Late
It must be late summer because it's early evening but the sky hasn't caught up with the clock. It is not light and not dark, only faded and a bit dull.
It must be the weekend because the buses are slightly less frequent and some of the shops are shutting. Sunday? Yes, it must be Sunday because the pharmacy at Stratford was closed. It must be ages and ages ago because she slotted a twenty and a ten pence piece into a BT phone-box instead of texting her lateness home.
It must be one of the many weeks of work on the District Line, or someone must have jumped into the tracks ahead. After blagging her way past Zone 2 barriers with a 3-6 Travelcard, the girl is looking anxiously at the display board. 15 minutes for the next Barking bound train. She has just found out what “dishevelled” means and likes the word. She thinks she might look it. She is biting her nails, crossing and uncrossing her ankles, nervous and late on an unfamiliar platform after waking up inside her own head two miles past the right bus stop.
And if she is already sitting on the platform under the ground above which the sky continues to fade; if she is already on the way home late after her mind clicked into place with the badly timed street lights; if she is now stepping onto the delayed train and picking up the Metro and pretending to be nonchalant-
- then I am already too late.
In a week she will be late too, after a shy and awkward question at another, open chemist in Leyton who will look at her with the implicit judgement: you weren't too shy to do it in the first place though, were you? He says only that she is too young and will have to visit her family doctor. Of course she is too young, which is exactly why she can't do that.
On the actual Morning After she slept through to midday buried under the duvet even though it was hot. She showered through lunch and pretended to be reading until dinner. Afterwards she was probably sick because she left the tap running in the bath and splashed her face with cold water after the blank space. And after that there were three black coffees and because she wasn't used to it yet, it worked wonders and she didn't sleep all night. When she blinked into the light again though, it was late into the next day.
There again, maybe I am not too late after all. I didn't catch her on the morning of the day of the evening under the ground above which the sky was fading and the buses were still going past, infrequently. I didn't catch her to tell her to wear a jacket, to be careful, to remember it was okay to say that one tiny little word and have it respected. I didn't catch her in time to say that it wasn't babyish or boring to open your mouth and say it again. I probably would have offended her by pointing out that her lilac room and 152cm jeans and the ridiculous school uniform hanging in her cupboard probably made it okay to be a little babyish, anyway. Even if I had said those things she probably would have gone anyway, still determined and pretending to be tough and more than a little naïve. You will regret this, I would have said. No I ****ing won't, she would have replied because she had realised recently that swearing was cool. No, she wouldn't have listened.
But maybe I could catch her on the platform after? It isn't alright, there would be no point in saying that to someone so hurt. And it won't be okay, not for a little while yet. She's young but she's not “****ing stupid.” I wouldn't lie to her about that. Maybe I could say that there are going to be enough scratches and scrapes, that her head is going to feel like post-playtime at primary for a while yet. There are going to be enough scratches and scrapes that she should try not to add too many more. I could say... that the first one doesn't make the next one okay. That there is no need for next time, looking over someone else's shoulder at his FHM calendar and pretending to be fine. That what happened doesn't have to keep happening; that she isn't what she thinks she is.
Or maybe at the very least I could say that after all the scratches and scrapes and post-playtime bruising (and these are other people's games by the way and no fun at all)- that after all of this and even after the copycat injuries she will replicate along her arms- things will be okay eventually. I would probably say that things will be okay much sooner than they are going to be. Twelve years is a forever-long stretch to someone who has only lived thirteen. If I told her the truth- that at nearly double the time she's lived, it will still hurt- she might give up much earlier. I might not be here to tell her.
So I'll tell her about the good bits: the friends who are kinder; the A Level results she pretends not to care about; the different cities she'll see and the fact that in three years she will have a girlfriend- and that that is fine. I'll tell her about her baby sister, unconceived for another fifteen months. I'll tell her that is the only baby she needs to worry about but to get checked out anyway because it's important. I'll tell her there are bad times coming, warn her about the psych unit. I'll make sure she chooses Edinburgh, tell her it's where she meets the most beautiful girl. Trust me, I'll say, things do get better. Even though it may sound unconvincing (she's pretty astute) I will tell her I am happy. She will be happy.
I'll have to tell her that there are better bands than Nirvana.
And I'll tell her that if she goes round to the other platform and gets off at Mile End instead, she will be home a lot quicker.
I know these things now.
