If only I’d known. ( or ‘Why I had to cultivate my love of German cabaret.’)

It was that summer when we queued in the sweaty kiosk to have transfers ironed on. Strutting our Donna Summer stuff, names made wavy with the buds of change; Tracey, Mandy, Shaz - wanabee Diana’s all. That summer when we slung on our bows and gave of identity - so freely - heedless of the laws of market forces.

We prowled the camp - a wanton band, hunting up experience and boys; visibly swelling under observation. Swarming on (the shining muscled sweat glow of) a hulking German gardener - our sugared water - we buzzed. What better testing ground for our arts - hard garnered from teen zines, tee vee, and mommy dearest - Rosy, none kissed but sun-kissed - wanabee women all - we prattled, with holiday confidence giving up the clues in response to leading questions; heedless.

He leant on his rake - assessing I suppose - teasing. We linked arms and laughed, as he worked - easing our pubescent chain delicately through thick fingers, tugging gently, searching out the one un-tempered link. Brittle, blushing, fractured.

‘So you think sex before marriage is a good thing?’

Chosen from the ranks - the girl no-one wants in their team - valued! - I gifted my precocity. ‘Of course! How can you know if you want to marry someone if you’ve not slept with them?’

‘Would you like to go out with me tonight?’

‘Of course.’

*****

‘But you’ve got to come, your mum’s going in for the talent contest.’

‘I don’t feel very well, I think I’ll have an early night.’

I ushered them off to the ballroom; guts tumbling. Chosen - I chanted - through stuttery - chosen - mascara - chosen - application - chosen.

Soon enough a tap-tap-tap at the chalet door; the sound of beak on glass - A jay, a bold German jay, he swept in - eyes pointed, seeking out preciousness; swag to fill his bag.

‘Where are we going?’

‘I thought we’d just stay in.’ He slid a heavy arm around my shoulders and I looked up and up and up. He kissed me and I went up and up and up. He pulled me into the bedroom and pushed me down.

Down,

down,

down.

‘No.’

‘You cannot do this to a man. You cannot excite a man and then stop - this is not possible for a man.’

No, for this man it was not possible.

*****

Pre-pubes slick with spent sickness, I sobbed - silently.

Re-buckled, he smoothed hair - healthy shining hair, ‘You will tell no-one.’

I nodded.

*****

It was that summer, the one where I went out the following day and sat on a bar stool - twelve years tall and - sure of diminished value - invited a lad back to an empty chalet to compound belief.

It was that summer, the one where my mum won the talent contest singing ‘I Believe.’

The one where Ralph, a jobbing German gardener, mined my hidden vein and shattered it’s ruby core. Where I thought and thought of all the ways I could have, should have changed it‘s course, if only I’d have known.

It was that summer, the one where I realised how very hard I had become.

‘I believe for everyone who goes astray, someone will come
to show the way…’