Bonzer Words!: Echoes
...If I had stuck with Anne, would she and I still be together? What of all the women I have loved since then? Their influences have helped forge the man I am today. If Anne had been my last and enduring love, I would not be the person I now am. Would I like myself more or less?...
Peter Lingard endevours to recall some of the loves of his life.
Peter writes for Bonzer! magazine. Please visit www.bonzer.org.au
Echo: A nymph, the daughter of Air and Earth, who, for the love of Narcissus, pined away until nothing was left of her but her voice.
Memories fade piece by piece. I try to remember the loves of my life but often find I can bring nothing to the forefront of my mind. I can no longer conjure up the visions of the faces I once studied and swore never to forget.
Frances’ hair was naturally brown, but I cannot remember the style. For a microscopic fraction of a second, I see her smile, but it passes so quickly I cannot be sure if it was a trick of my imagination or an actual memory. I am not even sure if I saw the smile in her eyes or on her lips.
I remember more of Anne, the farmer’s daughter who smelled of soap. Her hazel eyes sparkled when she smiled. Her large frame, muscled torso and short, curly hair come easily to mind. I swapped Anne for Frances, an accountant’s daughter who smelled of perfume. Why is it I can recall Anne with relative ease, but only have smoky, wispy glimpses of Frances? Did I make a mistake? Is my memory telling me I should have stayed with Anne?
If I had stuck with Anne, would she and I still be together? What of all the women I have loved since then? Their influences have helped forge the man I am today. If Anne had been my last and enduring love, I would not be the person I now am. Would I like myself more or less?
More echoes. Anne liked to carry my kit to the rugby games. The older girl cleaned my boots after every game and rubbed dubbing into the leather. Not trusting my mother to do a good enough job, she washed and ironed my strip. (I felt uncomfortable when teammates grinned at my clean strip with creases down my shirtsleeves and the front of my shorts. I would throw the items on the floor of the changing room and scuff them with my feet and Anne occasionally asked why my strip looked dirty before the game started.)
We travelled by public transport to the stadium, the bag containing my kit held securely by Anne on her lap. She always gave me a good-luck kiss on my cheek before tucking her hair beneath the edges of her scarf and taking her cold and lonely seat in the empty stands, waiting an hour or more for the game to begin. She sometimes embarrassed me by vocalising her less than knowledgeable encouragement during the game.
In the club bar afterwards, she stayed constantly by my side, leaving only to purchase more beer for her underage boyfriend or to try to convince the cub reporter from the local newspaper to include my name in his summary. When older team-mates told Anne age equalled experience, she told them she was true to me and they laughed. Whenever I received a knock or a scratch, she tried to mother me.
I tried to change her and she tried to change me. And Frances beckoned from the wings.
Schooling ranked high on Anne’s priorities list. While she studied for summer exams, I put sugar in the petrol tank of the math teacher’s car, ordered a ton of manure delivered to the English teacher’s house on a c.o.d. basis and sent a letter of resignation to the head master in the name of the physics teacher. For these acts, I was encouraged to abandon my scholastic endeavours. While Anne did her homework, I drank beer and hung out in the town’s toughest bars. When the police arrested me for underage drinking, disturbing the peace and causing mayhem, Anne secured my release and made promises for me that I had no intention of keeping.
Good, kind Anne wore knee-length dresses, white blouses and sensible sweaters. Sultry Frances wore short shorts and revealing tops. I suppose it is telling that I can remember the shorts and tops, but not the person who filled them. When my friend, Allen Doyle told me he wanted to date Frances, I got there before him.
Sorry, Anne but you made me treat you so.
Frances seemed sophisticated, but her money went on cheap rooms in hotels where the proprietors never questioned what a pair of fifteen year-olds was doing there. In those dark and dusty closets where the curtains were forever closed, she taught me more about sex than a girl of her age should know.
All those afternoons and evenings and I cannot recall her!
Oh yeah, there is one thing that I can recall of Frances. Her voice. 'Goodbye Paul,' I can hear her say after she met a college kid with cash. 'It’s been real.'
© Peter Lingard