It must be late summer because it's early evening but the sky hasn't caught up with the clock. It is not light and not dark, only faded and a bit dull.
It must be the weekend because the buses are slightly less frequent and some of the shops are shutting. Sunday? Yes, it must be Sunday because the pharmacy at Stratford was closed. It must be ages and ages ago because she slotted a twenty and a ten pence piece into a BT phone-box instead of texting her lateness home.
It must be one of the many weeks of work on the District Line, or someone must have jumped into the tracks ahead. After blagging her way past Zone 2 barriers with a 3-6 Travelcard, the girl is looking anxiously at the display board. 15 minutes for the next Barking bound train. She has just found out what “dishevelled” means and likes the word. She thinks she might look it. She is biting her nails, crossing and uncrossing her ankles, nervous and late on an unfamiliar platform after waking up inside her own head two miles past the right bus stop.
And if she is already sitting on the platform under the ground above which the sky continues to fade; if she is already on the way home late after her mind clicked into place with the badly timed street lights; if she is now stepping onto the delayed train and picking up the Metro and pretending to be nonchalant-
- then I am already too late.
In a week she will be late too, after a shy and awkward question at another, open chemist in Leyton who will look at her with the implicit judgement: you weren't too shy to do it in the first place though, were you? He says only that she is too young and will have to visit her family doctor. Of course she is too young, which is exactly why she can't do that.
On the actual Morning After she slept through to midday buried under the duvet even though it was hot. She showered through lunch and pretended to be reading until dinner. Afterwards she was probably sick because she left the tap running in the bath and splashed her face with cold water after the blank space. And after that there were three black coffees and because she wasn't used to it yet, it worked wonders and she didn't sleep all night. When she blinked into the light again though, it was late into the next day.
There again, maybe I am not too late after all. I didn't catch her on the morning of the day of the evening under the ground above which the sky was fading and the buses were still going past, infrequently. I didn't catch her to tell her to wear a jacket, to be careful, to remember it was okay to say that one tiny little word and have it respected. I didn't catch her in time to say that it wasn't babyish or boring to open your mouth and say it again. I probably would have offended her by pointing out that her lilac room and 152cm jeans and the ridiculous school uniform hanging in her cupboard probably made it okay to be a little babyish, anyway. Even if I had said those things she probably would have gone anyway, still determined and pretending to be tough and more than a little naïve. You will regret this, I would have said. No I ****ing won't, she would have replied because she had realised recently that swearing was cool. No, she wouldn't have listened.
But maybe I could catch her on the platform after? It isn't alright, there would be no point in saying that to someone so hurt. And it won't be okay, not for a little while yet. She's young but she's not “****ing stupid.” I wouldn't lie to her about that. Maybe I could say that there are going to be enough scratches and scrapes, that her head is going to feel like post-playtime at primary for a while yet. There are going to be enough scratches and scrapes that she should try not to add too many more. I could say... that the first one doesn't make the next one okay. That there is no need for next time, looking over someone else's shoulder at his FHM calendar and pretending to be fine. That what happened doesn't have to keep happening; that she isn't what she thinks she is.
Or maybe at the very least I could say that after all the scratches and scrapes and post-playtime bruising (and these are other people's games by the way and no fun at all)- that after all of this and even after the copycat injuries she will replicate along her arms- things will be okay eventually. I would probably say that things will be okay much sooner than they are going to be. Twelve years is a forever-long stretch to someone who has only lived thirteen. If I told her the truth- that at nearly double the time she's lived, it will still hurt- she might give up much earlier. I might not be here to tell her.
So I'll tell her about the good bits: the friends who are kinder; the A Level results she pretends not to care about; the different cities she'll see and the fact that in three years she will have a girlfriend- and that that is fine. I'll tell her about her baby sister, unconceived for another fifteen months. I'll tell her that is the only baby she needs to worry about but to get checked out anyway because it's important. I'll tell her there are bad times coming, warn her about the psych unit. I'll make sure she chooses Edinburgh, tell her it's where she meets the most beautiful girl. Trust me, I'll say, things do get better. Even though it may sound unconvincing (she's pretty astute) I will tell her I am happy. She will be happy.
I'll have to tell her that there are better bands than Nirvana.
And I'll tell her that if she goes round to the other platform and gets off at Mile End instead, she will be home a lot quicker.
I know these things now.
No comments:
Post a Comment