm saving this letter for later, for me and me alone, to steal glances at, to read again and again, because who knows if he'll write again? It's too too much that he's written at all godblesshim! I love a boy who's not afraid to commit on paper in the pursuit of romancing me.
Pete Jones and me go way back. Since first our family moved here. Here, is the very leafy, very splendid lower lower north shore of Sydney. The green belt of the bush that is our playground once more.
It's been a couple of years since the olds split up. It's been a tough couple of years 'till I could even say that, that matter of factly. Nonchalantly, even. Vocab, like nonchalance, is what holds us all together some days, since the decree nisi became final. Some days we all still fall apart in our own familiar ways. I miss dad. We all do, I think. Sometimes, even mum, though she rarely has a good word to say about him, on the whole.
We came here to this house, in this lovely place, in a round about way. Such is divorce, and the lot of the broken home-d and broken hearted, such as we are. From our old house, we went to nanna and pa's old terrace for a bit, then a flat that was too small and cramped for a mob such as us, but like pa's place, it had the makeshift feel of adventure.
A fatherless adventure. Pretty scary without dad around all the time. Sometimes I ache to snotty overflow at my loss of him. In between these times gets longer and longer, and then bamn! the immediacy of his absense is hot sweaty-faced tears. Mostly though, the adventure's ok and downright funtastic when I'm not feeling gutted and wretched over dad.
This house has a permanency to it. It's ours. And it is in this house that we begin to knit back together as a family, after the fracture of the split. This house, like the 'hood, is spacious, airy and light. We live a couple of miles out of town, and we're hemmed in by bush on all sides. It's the grouse to be back in the bush again.
I can't remember not knowing Pete, but I couldn't honestly tell you where or when we met. I've just always known him. He lives near us, with his parents, and his big sister Sally. She's heaps older and very suave, I only know her from dinners at their house and stuff like that. Pete's my buddy from the word get go. We are thick as thieves. Me and Tanya and the lads, of which Pete is one.
I can remember, however, when it changed between us as clear as day. On the bus on morning it changed as soon as we saw each other. Just like that! As I climb up those three steps, flash my bus pass at the driver, I've looked up at his green eyes looking back at me. We hang from those straps and as a seat opens up, we avail ourselves of it. It's different, more charged between us and fluid too, as he stands back to let me sit first.
It's easy. What I mean is that I'm at ease with this different thing that we're doing, and he is too, and that's why it's easy. It's all long grins and steamy looks, and our arms touch all the way to the ends of our fingertips, as we sit close by each other on the bus to town. Where we both loiter with intent, talking the most important bollocks imaginable, as we wait for the trains that take us in opposite directions to our respective school days.
Times are good in this new house of ours. Mum's busier than ever, busting a gut, earning a crust, keeping the metaphorical wolves from the door. She's run ragged supporting this brood of hers, but she wouldn't have it any other way, as she's fond of reminding us. She affords us many freedoms 'cos she believes in us, believes we're up for the challenge of the responsibilities of said freedoms. We try hard to prove her faith in us, mostly we're successful. She's fairly forgiving when we erre, and we all sleep easier, because finally life is once again expansive and thus quite luscious in this leafy silly lazy days are here again house of ours.
The neighborhood is special. We live in a gully off the road that leads to the escarpment and a hairpin bend filled gorge, that if followed, finally meets the river. In the other direction is town, and away to the east is a national park that also follows the river back into the harbour, eventually. Over the ridge to the west is more bush and crown land.
We rule this patch of bush of ours. We revere, play, plot, plan, daydream, explore and make ours, as we while away all the hours left us in any given day in the heady crackle of cicada hum, goanna underfoot, eucalypt sharp canopy of freedom. God's own indeed.
We really do congratulate ourselves for our everlasting good cheer and resilience in this house of ours. The only dark spot is dad. He seems to have lapsed from our lives. Disappeared. We don't see much of him these days. Our brother sees him still, but it's like he's forgotten about his daughters, all four of us! I can find no way to rectify this seemingly immutable state of affairs. So it becomes, slowly over time just that, immutable. It is as it is, and it's sad, but maybe it's all for the best? That's the vibe I get whenever I think to hard on the subject. Because time waits for no man, not even our dad. Eventually there's barely a blip on my emotional radar. Just the whisper of a by now dull ache. There's an echo, like a shadow, on my heart for him.
