Wait For Me

Childhood Remembered

Iremember it as if it were yesterday, although it is now sixteen summers ago. I remember it through a pale, sunlit haze; the images lacking form and clarity as if what I am seeing is not exactly how it was. A piece of the puzzle is missing. I drift helplessly, as if through a misty fabric of dreams. I find I cannot rest until I have set that missing piece into place…

We are thrusting our way through the wheat field, Izzie and me. The tall stalks scratch at our bare legs, bubbling them with tiny beads of scarlet. Izzie is streaks ahead, wild to reach our goal, wild to win. I watch her yellow plaits bounce, frantic, with the fierceness of her determination, as she weaves her way through the ears of wheat. I hear the uneven rasping of her breath. Every now and then, she leaps up, punching at the air, “Yay!”

We’re counting, Izzie’s words floating back, mingling with mine. “…seventy three… seventy nine… one hundred! One hundred and one…”

The orange sun glows like a burning ball high above us. “…one hundred and thirty, one hundred and thirty one…” Light and colour splinter into shards of lemon and orange gold.

The furthest we have ever reached is three hundred and sixty four.

“Wait for me, Izzie!” I call. But I’ll never catch up with her. It’s always me that’s last.

Izzie is eight. She’s got puppy fat. That’s what her mum says, anyway. I’m nine. I’m tall for my age. That’s what my mum says. I’m skinny, too. My mum says to me, “Girl, you’re like a matchstick with the wood shaved off.”

Izzie is still ahead but I think she’s getting a little tired because the gap between us is getting smaller. In my mind’s eye I see Izzie’s feet flashing through the wheat. She’s wearing her shiny black patent shoes. They’re her best shoes. They’re slip-ons, like the big girls wear. She sneaked them out when her mum wasn’t looking. Her mum gets Izzie’s feet measured at that posh shoe shop in town.

I’ve got my trainers on. My trainers used to be white but now they’re a dirty grey. My mum bought them at a charity shop; there was another girl’s name inked inside but Mum scrubbed it out and wrote my name instead with her special marker pen.

Izzie’s got bigger feet than me, even though she’s younger. I’m a size 1 but she’s a size 2. I s’pect it’s all that puppy fat. I want shiny black patent shoes. I want slip-ons, like Izzie’s.

I’m thinking about Izzie’s black patent shoes, when suddenly her voice shrieks out above the golden, whiskery ears of wheat. “I can see it, Em! I can see it. I’m nearly there!”

My stomach does this weird kind of flip. All these weeks and Izzie is the first to reach it. I knew I would never be the one to win.

I keep on thrusting through the wheat. The sun burns into me. The whole world is hot and syrupy, all golden like and melting. Then, with one last thrust I’m there.

I see Izzie. For one magical, surprising moment, I see Izzie’s yellow hair sheen apricot. I snatch at her. And then… the sun goes out.

We move away from the village, Mum, Dad and me. My parents have shrivelled up, withdrawn into themselves. They’ve become one entity, a clam shrouding itself into its shell. They haven’t said why we’re leaving, not to me, anyway.

But I know why. It’s because my parents don’t know what to say, where to look, how to look when they meet Izzie’s mum wandering desolate in the park, or down a country lane, or queuing for fresh warm bread at the village bakery.

My parents decide on London. Maybe they think the noise and the throb of the busy streets will deafen the memories.

Back home in our village, we lived in a row of red-bricked cottages. Here, there is a drab terraced house, raucous neighbours with a temperamental motor bike, and graffiti.

My mum and dad try not to mind. They keep themselves to themselves. They are polite to the neighbours but exist in a world of their own, a world of make believe.

They create a cosy, pretty bedroom for me. Everything is pink; a zinging, feminine pink. Pink, the tremulous colour of love.

Each birthday my parents buy me new clothes. There are girly pink dresses, pink jeans and pink blouses. But when I say new clothes, I don’t mean new new. Mum still buys from charity

Izzie is the FIRST to reach it. I knew I would NEVER be the one to WIN

shops. The birthday clothes are last year’s fashion, and everything just a tad too small. It’s as if my parents are trying to keep me the little girl I once was, to bind me closer. To pretend, maybe, that Izzie never happened.

In the end, it’s too much for me to bear, too cloying. I can’t breathe. I’m not me but some stranger even I don’t know. I whisper goodbye, promise silently to visit often, though I know things will never be the same. How can they be…?

I drift aimlessly, mingling with the homeless. I become one of them, frequenting alleyways, shop doorways, curling up on park benches. I can’t keep warm. There’s always this icy feeling. I know it won’t go away until I have sorted that missing piece of puzzle.

I have to go back, back to the village where it all began. Maybe there I will find an answer. Maybe then, at last I can be at peace.

I stop at the wheat field first. It’s across the lane from the neat row of red-bricked cottages where Izzie and I once lived. I weave a few steps into the field, the ears of wheat rattling in the small wind like tiny bells. The stalks stand tall. The sunlit day is hazy; memories flittering about me like fireflies. I try to catch at them through that misty fabric of dreams.

