And so Dorothy had found someone else. And we had, in spite of it all, remained friends. Or more truthfully, I couldn't bear the thought of not being around her, so I maintained a close relationship with her, accepting the slow pain of a thousand tiny cuts watching her with her arms around her new beau, kissing him in that overly-zealous teenage fashion at every opportunity, and generally rub in the fact she wanted someone else. Not that she ever realised. At least I hope not.
But as all adolescent relationships do, this one ended. And as they tend to, it was accompanied by floods of tears on Dorothy's part. Of course, you can see what comes next. The trusted, reliable friend, the knight in shining armour comes rushing to the rescue, offering consolation and words of comfort and reassurance in her time of need. It is at such times one comes to realise this is more the role of a serf than a knight, and the act is one of subservience, in a very real way. But I didn't see it that way then.
Dorothy accompanied me to many a teenage social activity at that time, especially the much revered house party, where most of the taboos of society were broken by people generally below the age of responsibility in a legal sense. It was at one such party, probably a month or two after her heartbreaking separation from her former lover (for it became quite clear from her emotional outpourings he had taken her off the list of potential mothers for the second coming) that a seed of guilt was planted in my mind that has since grown into a vast forest of regret.
There was much alcohol consumed at the party. A vast quantity, and even more astounding considering the age and body size of the consumers present. Not a single person there was over the age of seventeen, which is hardly surprising considering a drivers' licence was a ticket away from such juvenile entertainments. An access all areas pass to even more predictable and socially condoned behaviour patterns, like going to the pub. Dorothy and I were no exceptions to the drunkenness. We drank and laughed and mingled and danced and drank some more.
At one point I didn't see her for possibly half an hour. It may have been more, but of course, in the foggy state I was in, it could easily have been less. My face was flushed, everything I said was hilarious, as were the utterances of my fellow revellers. And while being regaled with yet another hilarious anecdote of inappropriate regurgitation, Dorothy staggered into view, her eyelids shading her glazed eyes, and each step requiring a swaying attempt to regain her balance.
I broke away from the cluster of kids crowded around the half drum of fire, and made my way toward her. Putting my hands on both her shoulders, I asked if she was okay, receiving a reply in a sing-song drunken voice to the effect that "of course" she was fine, but maybe she needed to "sit down for a bit". I looked around and saw a rectangular table against the wooden fence, and put my arm around her shoulders to guide her towards it. It was an old classroom table, and was easily low enough to sit on, so I sat first to steady myself and slid across the table until my back was against the fence. I pulled her up onto it with my chest against her back and my arms around her waist. Her head lolled back against me and she was talking to me animatedly, though it was all nonsense.
After a period of maybe half an hour, and a glass of water or two, supplied by an equally concerned girlfriend, she began to behave more coherently. Still drunk, but not spouting gibberish any longer. A mutual friend of both of ours came and crouched in front of her, I was still holding her around the waist. He spoke to her quietly and close, but at some point, his hand touched my arm and I realised he was kissing her. A rush of jealous blood to my head made me almost involuntarily kick him in the leg, accompanied with an "Oi!"
He stood up, and though he was surely hurt at least a little by my shoe, just gave me a strange smirk and walked away, I think he laughed as he turned away.
"Who was that?" she asked, and I realised she was far from coherent. Or was it none of my business? I extracted myself from behind her and leant her against the fence, explaining I was going in search of her concerned friend. I frantically searched the party for her, and found her chatting to the usual gang of girls I saw each morning on my way to school. I asked if she thought maybe they might look after Dorothy, or take her home, and they all walked back to where I had left her.
But she wasn't on the table, she was up against the fence, standing up, and yet another guy was kissing her, and had his hand well and truly up her skirt, and was grinding his hips between her legs. I saw red. I grabbed him by the shoulder and growled "wathafuggayadoin?!" He gave me the same slimy smirk as the first guy, and staggered off toward another part of the yard. Her friends formed up around her and she was gone.
Was this my fault? Could I have prevented any of this taking place? Did I make too much of it because of my feelings for Dorothy? Can she have held it against me forever afterwards? Should I have told her earlier to click her heels and take herself home? I remember this night vividly, twenty years later, and I still have no answers to those questions.
Monday 25 August 2008
Monday 18 August 2008
Hear my train a-comin
My school was not even close to walking distance from my parents house, which necessarily meant I had to take public transport to get there and back again. A bus, then a train, then another train meant I had to leave home around 7.30 in the morning, or earlier, if I was to be in class on time every day. My general lack of enthusiasm for education, combined with the shifted sleeping patterns of a teenager meant that many times, this just didn't happen.
But when it did, I was quite happy to take the trip, as at least it gave me the opportunity to talk to some very lovely girls while waiting for my train. I am not sure exactly how we were introduced, somehow they were friends of friends in some convoluted manner, and when I first met them, they were all attending the same eastern suburbs Presbyterian girls' school. They were all pretty in their own way, I suppose, but I was smitten almost immediately by Dorothy.