Starting school here is cute. Not. Me and one of my sisters are in the same room, the same class, a combined 5/6 class. It's weird and funny all at once. As if I don't see enough of her at home, now we share the same class as well! For the first time, in a long time, I feel the weirdness of my family. Socially, publicly, spatially. It's good we're cheeky, me and her, it makes school easier, and helps compensate for our weirdness. We're like twins, her and I, but not really. born eleven moths and one day apart, I'm older, but not really, except I am, chronologically speaking. I told you it's weird, we're like twins, but not really. To cap it all off, for one month and one day each year, from her birthday in September 'till mine in October we are, on paper, the same age. Think about it! I told you it was weird!
I like this school. I'm happy here. Lighter. All of us are. it's a relief to be settled again. We set about making ourselves comfy in our new home, because that's where it's at. Home and hearth. Kith and kin. So says my mum, and I agree. The living like gypsies was fun for a bit, but I for one am glad it's over. We sail through our first year in our new home, in a haze of low level glory that all we thought lost, is restored to us again. Dad remains the one loss in all this restoration.
In the year of my tenth birthday, I begged, pleaded with, and harangued my mum for a skateboard for my birthday. You could never be sure with mum until presents were actually opened, if the hassling would pay off. So good was her poker face and teasing, in the face of our oft repeated requests in the lead up to birthdays. And 10! Well, finally double figures. A decade old. Me. 10. This birthday was to be special, and I knew that despite her concerns about my safety, my chances of a skateboard were good. That the separation from dad's so new could. if played carefully. work in my favour, and as long as I don't overplay my hand I'd be right. With the bust up so new , mums a bit topsy-turvy and harder than ever to predict. But still! I'm turning ten, she's got to give in.
She does. I do get a skateboard that birthday. Not the thin flexy fibreglass deck and wide trucks of my dreams, but a classic nerdy surfer sam. Half an inch thick balsa hardwood deck, a nubbly grip pad all over the top, and basic black straight from the factory standard ball bearing wheels, not trucks mind you, wheels. No glamour, very very basic and godblessher! she's talked with the fellas at the local sports store and what she's given me is the starting blocks to a great affair with skating. In time I can do all the trick stuff on the ole surfie sam: tictacs, 180's, 360's, up and down kerbs and gutters, speed and freestyle. You name it, and I can eventually make it happen on that you beaut undercover deck of mine. Go mum.
As long as we're active and out in the sunshinefreshair she lets us go, quite literally from dawn until dusk. She makes sure we always have quality gear to tool about with. Big on sports, she is. The old man too. Lifeguard, waterpolo, rugby, body surfing. There isn't much the old man can't or won't have a go at in his pursuit of leisure. Life's a game billylids! he'd say, and thus we live accordingly. Sports mad, our mob. Watch it, play it, live it, breathe it, train for it, and try always to apply the rules in the spirit of fair play. That's the maxim yeah! Sports mad and vitally proud of it. All that healthy body, healthy spirits, healthy mindedness is part of what drives the tribe I spring from.
I'm guessing it's the skating or the fangin' through the place on our pushies that see us all finally come together. I meet Pete through Tanya, who lives further down the gully again. In the street, and almost the house, behind us. She's alright is Tanya. A bit of a tomboy still, like me. Sporty, and fond of a laugh. Not like some of the girls at my school. She lives with her dad and her stepmum Gina, who's lovely. Her stepbrother Dave stays for the holidays, sometimes. He's a funny silly duffer boy, and he reckons I can ride his surfboard this summer. Cool.
I'm in the Kiss Army. Me, and Tanya, and my sister Twinny paint our faces, and go into town one Saturday. Tanya's Ace Freeley with the star over one eye, I'm Paul Stanley, with the catface, and Twinny is Gene Simmons, and can she ever do a tongue thingy to rival his, let me tell you she can! We shock the good burghers in town and draw many stares, some comments too, not all of it disapproving. It's a hoot! A masquerade of sorts and we take liberties in the crowded shopping centre, jostling and yahooing, holding court in the centre court, rowdy in our anonymity. Having, Isweartogod! the time of our lives.
