Yesterday Once More Remembering a first love

Is it wrong to keep those tender seeds of first love alive?

Inearly didn’t see it. The old cardboard box had been in the loft forever. Stuffed with bits and pieces that hadn’t seen the light of day for decades, it was destined for the “Chuck” pile. There were also piles for Charity, Unsure?, Possibly valuable, and KEEP!!!

I’ve always been a bit dramatic with my labelling. Friends say it’s because I can’t let go, but I say it’s because I want to be sure of the things I’m letting go.

And as I’m not sure what this particular object is, and as it hasn’t yet been assigned to a designated pile, I slip my hand down the side and carefully pull it out.

It feels like paper, and there’s a strange, yellowy material stuck on one corner. Careful not to tear or break it, I remove it from underneath two loose pages from Gulliver’sT ravels, and lift it out. It’s stained and torn, and I can see the yellowing material had once been soft, white lace.

I hold it gently in my hand, afraid it might disintegrate, and stare at the small, dirty Valentine card I bought years ago. Inside are the beginnings of words in faded ink, left unfinished. The writing was larger, more rounded, and I remember writing like that.

I also remember not knowing what to say, and whether to sign my name or leave it blank with a great big question mark on the page.

In the end I did nothing. I stuck it in my bedside drawer and never sent it.

I can’t believe I’ve found it, that it’s been here in this box all these years. It’s a shock somehow, a jolt to yesterday and all that happened.

I stroke it softly without really realising it. Fancy. After all this time. My Valentine card for Steven.

Steven wore a black leather jacket, tight jeans, and his hair was one glorious quiff of dark brown hair. I used to watch him over the rim of my coffee cup as he slicked his hair with a quick flick of his hand, before going up to the counter to order a cola.

He had lots of friends, and they were all dressed the same. But Steven stood out. Steven was taller, funnier, more confident than all the others put together. And I couldn’t take my eyes off him.

He didn’t have a girlfriend. The love of his life was his motorbike, propped up outside the café against the railings. He had no time for girls. He was too busy enjoying himself.

I spent a lot of time, and all my pocket money, sitting in that café, waiting for Steven to arrive with his friends. He wasn’t interested in girls – not then. I used to smile at him, and egged on by my friends sometimes ask him for the time or if it was raining – or would he put money in the jukebox for me. Anything at all that would mean he would have to talk to me.

I seemed to spend the whole summer sitting in that café. Rain or shine, always at the same table so he’d know where I was, taking turns to buy coffee with my two best friends.

Sometimes we’d share a sandwich, but mostly we sat there, checking our hair from time to time in the Ladies toilets, waiting for the sound of motorbikes revving outside, and the door to be flung open.

The café closed the following year. It caused quite a stir in the community for a while, and there were protests and march es outside. Where will the youth go? was the cry! But it closed anyway.

The next time I saw Steven was on the train to London. I worked in a

bank by then and earned good money. I had nice clothes and the latest haircut and when I saw him stretched on the seat opposite, my stomach did one of those weird flip things. “Steven! Hello.” His hair was still thick and dark brown, but the quiff had gone. He was wearing a blue suit with a cream shirt, and I actually don’t think he recognised me at all. “Hi. How are you?” he said politely. I smiled forgivingly at him, confident in my new trouser suit. “You don’t know who I am, do you?” He laughed then, a lovely, natural, throaty laugh, and admitted he didn’t. We sat together on the train and I filled him in on our history, and by the end of the journey, as we pulled into Fenchurch Street, we had a date.

Steven and I had lots of dates. It felt like love. Only Steven never talked about settling down. He had big plans – he wanted to travel and see the world.

“We could do it together.” We were wandering hand in hand along the beach. It was dark, and getting cold, and he put one arm around my shoulder. “It will be great. Come with me.” “Come with you where?” “I don’t know. Anywhere! There’s a big old world out there. Let’s stick a pin in a map and just go.” “We can’t! We can’t just go away.” “Why not? If we don’t do it now, we’ll never do it.”

“But what about our jobs – our families?”

He smiled at me, a quizzical look in his eye. “They’ll still be here when you come back.”

That February Steven had the chance to work in America and he jumped at it.

“Come with me. What’s a year? You’ll be back before you know it.”

But I couldn’t. Something in my conventional upbringing stopped me from flying the nest. Instead I bought a pretty Valentine card to send to him, telling him I loved him and would wait for him. Only when it came to it, I didn’t know how to actually say it, and in the end Steven went and the card ended up in a drawer.

Steven returned eighteen months later. He rang once but I was out. My mother forgot to take his number, and he didn’t ring again. He probably thought I wasn’t interested.

It was a long time before I saw Steven again… and not somewhere I would have thought he would be.

I recognised him straight away. For one thing he was the only man surrounded by a group of women, and secondly, I heard his voice.

“Daddy!” A little girl with dark brown hair ran up to him outside the school gates and I watched as he scooped her up and swung her round. “Hi, baby. Had a good day?” “I’ve been picked for the choir!” “Yeah? Good stuff!” He was wearing a blue open-necked shirt and black jeans and I knew I shouldn’t be finding him attractive.

“Who are you staring at?” my son said too loudly, and I grabbed his hand quickly and walked away. I never saw him at the school again. My husband John and I moved the following year to a house in the country. Our son grew up, and life was good. We were happy, and in time blessed with a lovely daughter-in-law, and twin grandsons. Sometimes as I scatter feed for the chickens, or watch my grandsons learn to ride their ponies, I wonder what my life would have been like if I’d gone travelling with Steven.

Would I be so content? Would I have loved him as much as I love John? The thoughts pass in a moment or two, and yet I am old enough now to recognise the importance of first love. No one should feel guilty, or be forced to deny it. The tender first seeds of young love are real in their own way, and deserve to be remembered.

Ilook down again at the Valentine card in my hand. What would have happened, I wonder, if I had sent it?

Hearing a sudden shout of laughter from the paddock, I stuff it back into the box and climb down the loft ladder. I pause at the final rung, allowing myself to think of Steven. The memories make me smile, and I’m glad of themm. I truly hope he’s had a life as happy as mine. “Nanny! Come and watch!” “I’m coming, you noisy paiir!” I call, half running down the hall and into the garden. I walk over to John, slipping my arrm through his. He turns and smmiles. “I was wwondering where you were.” “I’m here now.”n He givesg mmy hand a squeeze. “Good” “I’ve been up in the loft.” “Oh? Find anything interesting?” “Only things I don’t need any more.” “Chuck pile?” I nod. “Definitely Chuck pile.” He smiles, and I snuggle contentedly against his shoulder, watching my beautiful family laugh and play in the golden sunshine.

I heard his VOICE. I knew I SHOULDN’T be finding him ATTRA ACTIVE