Then, suddenly, I am nine again, and Izzie eight…

It’s a game. A bad girls’ game. We’ve been forbidden to play here. Our mothers’ warnings throb daily in our ears like the echoing beat of a drum. The wheat field is not a playground, we are told. The field belongs to the farmer. Wheat is food. On the far side of the field, on the edge of the village, is a busy road. It’s a dangerous road.

Izzie and I don’t listen. The road is like a magnet. Each day we sneak out and venture a little further through the field, counting. How long will it take to get to the other side? Who will be first to reach the road? Who will win the game?

“Three hundred and thirty, three hundred and thirty one…”

The game seems to last for ever. There are so many distractions. A tiny field mouse to watch, silky-coated and bright-eyed. A magical sighting of a hare one day, its sharp ears much longer than a rabbit’s. Poppies, swaying blowsy in the breeze, their velvety petals splashing scarlet blood among the wheat. Stalks and whiskery, rattly ears of wheat, soft-sharp to touch. How can bread be made from this?

We count up to the most ever. “Four hundred and seven…” Izzie is streaks ahead. I catch her yellow plaits bouncing now as she moves through the stalks of wheat. I’ll never catch up. “Izzie, wait for me!” “Four hundred and twenty five…” And then Izzie’s voice shrieks out above the silky, golden ears of wheat. “I can see it, Em! I can see it. I’m nearly there!”

Above the rattling wheat, I catch the drone of traffic. I force myself on, heart thumping. I draw closer. I see the road, a long shine of grey. I see Izzie. She whirls to me, blue eyes laughing, “I win, Em! I win!” She’s spinning wild, crazy with success.

I call out, “Izzie, stop! The road, Izzie, the road!”

I snatch at her. I see her lips move. I think she calls my name, but the roar of the truck blocks out her voice. The orange sun burns like a glowing ball above us; it sheens Izzie’s hair apricot. It sparkles Izzie’s little black patent shoe, tumbled in the roadside…

Ilinger a while at the wheat field, trying to remember, trying to catch at those elusive firefly memories. There’s that missing piece of puzzle…

After a bit, I wander back across the lane, and along the neat row of redbricked cottages.

My mum and dad and I used to live at Number 5. Izzie and her mum lived at Number 9. Their door used to be yellow, the colour of sunshine. Now it’s white. Maybe Izzie’s family have moved away. It all happened so long ago. Sixteen summers. A lost childhood…

As I reach Number 9, the door to Izzie’s old cottage opens. A young woman emerges. She’s tall and slim, and is wearing a flowery summer dress. Her hair is honey gold. A small girl skips by her side. They have the same faces. The little girl has yellow plaits. I stare at her, the firefly memories dancing wildly.

I whisper, “Izzie…” But it’s the young woman who turns, not the child. As she moves, a sudden shaft of sunlight sheens her hair apricot.

The little girl glances around. She’s frowning. I think she sees me and is going to say something to the woman. But she doesn’t. She looks right through me. Then, without warning, she’s darting through the garden gate. “Race you home, Mummy!”

The woman calls, “Stop, Em! The road, Em, no…!”

The child stumbles. The woman snatches her up and brushes her down. “You’re not hurt, my darling. There’s just a teeny scratch on your shoes. A little bit of polish will sort it.”

My heart flips. The little girl, Em, is wearing shiny black patent shoes but they’re not slip-ons like Izzie used to wear. The shoes are fastened tight with bright, silvery buckles.

The sun burns through me. The whole world is hot and syrupy, and golden and melting. But I am ice cold, fluttery and grey-pale, as the missing piece of puzzle finally slips into place.

That day, sixteen summers ago, while we played in the wheat field, watching the hare and the silky-eared field mouse, Izzie and I swapped shoes. It was part of the game.

I put on Izzie’s shiny black patent shoes, her size 2 slip-on shoes, and Izzie squeezed into my size 1 grey trainers.

Izzie reached the road first. As I panted up, she whirled to me, blue eyes laughing. “I win, Em! I win!”

She was spinning wild, crazy with success.

“Izzie, stop! The road, Izzie, the road!” I snatched at her. But Izzie’s slip-ons were too big for me. I tripped, I wind-milled forward, lurching onto that long pale shine of grey. I thought I heard Izzie call my name. I tried to turn my head, to see her face.

But all I could see was one black patent shoe, forlorn in the gutter, the orange sun sparkling it. And then… the sun went out.

“I can SEE it, Em!” Izzie cries out. “I’m nearly THERE. I win, I win!”

The young woman and the child pause. They look back towards the cottage. An older woman at the gate waves. “Bye, Izzie, darling! Bye, Em!”

The little girl, Em, calls back, “Bye, Nan! See you tomorrow!” The girl and the young woman walk on. They walk right by me.

Izzie pauses for a moment and glances towards the wheat field, her blue eyes sad. Then she gives a soft tug at the little girl’s yellow plaits, “Time to go home, Em.”

I sigh. It’s time for me to go home, too. There’s a pretty pink bedroom waiting…