I really like The Angels, and a band Dragon, has caught my attention. I love Kiss, but I'm also a bugger for a bit of Barry Manilow, and I also love disco. But it's the bass player from Dragon who's really caught my fancy. He's the bees knees! I'm a huge fan for Todd Hunter. That's his name. Todd. Hunter. His brother Marc is the frontman. Lovely smokey voice, that Marc, but it's the taller one Todd, that I'm soft for. I love Dragon. Mum lets me have a half-day off school to see them live at Miranda Fair. On a school day. For free. My mum rules OK! I'm taking their latest LP for them to sign, some clothes to change into, and I get to leave at recess! Yahoo! Dragon! Todd! Here I come!
Me and a million bazillion other sweaty girls! But I'm agile, determined, and did I mention I'm a huge fan?! I push and squeeze ever closer to the front of stage area where I swoon along in time to the music, and the air of hysteria of us masses packed in like sardines, hypnotic in our adoration of the band.
Too soon it ends, we yell, stomp and cheer for more. They sing two more songs, April Sun In Cuba and Are You Old Enough, both off their new LP and both brilliant. I meet them. They exit stage left, only to reappear some time later, sitting at tables to sign autographs. We sardines attempt to form queues, and soon I have my five minutes next to fame. Good lookers these Hunter brothers, all shiny pop star smiley polite and sexy! Oh that Todd! What a hunk! Twice as handsome as on the telly, and he asks me my name and everything. Looks into my eyes as he thanks me for coming as he hands me back my record. I'm in heaven!
The train home is a blur, and it's not until mum picks me up from the station that I come to in any real way. My mum rules OK!
I also like Peter Tosh and some of Hendrixes guitar and Janis Joplin wailing on Pearl can send shivers up my spine. I also hear a whisper of some new London sounds from my lovely mate Pete, and his big sister suave Sally. I like him alot, but I think he likes my friend Karen, and because I like him alot, I sit on my hands and watch him decide he really likes Karen. Ouch! Bloody bloody boys! If I live to one hundred I still don't reckon I'll have figured them out!
Pete and me are close. Real close. Best friends even. He's the goodest company ever, since year six. We're like that crossed finger thingy. Sometimes it's hard to figure where we stop and start. It's neat. Like Robin Hood and the merry men, or the three musketeers, or those rats from Tobruk and if you chuck in the antics of Hogans Heroes and anything Mel Brooks, then that's me and Pete in a nutshell. He's goofy and smart and silly. Full of tommyrot and nonsense. And so am I.
But I think he likes Karen. Bummer. Big time. I'm not sure what holds me back from speaking up. I like to think it's the honourable thing to do, not make a competition for his feelings, with my friend Karen. Maybe I'm shy, maybe I'm gutless, maybe I'm hedging my bets. I like him maybe more than like him and I can't be sure I like him for real, and I'm loathe to share him in any way with Karen. Damnitalltohell! Why can't things be the way they were? How come all this other stuff lurks in the shadows just waiting to trip us up! I hate this feeling of jealousy and cranky whiney me. I'm still no closer to deciding if I'll declare my intentions and feelings to him. All I do is chase my tail until even I'm fed up with me.
My big sister reckons to tell him. We consult the twin oracles of Pink and Dolly magazines, and she is on the money. The agony aunties all concur that honesty is the best policy. Fortified by the wisdom of big sis and the mags I decide to bite the bullet, and let my feelings be known to him.
The next morning I take special care in getting ready for school. The white socks with the lacy tops, the 'be alert, your country needs lerts' pin, all the accessories that single me out from the drab uniformity of my school life. My legs are freshly shaved, my hair shines from the three million brushstrokes, and the butterflies are huge in my belly, as I head off up the hill to the bus stop
As I hear the bus approach, I've an overwhelming desire to duck back of the road side, into the mouth of the track, and let the bus sail on without me. I need to pee, and the phrase 'no guts no glory' jumps into my head, as the bus pulls into view.
