Davey

By Wendy Taylor

I recognised him as soon as his image appeared on the television.

Davey.

I knew it was Davey, although I had not seen him for close to fifty years and laughter lines now fanned out from his distinctive chocolate brown eyes. His hair and the cowlick that flopped over his left eye, no longer jet black, instead silver grey.

A name appeared on the screen ‘David Wood, Barrister.’

My husband and I are watching the late news, each clutching a mug of soporific milky tea. I contemplated announcing I knew the afore mentioned David Wood.

But I don’t.

My mind slips back in time.

It was the summer of ‘73 and we had decamped to the beach as we did every summer. The station wagon was filled to groaning, its rear, crouched on back tyres like a cat ready to pounce on unsuspecting prey. Bickering loudly, Susan and I were crammed in amongst the suitcases of clothes, loose sheets, sleeping bags, boxes of food, cricket bats, balls, swim suits and towels.

At our holiday home we roared off, whooping down to the beach, our usual differences left in the car, excitement at endless days of swimming and exploring taking over. The sand was warm and gritty between our bare toes as we danced and jumped. The sea air tickled my nostrils and lips, sharp and salty.

It was then I saw him, observing us, eyebrows raised, head cocked. A new kid. He looked to be about my age, twelve, a little shorter than me, as boys are, compared to girls at this age. Lanky limbs exploded awkwardly out of an orange tank top and brown drill shorts. Chocolate eyes squinted in the bright sunlight and wild dark hair curled down to his shoulders, a cowlick over his left eye.

I stopped my twirling, heat swarming up my face. I lifted my hand tentatively.

‘Hi,’ I called.

He strolled over nonchalantly.

Susan stopped twirling too and we stood side by side in sisterly togetherness.

‘You here for the summer?’ he asked.

He did not know that we came here every summer.

Susan and I nodded in unison. Mute.

I found my tongue.

‘I’m Julie and this is Susan.’

I pointed at Susan.

‘Davey,’ he responded, pointing at himself.

Susan and I laughed, a little hesitantly, both wanting to be friendly but cool and aloof at the same time. New kids had to be assessed by the regulars before being absorbed into the fold.

We did not have time for more conversation as our respective parents simultaneously called us in. I did not think any more of this encounter that night, as kids came and went over summer.

Over the next few days, the rest of the summer regulars and the odd newbie like Davey arrived.

Davey hung around on the periphery.

Observing.

I found myself drifting towards him, finding his self-containment mesmerising. I lost interest in games with the other kids. They now seemed immature, compared to the enigma that was Davey. Davey too, seemed uninterested in the others and gradually we broke away, creating our own games. Clutching hands, we jumped swarming green frothy waves, our cloth swimsuits filling up with water and ballooning out like jellyfish. Stretched out on towels oblivious to the sun’s dangerous rays, we shared snippets of our lives. We lay in rock pools, idly kicking our feet and flapping our arms, in the sun kissed water. We dug for shellfish, squealing about our finds then reburying them, black sand hanging in damp clumps off our hands. Lunch was spent in each other’s kitchens, gobbling white bread sandwiches, left over barbecue sausages from the night before, chocolate chip cookies, and watery orange juice. The other kids much to our relief ignored us, leaving us to languish in our bubble of two.

At night I relived our exploits in the sanctuary of my bed, the sound of waves surging and crashing in the background.

Some days, Davey and I would make our way to the far end of the beach. Craggy cliffs rose up from the sand, stoic and solid. We would clamber up these, agile limbs scaling the rock faces. I had always been a little scared of attempting such a feat before, but with Davey encouraging and smiling, anything seemed possible. On top, grass grew ragged and wispy, beaten back by tumbling sea breezes. Davey always cartwheeled and charged around, arms out like an eagle in flight. I preferred to sit cross legged and watch him, as I was usually gasping for breath after our climb. After a few minutes he would sit down beside me, our shoulders bumping companionably. Then we would lie back, the scrubby grass, scratching our backs, sucking on long stalks and talking out of the corners of our mouth like cowboys on television programmes.

Here we often talked about the future.

‘What do you want to be when you grow up?’ Davey asked one day his impish smile momentarily replaced by seriousness.

‘A nurse or teacher,’ I replied.

‘Come on, don’t be boring,’ Davey returned.

It was the 1970’s so my options were limited by gender expectation. In reality I wanted to be a scientist, a complete no go for girls back then, so this thought I kept to myself. Also, I was worried Davey would consider this even more boring than nurse and teacher.

‘What about you?’ I asked Davey.

‘A guitarist or motorcyclist.’

He backed this up by leaping up and miming wild guitar strumming, followed by exuberant mock motorcycle riding in crazy circles around me. I did not have the heart to tell him that they were not actually careers. I was entranced by his optimism and imagination. How I wished I was the same.

Other days, we talked about what else we would do as grownups. I was going to get married, have kids and keep house.

With Davey.

That bit I kept to myself.

Our kids would be called Summer, Petra and Seth.

That bit I also kept to myself.

‘What about you,?’ I asked Davey.

Davey was going to travel the world, stopping when the fancy took him. Budapest, Nadi, Nairobi, London, Dublin, he did know yet. I was not sure where half these places were. Girlfriends possibly, a wife, not on your life. I was innocently confident I could change his mind in the future, that he would fall into my arms professing undying love. Again television had a lot to answer for.

Contemplation often did not last long. We leapt up, slid back down the cliffs and galloped back down the beach towards the others, hand in hand, caterwauling.

Summer came to an end, with promises to write, we waved goodbye.

I wrote long missives weekly, pouring my heart out about school life, its tedious repetition and unflattering descriptions of my teacher, the staid Miss Turner in her twinsets and tweeds. I wrote what I thought was amusing anecdotes on home life and what a pill my sister was. I shared insights on my piano lessons and girl guide exploits.

He wrote back, ‘All good here. School is boring. Started swimming lessons.’

Or slight variations. Three sentences. That was it.

‘That’s boys for you,’ I thought fondly.

Each letter was read and re-read. They became more and more crinkled, with finger stains and food smears. I stored them in a shoe box carefully decorated with glued on, cut up Christmas and birthday cards.

It was not long before these brief letters dwindled to nothing. I consoled myself with the lack of return correspondence, by decorating all my schoolbooks with, ‘Davey and Julie Wood,’ or ‘Mr and Mrs Wood.’ They were enhanced with either hearts, flowers or bows or sometimes all three and coloured in with purple, pink, and yellow felt tip pens.

I continued to send my letters and as they never came back return to sender I assumed he had not moved and forgotten to tell me. I decided he was too busy learning to play the guitar and ride a motorbike and would be full of apologies when we met again.

All I could think of all that year, was Davey, those dark smiley eyes, wild curly hair, how happy he made me and how I excited I was at the prospect of seeing him again in summer.

Would he be taller than me now,?

Would his hair be tamed, or even wild and longer like the current rock stars?

Would he still have wild dreams unconstrained by adult expectations?

Would we still share hopes and aspirations?

But I never saw him again.

I stopped writing.

He stayed Davey, frozen in time, twelve years old, gangly, optimistic, enthusiastic, a dreamer, while I grew up and grew older.

Now, there he is, ‘David Wood, Barrister,’ sixty years old, grown up, no longer an irrepressible youngster.

I cannot reconcile the two.

I rose from my chair, padded through to our kitchen, tipped out the remainder of my tea and headed to bed before Davey is swallowed up by, ‘David Wood, Barrister.’