Leaving Lynn in the lurch
In the summer of 1964 I stood with Lynn Weavers
at the pedestrian crossing in front of Giles-Grigg's
pharmacy in East Ivanhoe, ready to cross over
to Greany's chemist. Our family never used Greany's.
I had arranged to go round to Lynn's after school.
There she stood, on one foot, then the other, licking
her lips as she waited for the signal to change.
I say it was summer but when I think of Lynn now,
I recall her winter uniform: dark grey school jumper
above darker grey pleated skirt, fully pulled-up socks,
black lace-ups, neat fringed auburn hair, unwavering
eyes, pert, serious lips closing over even front teeth.
On top of the clinker brick garage at Lynn's place
lay a concrete patio. I liked this region. I must have
been there before with her. But this afternoon, after
pushing the red button on the red and white striped pole
at the pedestrian crossing, when I saw my yellow bus
come streaming through the shopping centre, I knew
I could not resist the pull to head home. I ran streaking
for that bus and caught it. I never looked back.
I told Mum I had changed my mind. I did not tell her
that I had not told Lynn. I never went to Lynn's again.
Probably, properly, I was never invited. I do seem
to remember that high patio above her garage,
ringed with a low wrought-iron fence, don't I? A plum
tree leaning over it? Perhaps I never went there at all.
All I know is that I feared, had I crossed that afternoon,
that Lynn Weavers would have swallowed up my soul.
bw
16.2.14
|