I climb those well worn steps, flash my bus pass to the driver, look up and bam! I'm looking into that boys deep green eyes. We hang together from one of those straps and everything is different. When a seat opens us for us, he stands back to let me sit first, then bumps in beside me and whatever distance we've always kept is gone forever, as his thigh fits along side mine and our fingers reach for each other, and our grins break deep and slow, upside our faces.
We sit together into town, chattering nonsensical morning stuff. Lessons, homework, teachers we love to hate. School politics, friends and foe take us the three miles to the station. We hang back and away from the others and make plans to meet after school. At his house by 5. So that's that. We don't talk about Karen at all, which is a small mercy, and I do have him all to myself later this day, and that's more than enough for now. He runs to catch his train at the very last minute, as we pass grins and fare thee wells across the plarform as his train rattles him away to school.
I see Karen in a couple of my classes and try to be nice, rembering Nannas advise about flies and honey not vinegar. It's hard and my teeth hurt from the effort. I'm either a hypocrite or a stellar diplomat cos she thinks I'm her friend, when she's now becoming the friend I quietly hate cos she might rival me in is affections. He might like her, like her, even more than me. If he likes her like going steady likes her, it may spell the end to me and him and all things silly. Three being crowded company and all that jazz. He is the most beautiful young man! I fan the embers of my crush as I daydream the school day away. I'm marking time 'till 5.
I rush through my homework, fold the washing(my turn) and I change out of the school frock, and into Lee jeans and a Hang Ten tee-shirt and sandals. A quick brush of the tresses, a swipe of lipgloss, and I'm off on the pushie, on the way to Petes. I let my big sister know I might stay for dinner, and that I'll call in with my plans later. Then I'm gone!
Pete's parents house is amazing. An architect fleshed out thier ideas and it's pretty impressive. All split levels and huge sheet glass windows, kind of Frank Lloyd Wright modern modernism sprung to life in a rocky outcrop of bushland on a steepish block. He lets me in, he's on the phone upstairs, and there's cold drinks in the fridge. The Jamacian sounds of Tosh, Marley and the other Wailers drifts through the lofty rooms. Cordials in hand, I make my way upstairs, towards an uncertain future, and me with the flimsiest of gameplans!
It's bloody karen on the phone! Oh well. I hand over the drink and go look at the books and stuff that litter his room. I find a collection of sci-fi short stories, flip the record over, and lose myself in Asimov. Sitting on his bed, trying not to eavesdrop, trying to make sense of the print, and not his conversation. To do anything but listen to his conversation is torture. I get up, close the door between us, turn the record up and dance to lose myself in the view outside his window.
Anything but his low and lovely voice voice, his chuckle, and his attention directed elsewhere. I'm annoyed with the pair of them, but mostly her. She lnows how I feel for him and yet she flirts and flirts, any chance she can get, the slag! He's not that much better; if he fancies her. then maybe his standards are'nt what I thought. Oh shit! I try to push all of this crap out of my mind, and I redouble my efforts to get well and truly lost in the music.
It's working and I'm grinning madly, eyes shut, flailing about, lost to this world, and I startle to hear him chuckle. I look up and he leans into the doorframe.
-Gotcha! he grins
-Got what?! I shoot back at him. I feel a bit caught out that he was watching something not meant for others. I love dancing-it's an inside thing and I'm way self conscious of how other people see me. Who knows what I give away about myself when I'm inside the beat?
-You're good, I think, he says as he moves across the room to turn down the record.
-Thanks. How's Karen? I shoot back with an edge in my voice.
-Yeah, she's good, he replies.
-Oh good-o. I try to speak slowly and not stacatto cross, but I ain't pulling it off.
I feel misery-guts-ish and teary with frustration, our talk is at odds with how I feel and I want to run from this moment so bad, but I know the only thing to do is to stay put, so I do.
-Whassup, buddy? he asks coming to sit up on the ledge near me. He flips out, and lights up a ciggy. He's older, he sometimes smokes. I don't. Mum does, Dad never! Pa loves cigars, and Pete Jones is a B&H Speccy Filter kinda guy.
-Gimme one? I ask.
-Sure, he says offering the pack. Now this is weird. I don't smoke, but here we are, the pair of us, smoking! He takes it from me, puts it gently to my mouth, holds his lighter to it, as I enhale and choke splutter hacking burning throated cough my head off.