Dorothy was slim, with dark curly hair that she mostly kept tied back in a pony tail, but which easily hung past her shoulders when she let it out. Her skin was occasionally marked with transient spots, as most teenagers are, but for the most part it was smooth and unblemished. She had deep brown eyes that I could have gazed into for hours, had she let me, and the most endearing gaps between her front teeth. I have an idea that because our sexuality emerges during our school years, there is something fundamentally attractive about a girl in school uniform, especially the formal fashions of the private institutions.
So Dorothy was the object of my attention, and my one reason for hauling myself out of bed on cold winter school mornings. I caught the bus with Tom, who lived nearby my house, and met the girls on the railway platform. This was back in the days when smoking was still allowed on the station, and they would come down to smoke, away from the eyes of their prefects who generally patrolled the bus interchange, not the trains. And for a few months, that was how it was. Tom and I showing off, and generally being teenage boys, the girls laughing at our jokes and responding to our posturing.
I tried to figure out a way to ask Dorothy to be my girlfriend. It was difficult. I tried to arrange meetings and dates with her, but it always ended up being a group outing, as I never had the opportunity to talk to her alone. The girls travelled in a pack. I eventually managed to get her phone number, and I would call her every other day, and we'd talk for hours. Luckily, I had a phone connection in my bedroom, and I would unplug the phone form upstairs and take it with me so no one could hear our conversations. It was during one of these long sessions I asked her, in the most awkward way possible, if she would go out with me.
"I have to ask you something" I said. The worst possible introduction to an important question, and guaranteed to put someone on guard. When she asked what, I basically just said "Will you go out with me". She didn't respond. That's when i realised this was a bad idea. I knew what was coming, too. I was starting to expect the standard response "But we're such good friends"
This pretty much spelled the end of the friendship, of course, because no woman wants someone around who really wants something else from her. Especially not as a friend. The whole issue of trust becomes sharply defined. I was crushed, and I didn't get the train to school for the rest of the week, preferring to take a longer, more difficult route, in order to avoid the embarrassment of facing the pack each morning. It was clear when I next returned to the station why Dorothy had refused me. When Tom and I arrived on the platform, he kissed her on the cheek, and they held hands until it was time to board the train. I guess it was wrong of me to feel betrayed. I wasn't owed anything by either of them, but things between all of us changed after that.
But when it did, I was quite happy to take the trip, as at least it gave me the opportunity to talk to some very lovely girls while waiting for my train. I am not sure exactly how we were introduced, somehow they were friends of friends in some convoluted manner, and when I first met them, they were all attending the same eastern suburbs Presbyterian girls' school. They were all pretty in their own way, I suppose, but I was smitten almost immediately by Dorothy.
Dorothy was slim, with dark curly hair that she mostly kept tied back in a pony tail, but which easily hung past her shoulders when she let it out. Her skin was occasionally marked with transient spots, as most teenagers are, but for the most part it was smooth and unblemished. She had deep brown eyes that I could have gazed into for hours, had she let me, and the most endearing gaps between her front teeth. I have an idea that because our sexuality emerges during our school years, there is something fundamentally attractive about a girl in school uniform, especially the formal fashions of the private institutions.
So Dorothy was the object of my attention, and my one reason for hauling myself out of bed on cold winter school mornings. I caught the bus with Tom, who lived nearby my house, and met the girls on the railway platform. This was back in the days when smoking was still allowed on the station, and they would come down to smoke, away from the eyes of their prefects who generally patrolled the bus interchange, not the trains. And for a few months, that was how it was. Tom and I showing off, and generally being teenage boys, the girls laughing at our jokes and responding to our posturing.
I tried to figure out a way to ask Dorothy to be my girlfriend. It was difficult. I tried to arrange meetings and dates with her, but it always ended up being a group outing, as I never had the opportunity to talk to her alone. The girls travelled in a pack. I eventually managed to get her phone number, and I would call her every other day, and we'd talk for hours. Luckily, I had a phone connection in my bedroom, and I would unplug the phone form upstairs and take it with me so no one could hear our conversations. It was during one of these long sessions I asked her, in the most awkward way possible, if she would go out with me.
"I have to ask you something" I said. The worst possible introduction to an important question, and guaranteed to put someone on guard. When she asked what, I basically just said "Will you go out with me". She didn't respond. That's when i realised this was a bad idea. I knew what was coming, too. I was starting to expect the standard response "But we're such good friends"
This pretty much spelled the end of the friendship, of course, because no woman wants someone around who really wants something else from her. Especially not as a friend. The whole issue of trust becomes sharply defined. I was crushed, and I didn't get the train to school for the rest of the week, preferring to take a longer, more difficult route, in order to avoid the embarrassment of facing the pack each morning. It was clear when I next returned to the station why Dorothy had refused me. When Tom and I arrived on the platform, he kissed her on the cheek, and they held hands until it was time to board the train. I guess it was wrong of me to feel betrayed. I wasn't owed anything by either of them, but things between all of us changed after that.
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