couldnât harm a child. All he wanted to do was show them love.
He was drawn to unloved, lonely children, those who were troubled as he had been troubled. Often the loveliest children were the most troubled. What a lovely child, what pretty hair, people said, out loud, wanting the child to hear, but their saying it changed nothing. It did not make the child feel lovely, did not make the child feel loved.
When he was older he had taken his bike for long rides, choosing villages where he wasnât known. Winter was better than summer, with darkness coming early. From a back garden he watched till a child was put to bed. He would wait in the darkness, then flash a torch into the bedroom window so that the child would get up and look out.
No-one had been hurt. He wouldnât hurt a child. No-one saw him, and he was careful never to return to the same place.
Childâs play
Being an only child, Lesley had learned to play on her own. When she was a toddler, her father made a sandpit for her in the back garden against the stone wall at the end next to the coal shed. She spent a lot of time there in summer and on dry winter days, building little mounds that were houses, and gardens with stones for walls. Doorways were made by inserting a thumb and moving it from side to side. Gardens came alive with fallen rose petals. Water from the rain butt and daisies and buttercups from the drying green were also allowed. She knew that fairies werenât real, just as Santa wasnât real, so she had no foolish thoughts about little people coming to live in the mounds overnight.
Had Mother ever come out to watch or give suggestions? Or praise? It seemed to her that she had played alone, completely contented, hands muddy, the scent of the summer roses all around her. She knew now what she hadnât then. It was as simple as sunlight. What she had loved was the freedom to make something without help, the freedom to choose, and perhaps the fact that no-one ever told her to make it better.
She would be fifty on her next birthday. Far too old to have children. Some of the staff her age were bringing in photographs of their grandchildren. They all looked exactly the same. If Hector was still alive he would be fifty three. It must be almost thirty years since she had tried to invite him home for tea. She hadnât made a fuss when Mother said no, since he was only a friend, not a boyfriend. Sheâd assumed, at twenty, that there would be, if not plenty of young men, at least some to choose from. But all the time, there was Mother, keeping her safe, letting her make her mud-pie houses, watching from the window.
Ryanâs night
Ryanâs night began well. He met with everyone down Dimity Lane, happy in his new limited edition trainers, a joint present from his sisters, and happier still when a pint of beer was passed to him by someone he didnât know. The street was heaving with people, the queues for the bars were mad. No neds anywhere; the street was closed except for ticket holders, but one of the class had got tickets, his Dad had contacts, so that was good, and everyone was allowed to drink outside, which was brilliant, because the rain was off and now and then you could see stars overhead when the clouds cleared, and there was a great mix of people, and just a few policemen watching with impassive faces. Along with a couple of his pals, he cracked himself up playing ââspot the media typeââ for at least half an hour. The guy would have square thick glasses, the woman with him would be in trendy clothes that were too young for her. It was a doddle, it was like they had a lifestyle catalogue of their own they had all bought from.
He wished heâd a scarf, some dull colour like grey in cashmere would have been perfect, or maybe white silk, heâd seen a photo of Sting wearing white silk, but otherwise he felt he was looking just about right. There were loads of students, some of them from
He was drawn to unloved, lonely children, those who were troubled as he had been troubled. Often the loveliest children were the most troubled. What a lovely child, what pretty hair, people said, out loud, wanting the child to hear, but their saying it changed nothing. It did not make the child feel lovely, did not make the child feel loved.
When he was older he had taken his bike for long rides, choosing villages where he wasnât known. Winter was better than summer, with darkness coming early. From a back garden he watched till a child was put to bed. He would wait in the darkness, then flash a torch into the bedroom window so that the child would get up and look out.
No-one had been hurt. He wouldnât hurt a child. No-one saw him, and he was careful never to return to the same place.
Childâs play
Being an only child, Lesley had learned to play on her own. When she was a toddler, her father made a sandpit for her in the back garden against the stone wall at the end next to the coal shed. She spent a lot of time there in summer and on dry winter days, building little mounds that were houses, and gardens with stones for walls. Doorways were made by inserting a thumb and moving it from side to side. Gardens came alive with fallen rose petals. Water from the rain butt and daisies and buttercups from the drying green were also allowed. She knew that fairies werenât real, just as Santa wasnât real, so she had no foolish thoughts about little people coming to live in the mounds overnight.
Had Mother ever come out to watch or give suggestions? Or praise? It seemed to her that she had played alone, completely contented, hands muddy, the scent of the summer roses all around her. She knew now what she hadnât then. It was as simple as sunlight. What she had loved was the freedom to make something without help, the freedom to choose, and perhaps the fact that no-one ever told her to make it better.
She would be fifty on her next birthday. Far too old to have children. Some of the staff her age were bringing in photographs of their grandchildren. They all looked exactly the same. If Hector was still alive he would be fifty three. It must be almost thirty years since she had tried to invite him home for tea. She hadnât made a fuss when Mother said no, since he was only a friend, not a boyfriend. Sheâd assumed, at twenty, that there would be, if not plenty of young men, at least some to choose from. But all the time, there was Mother, keeping her safe, letting her make her mud-pie houses, watching from the window.
Ryanâs night
Ryanâs night began well. He met with everyone down Dimity Lane, happy in his new limited edition trainers, a joint present from his sisters, and happier still when a pint of beer was passed to him by someone he didnât know. The street was heaving with people, the queues for the bars were mad. No neds anywhere; the street was closed except for ticket holders, but one of the class had got tickets, his Dad had contacts, so that was good, and everyone was allowed to drink outside, which was brilliant, because the rain was off and now and then you could see stars overhead when the clouds cleared, and there was a great mix of people, and just a few policemen watching with impassive faces. Along with a couple of his pals, he cracked himself up playing ââspot the media typeââ for at least half an hour. The guy would have square thick glasses, the woman with him would be in trendy clothes that were too young for her. It was a doddle, it was like they had a lifestyle catalogue of their own they had all bought from.
He wished heâd a scarf, some dull colour like grey in cashmere would have been perfect, or maybe white silk, heâd seen a photo of Sting wearing white silk, but otherwise he felt he was looking just about right. There were loads of students, some of them from
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