-Whoops! he pats my back, takes the ciggy from me, passes me his cordial, and as I regain my breath and my composure, his hand stays put across my back and shouders, rubbing slow soft circles. He draws on his ciggy and laughs softly. Sotto low man belly chuckle.
-Sorry, I offer. He shrugs, takes a long draw on his ciggy, and we say nothing for a while.
-Can I've another go? I gesture to the smokes. He passes me his and we both look at it for a bit. I'm not sure what to do. I'm not even sure if I'm holding it the right way, and I want to engage him with the task at hand. It burns slowly on in the silence.
-How do you smoke and not cough? I ask him.
-Like this, he says and he shows me how to breathe it softly in, then adds that I'm to expel the smoke as soon as I can.
-You turn, and he passes me the fag.
-Softly Annie, he warns. I do it. I have a quick puff and pass it back, glad to be rid of it, and glad to have held his attention away from Karen.
-Karen's okay y'know Annie? he begins quietly. Another draw on the ciggy, the tip glows red, I watch him exhale. His hand is still on my back.
-She's nice and all, but um she's not...not my....she's not for me y'know? I like her, don't get me wrong, she's a great girl but she's not my girl, yeah, that's what I'm wanting to say mate, she's not my cuppa tea at all.
-Oh, is all I can manage. His hand is still on my back, still making cicles. He draws again on his ciggy, we sit on in companionable silence, and I relax finally. I smile into my bones with the joy of what he's telling me. It's lovely. There's no need to speak, the late arvo sun deepens the shadows and the sky outside his window. All is well in the world.
He quietly stubs out his ciggy and pulls me into him. I like how he can do that. Strong and softly gentle, all at once. I like his smell. Sweat and cigarettes and something him. Some sharpish skin smell that is peculiar to him alone. It's kinda hard to breathe and I don't really know what to do, so I stay a bit still, and try to get my lungs to function. I find myself leaning closer than I ever dared before. I sigh into his chest as he holds me for the longest time. I think I fall asleep, or into some swoon, and I feel safe in him this day, and that is very heaven.
His arms go 'round me, he strokes my hair, and I am further immobilised in his embrace. I want to kiss the skin of his throat.I want to move in to the circle of his arms and take up permanent residency. I want stuff I have no language for. I want to cry and laugh, and split the world in two with my need to taste the skin of his throat.
My arms mave around his waist as we jostle a little and reconfigure this hug. I nestle into him, burrow really, A soft moan he makes catches me by surprise, I make him do that! I'm certain that's for me! There's power in this hug that envelopes us, it makes me tearful, excited and very very curious for him.
I step back a little, look up a little, and I'm gone for his grin, his big green eyes. I'm a goner for this one and I like it.
- You okay mate? I ask him.
-Hmmmmmn, he replies and he bends down and peers into my face. I ache to kiss his red red mouth.
-You you you, he whisper exclaims as we lean into each others smiles. Eyes and noses blurring as his mouth meets mine, cold hot hunger arcs between us, and we stand locked in kissing cuddle forever and ever amen. My mouth opens under his and Oh! This is what it's all about! My arms go up around his neck, his fall and cradle my hips, and I hang on loose tight 'cos this is one heck of a ride.
I can't breathe for real now, and our tongues have met for the first time, I love him for sure, for real, for ever. My heart is all over the shop and I really need to pee! He is so lush to kiss. I've never kissed anyone, yet I seem to know what I'm doing. Ain't love grand! Oh God I can't breathe, and I still need to pee. I feel damp down there, and I'm embarrassed momentarily, then I don't really care at all. I've no more thoughts, only feelings and I am lost in this kiss with this old chum, and I love him so.
This time the moan I hear is mine. He whispers Gotcha! so hot in my ear that I jump. He pulls me closer and his tongue flicks at my ear. He nips and kisses soft on my neck. and Oh boy! Do I really want to pee now!
-Pete, no... ummn oh... no... stop... I stammer.
-For real? he queries. I'm not so sure. He stops kissing at my hot and bothered neck, our breath is ragged, and I'm too shy to look at him directly.
-Whooooh! I exclaim to cover myself from him looking ar me.
He tilts my chin up gently and asks me if I'm alright.
- I dunno. I'm still avoiding his eyes.
