Glenleigh Drive, Sunderland, 1975

– the following is a (revised) excerpt from Steven Naylor’s short story “Tapestry” (published by Prism International, 1994)

I have known Elizabeth since I was twelve.  When I first saw her I was playing in the backyard of my grandmother’s house. Amongst the wild grass, shrubbery, and birch was a magnificent edge where the grass met a narrow steep rockery. Here, on a bed of dense moist soil, a spattering of stones, wild flowers and weeds, was my make-shift Normandy and with it, endless possibilities for play and ambush for my Action Man as he dove and hid from the enemy. It was here where I crouched, invisible to the world.

Or so I thought.

Over the fence, from a second story window, Elizabeth watched me play. She stood, pressed against the glass, wearing a black, tight-fitting low cut dress. As our eyes locked, my whole being froze, and I went blank, unable to acknowledge her with either a smile, a wave, or a simple nod of the head. What I did manage to do was to look away, and, overcome with shame, I managed to shift my gaze, first to the kitchen window of my grandmother’s house, then to the barrel of fermenting sheep manure. Finally, looking down, I nestled my forefinger into the flexible rubber grip of my Action Man’s hand and distractedly played with his arm, all the while trying to act as if she wasn’t there. But I felt foolish, and a fool to ignore her. When I looked up to her again, she was mouth open, but unsmiling. With her fingertips touching the glass, she withdrew somewhat and looked off to the side as if someone had called her name. Again, I took my eyes away from her and back down to my Action Man. But the battlefield had begun to fade. I was incapable of realizing tactics and strategy. I could no longer grit my teeth or make the obligatory Tommy gun sounds with my mouth. I endured this new humiliation for an eternity, it seemed, before grabbing my Action Man and running into the house.

And the evening ended. I stood by the slightly opened door of my grandfather’s study and watched my father hunched over some papers, listening to a Schubert trio. Childhood had vanished. There was no warning, but I had played for the very last time.