by Iris Winston
The stumble was fortuitous. I tripped as I reached the crumbling wall and Terry happened to catch me. Realizing I was still a little rocky from my near fall, he continued to support me as we clambered over the rough ground to the youth hall.
Two of my girlfriends (I use the term loosely about the catty pair) were at the window. They saw my smile of thanks for the rescue and Terry’s answering grin, actually signifying nothing. But from their perspective, it meant that I—the geeky one with braids and weird specs—had a boyfriend. After all, why else would a guy be holding my hand? And not just any guy, but Terry.
Regarded as a catch by the popular girls, most of them hoped he would choose her. At 15, I was neither part of the in-crowd nor much good at sports, and shared the general view that I was beneath notice in the glamour department, especially as far as someone like Terry was concerned.
I knew he was simply being kind by helping me. But I saw no reason to spoil my rare moment of glory as he guided me towards the hall door, before we parted company.
The two window watchers came rushing round the corner. “When did you start going with Terry?” “Why didn’t you tell us?”
I could respond to the second question without lying. “Why would you think I’d tell you everything?” Perhaps, I even managed to sound suitably casual or slightly superior. This part of the memory of that very unusual teenage victory has faded.
But I do remember there was a subtle change in other girls’ attitudes towards me for a while. Although I had little further physical contact with Terry, he lived close by, so we ran into each other on the way to our separate schools often enough to be seen walking together. The connections were brief but helped build apparent knowledge of the phantom relationship. It also helped that Terry chose not to date anyone over the next while and I chose not to disillusion anyone about the details of our acquaintanceship. By the time Terry had a girlfriend, I was able to shrug and say I had moved on.
At that age and time, status in the group at an all-girls’ grammar school was more important than an actual relationship. I held tight to the tenuous connection and the gossamer rewards it offered through the eyes of others. The mirage of Terry served its purpose.
Remember, this was a time when a boyfriend was a required appendage for teenage girls, definitely a step up the ladder of social acceptance. Boyfriends fell into the same category as brassieres in terms of fitting in. You started wearing one well before you needed the physical support to demonstrate that you were on the way to adulthood. My 32A of the time was uncomfortable and unnecessary. So, in reality, was a boyfriend.
But we all assumed that the role had to be filled. So, it was time for Bruce to enter stage left. Certainly, it was gratifying that this suitably tall, dark and handsome guy seemed interested in me, but that was not the big attraction. The best of him, as far as I was concerned, was surely his Lambretta.
Any memory of dating Bruce is firmly attached to this scooter. Perched on the pillion, I felt on top of the world as we sped along. The disagreeable part of any outing came after we parked and dismounted. Then I was expected to hold the driver’s hand, smile and give the general impression that I enjoyed his company.
In retrospect, I am a little sad for boring Bruce. My lack of interest must have been obvious. I do recall leaning against his back with my arms around his waist as we rode on the scooter. From my perspective, that was purely to keep my balance. From his, it might have kept the spark of dating alive beyond its natural termination after a single date.
Inertia and the Lambretta kept the pathetic pairing going for a few months. Driving somewhere, anywhere was mandatory. At least, then I knew I would enjoy the journey segment of the day and could still talk about my weekend outing at school. That was still the main purpose at this stage of the game, after all.
That experience of dismal dating was enough to make me single-minded about schoolwork. It also taught me that there was little point in trying to make something out of nothing just to tick a socially acceptable box. I had been dating a motor scooter, accepting the driver only because self-driving vehicles weren’t available.
By this time, back on the school front, several girls were going steady with boys. One left suddenly for marriage and motherhood, shocking the rest of us. This, after all, was the era when nice girls didn’t and, if they did, they were no longer classed as nice girls.
After high school, life at university was far more open. Then, as life took over, timing determined connections and my future direction. Unsurprisingly, there were a few more stumbles—some as fortuitous as that far-off meeting with Terry—along the way. But, at least, right or wrong, my choices were independent and well-reasoned.
