It might have saved you hours of reading. If you’re
reading –
are you with me still?
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
I knew an estate agent once, long time ago,
when I was just a simple seaside girl – she was the
daughter of a farmer, had a creamy face, high ponytail.
I’d started seeing someone just a little older than I
was – though a small age gap can be cavernous when
you’re young – and Ava – was I!
This woman was a friend of his, I think they’d also
dated once.
She sort of took me in. As though I were an
urchin – needed schooling, caring for.
She was posher than the rest of them, land-rich.
Had owned a pony, been to competitions as a child so
seemed caught between the wilderness of their world,
their friends, and the land of jodhpurs.
She’d buy me drinks, chastise me for my outfits,
my behaviour, tell me I should stand up straight,
and when I slouched, or made a joke she thought
unsavoury, she’d reach behind my head as though about
to stroke my hair but, checking no one saw,
would grip a chunk and pull
in one fast movement,
hard – a real tug,
so that my head jerked
back, and whisper
NO!
Quite fascinating, Ava.
I let her do it.
I sort of didn’t mind.
I felt she wanted to harm me further, but in a sexy way,
and that, Ava, was interesting to me.
It was a heady time! The blustery moors. The
crackle of a bonfire on a hill. The cold Atlantic!
It’s good to know the strength of water
early, don’t you think? To be a tiny child tugged under,
tossed about, mouth full of salt and sand.
I think it puts things in perspective.
