In Times Past

The year does not matter. When one is fourteen, nothing much matters except being fourteen and enjoying to the full, those opportunities that life deems worthy of your participation in, at that precise moment in time.

So it was, that fate that morning should have tossed Marion clean across the footpath right in front of me on my way to school. Not that she was overweight in any way I stress, she simply slipped on the icy footpath, sprawling face-downwards into quite deep snow. The least I could do was pick her up.

Now when one loses one’s footing, leading to the humiliation of falling over, and especially in the case of a female, this detracts totally from any sense of outer elegance, denting entirely the victim’s dignity. In falling, her legs had splayed outwards and a momentary glimpse of some light-colored material beneath the gusset of her winter stockings had worked its unavoidable retinal magic. As I hooked my arm beneath hers in an effort to pull her to her feet, she reacted as one might expect a young school-girl to, thus affronted.

“It’s OK, I’m fine thank you,” she gritted, seemingly less than grateful for my intercession.

In falling, her satchel had slipped from her shoulders and now lay upturned in the snow which itself lay feet deep, drifted up against the school chain-wire fence. Dislodged from the confines of their leather protector, books, set squares, geometry equipment and her pencil-set were now strewn around her, their final resting places identified by multiple holes in the snow. In hindsight, the scene was not unlike the Titanic wreckage field. Retrieving her possessions in near silence, it was a case of neither of us knowing really what to say.

Handing over her protractor, the last escapee, Marion half smiled.

“Thanks,” she said “Sorry I was a bit gruff just now, I was really embarrassed.” I wondered for a moment if that included my up-skirt viewing option.

“Oh, that’s alright,” I replied. “I’ve never seen you at school, what class are you in?….I’m Noel by the way.” I added.

Shaking gloved hands she told me her name and confided that it was in fact her first day there, having transferred from Dartford Grammar. I had to suppress a grin, our soccer team having crunched the ”Dartford invincibles” five-nil the previous weekend.

It wasn’t until we actually had gotten to school and had stowed our gear in the lockers that I was privileged to catch a glimpse of the real Marion, sans her winter outerwear, gloves, scarf and hat. It was worth the wait.

Laughably inexperienced and with all the predatorial instincts of Bambi, I still could recognize a sexy young body when I saw one…..and right then, I was definitely looking at one. Slim-hipped but with curves in all the right places, those bright blue eyes looked across the hallway at me from the prettiest of heart-shaped faces. A flawless complexion and full “why-not-try-me-now?” lips certainly dropped my anchor. I think I was in love with her before recess. Judging by several other boys’ double-takes however, I certainly wasn’t going to be having this all my own way. I figured I would keep one step ahead of the herd though and asked her if she would like to see me at lunch time. I think I noticed the beginnings of a blush. At least, I like to think I did!

I couldn’t tell you what I had to eat that day but I remember with undiminished recall every last detail of that lunch period.

Marion, having been billeted to 3B (British equivalent of 9th grade) whilst I was resident in 3A, meant that we were unable to sit at the same table. It didn’t stop me from looking across at her in-between mouthfuls though. I was encouraged by the fact that she was sharing her table with seven other girls however, rather than mixed company.

Now the canteen in that school was colossal. One supposes that having to cater for almost seven hundred kids in two sittings, it had to be. We’re not talking prison food either. Steaming hot Shepherd’s pie, the width of the plate with vegetables, heated rolls with cheese followed by rhubarb or apple pie with as much fresh cream as you could take on board, together with just about any soft drink you care to name – and that was a bad day. You paid nothing for it either!

I think it had been a roast chicken Tuesday. Shuffling now the remnants of my dessert around the plate, I noticed Marion about to get up. Informing the dorky sixth-form prefect at the head of our table that I had some assignment to complete, he waved me free to leave.

I already had a spot picked out.

At the northern end of one of the three enormous playgrounds, right alongside the tennis courts, sat the largest of oak trees that had probably been there when Oliver Cromwell was a lad. Around its huge base someone had thoughtfully constructed a circular seating arrangement that could probably have housed twenty children shoulder to shoulder. As it was, there was rarely ever more than half a dozen school-kids clustered around that tree at any one time. On this day there was no-one.

The air freezing but invigorating, I see it all now as clearly as I did that day. The great tree denuded of its leaves but with snow piled-up thickly at the confluence of its upper boughs.