Activity 7.5

Begin a story with the line:

     I thought I would always remember this, but over time it has become blurred.

Use a narrator who struggles to piece a memory together. The memory can be triggered by a chance meeting or the discovery of an old letter or photograph. Write up to 500 words.

Activity 7.5

 I thought I would always remember this, but over time it has become blurred. I know what happened of course, some things you never forget, but had we really been so young? The strange thing about youth is that every event is important; every year, season, defined by milestones in one’s life, friends we have, parties we attend and love we lose. After the age of about twenty the years just seem to blend together. But youth is also deceptive. At sixteen I believed I possessed the experience and looks of a woman of twenty-one. Perhaps this is why I am so confused about that period of my life. We spend our childhoods training our minds to think they are older than they are until, somewhere around the late twenties, they are thrown into harsh reverse and told that we are actually only babies, no grey hairs yet, thank you very much!

     But this photograph has spoiled a lifetime of contented deceit by exposing the truth. It couldn’t be much clearer. It was taken by Joe Mailer with his first camera, in colour too. There were ten of us in all and I remember thinking that the shot had to be just right. Camera films were expensive in those days and Joe had set a timer so he would be in it himself. I had snuggled deep into the arms of John Vickers, my sweetheart at the time. He had felt so strong and warm and this photo was going to last forever, proof that I was his girl. Looking at it now all I see is a boy – skinny and freckled, a child compared to Ally. It’s funny but she looks just the same here as I remember her. Blonde hair in pigtails, her arms folded like a boy, shiny lips twisted to one side in a devious smirk that Jane Russell would kill for. Then there were the blue jeans. Ally was American and the only person we knew who wore denim and chewed gum. She was confident and tomboyish but lusciously feminine in a way that I, with my pleated skirt and tight sweater, would not understand for another ten years.

     In the picture, I’m smiling like Vera-Ellen – all cheeks and teeth – but my stomach was doing somersaults. John’s chin rested on my head but all I could taste was Ally. I had been sure he would smell her on me but I needn’t have worried. I realise now that he would never have recognised the scent of a woman. The affair, I suppose you would call it, must have gone on for some months but for the life of me I can’t remember it ending. Did she move back to America? Was there a tearful farewell? Or did we silently go our separate ways?

     I never told anyone the truth about Ally and me; perhaps that’s why it is so hard to recall clearly. Until now, it has only existed in my old, unreliable memory. But now I have proof. Proof that I was her girl.