-Hey Annie, look at me will you, your killing me here, sweetheart.
There's something in his tone I can't ignore. I pull back a little, and this time I do look into his face properly.
-Oh, I say quietly.
-Annie Maree Johnson, he says with a small smile.
- Are you okay, or not, my friend? he asks as he lets me go from his embrace to cast about for his ciggies. Scooping them up, he lights up. Through the smoke I see the question return to his face.
-I've never done that before, I say,
-Never? he asks,
-Never! I exclaim, with my first real smile for a while,
-Watcha think? asks the cheeky devil,
-'S alright, I demur not quite meeting his gaze,
-Only alright? he challenges me.
-Yeah, alright then, it's bloody fantastic! I do blush beet red then, and I'm scared to be too keen.
-Wanna draw? he offers, but I shake my head no.
-What? he asks,
-I told Sissy I'd ring if I'm gonna be awhile. Am I?
-Am you what?
-Am I gonna be awhile?
-Do you wanna be a while?
-Yeah, I think I do,
-So go ring home my little turrtle dove, he waggles his eyebrows and his ciggy, and motions me off to the phone. I take my cue from him, and phone home.
-It's cool, I tell Sissy, I tell her I'm invited for dinner, and they'll drop me home after. By 10, she reminds me, and I agree 10 is the curfew.
I go to the loo, raid the pantry for chippies, and I'm back in his room in minutes. He's lying back on his bed, propped on pillows, hands behind his head, but he sits up when I come in.
-Hey, he grins at me,
-Hey yourself, I grin back,
-Cool at home?
-Yeah, cool as a rube,
- Cool,
-Yeah cool, I echo.
-I said your folks'll drop me home later. I'm due in at 10 tops, what's thier eta, d'you know?
-Not till late, 9 or so, enough time to get you home, Annie.
-Oh.
It hangs there heavy in the air between us.
We've got the place to ourselves, there's nothing new in that, but this is so different! I'm outta my depth here, so I wanna make some groundrules with him. If only I could think of some! The house to ourselves, I'm not due home till 10, it's too too much to figure. It's loaded with possibilities, and the molecular charge between us arcs up again.
I move to sit beside him on his bed, instead I sit on the floor across from him. It's wierd how one kiss has me this uncertain, but it does, and I'm not getting too close to him till I can muster a clear logical thought. It could take some time!
I open and offer him the pack.
-Nah, thanks.
The chips taste like glue, but having committed to the mouthful, I concentrate on my chewing.
-So far away you sit, my friend, he says as he reaches out his hand to me.
I take it, and in one movement I'm on my feet, he's on his feet, and I'm up close to him once more. Our lips touch and man! I'm fire! He is such a good kisser.
-You are so good to kiss, Annie, he murmers as we pash on for ages,
-Straight back atcha, I mumble not long after. As the kiss goes deeper, my legs turn to jelly, and ny hands have somehow found thier way, crept, up and under his shirt. His back is hot and he quivers at my touch, which stirs me in my gut.
We pause, draw breathe and grin the grins of idiots. Love makes fools of us all, I think gleefully. He changes the record, lights up a ciggy, and taking my hand, we climb up on his bed. He leans back against the pillows, legs drawn up, and I sit Injun style against the wall near to him, loving how he looks as he thinks and smokes and looks at me.
-Well, Annie, he begins, pauses, puffs away on his smoke, looks long and hard at me, and starts again.
-I like you heaps Annie,
-Me you too Pete, I interrupt
-Okay, so the liking's a given, how best shall we proceed?, he queries,
-Gimme a ciggie, please, I interrupt him again.
-What? Sure, help yourself kiddo, he passes me the packet, and lights me up.
I remember to take little puffs and not to draw back too much.
-You're a quick study, Annie, he gently mocks,
-I'll be taking that as a complment, good sir, I mock gently back,
-Oh no, he chides,
-If it's compliments you're wanting, then babe! Have I got flattery for you!
-Oh yeah?
-Oh yeah!
-Like what?
-Like you are the best girl ever! I think you're excellent, Annie, truly really, you must know that! you're pretty, and smart and funny. I love to hang about with you. You're goodliest company, Annie. His eyes, those green eys are shining, my heart is soaring, as he grins cheeky smiles my way.
-And, he stops, draws out the suspense and continues,
And um, and I'd be delighted old bean, if you'd consider to be my girl.
-Oh Pete! I'd love to be your girl! Will you then be my fella, Pete?
My smile's so big that this time I really might grinsplit my face open. I'm stoked to be having this grin to grin chat with him.
-For real, Annie all jest aside, for real?
-Oh yes Pete,very very for real.
-Good. That settles it. He leans across to rummage in a bedside chest, tells me to close my eyes and hold out my hands.
-No peeking now Annie, he admonishes.
He puts a small soft something into my hands leans in and kisses me long and hard, holding my face in his hands, pulling away he says,
-Open it.
I do
In my hands is a velvet jewellers bag. Undoing the rope, I turn the contents out and into my hands, Oh! It's a plain silver ring.
-Oh my! I exhale
It's stunning, and its heavy. Silver from Italy he says. It's plain, simple elegant, and inscribed on the inside are six words 'Ain't love grand! Pete loves Annie'
-You bloody beauty!
-This mean you like it?!
-I love it! It's gorgeous, you're gorgeous Pete, truly you! Thankyou thankyou thankyou!
- Shall we see if it fits love, he asks
-Too right, I reply and I pass the ring to him. He takes it, and my hand, the moment solidifies, and we get a little solemn.
-If it doesn't fit we can get it sized at the jewllers, he says, looking at what he is doing. He slides the ring onto my finger, it fits, and looks good.
-Beautiful, I knew it would be on you, Annie, he whispers, kissing my hand. My heart breaks, I cry a little, he notices, leans in, draws me to him, and kisses away my tears. He folds me into his arms, making all the right soothing noises, and this kindness lets me howl down the front of his shirt. He holds me tight. I bawl like a baby, as he rocks me into his chest. I let his rythns settle me down.
-That's for your Dad, hey babe, he asks quietly
-How'd you get so smart? I ask in admiration.
-Only smart for you cos I care big time, y'know that hey Annie?
-Yeah. I do know honeybunch, I do know you care.
-You know I reckon I love you big as all outdoors AnnieMarieWoodwardJohnson!
My heart stops dead in it's tracks. Pete has used my secret double barrelled surname, and in conjunction with his running together of my first and middle names, I know beyond all doubts that he is serious!
-I know you care Pete. Man! I trust your love, I reckon it's always been there-from the start eh.
-Yeah from the start. From the word get go, he adds for emphhasis
-Oh you big dag! I love you more than I have words for PeterJosephAnthonyJones. Which is huge if it renders me speechless, hey Pete.
-Oh beautiful Annie. You love me and I love you, and the night's still ours. Watcha wanna do? He waggles his eyebrows and wiggles his ciggie in a lechy Groucho marx kinda way. I do love him, hey.
-Food my friend, I'm fading fast, let's rustle us up a little grub, my friend.
-Man doth not live on love alone, he intones, and suddenly the game plan's much less flimsy than we thought.
We make half hearted stirrings, it's difficult because I want to keep close to him, and he to me, then it hits me that there's no rush, we'll get to food sooner or later, or not at all. I'm so keyed up.
The name thing he and I did-it blows me out. It's part of the glue we use to stick together. It cements the bond of who we are to each other. It's a formal acknowledgement that only we know these private details about each other. It's a thing we do, like blood brothers mix blood, we share the intricasies and secrets hidden in our names. It's a matter of honour that we use them sparingly so as not to wear out thier significance.
He smokes a leisurely ciggy, as we lounge and sprawl contentedly for a bit, entwined and exploring this whole other universe that's opened up between us. We linger in his room, eventually hunger wins out. We make our way down the stairs, bumping hips, for the kitchen.
fini
How good's that then reader dear? A gun writer who remembers and celebrates what it is to be young-a regular scribe for the tribe.
*** the mullers and packers union of australia retains any and all intellectual and creative copyright in this and all or any subsequent and previous posts..the mullers and packers union of australia also respects acknowledges and sources to the best of it's ability all and any other copyrights in play that are used in the commission of the creative goals of the author and the mullers and packers union of australia and all who sail with her. ***
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