Patricia Prime
The Face in the Window
among poppies watching fighter planes cross after cross after cross
I grew up in war-torn Britain, on a cul-de-sac without much traffic. During the summer, children played in the street from morning till night: lamppost cricket, skipping, ball games, hopscotch, jump rope, Knock-Down-Ginger and Can I Cross Your Stormy River?
A girl sometimes watched us from the bedroom window of the house opposite. She was about my age, and I admired the red dress she sometimes wore. But she never came outside. One day her mother asked my mum if I could go to her house, as she was too sick to play in the street. Mum agreed: I would spend one afternoon a week after school and an occasional Sunday afternoon with the girl, whose name was Nancy.
Nancy’s bedroom contained a desk and blackboard—her mother taught her at home, since she couldn’t attend school. Sometimes I’d write words for her on the blackboard, and tell her how I was studying for the coming 11-plus exam in the fall—I was excited about English and geography but had no talent for the maths. She’d copy what I wrote in a notebook and read them out loud, pretending we were taking the exam together.
Mostly, though, we played and talked. An only child, Nancy loved to hear the stories about my brother and sisters: how we played and fought with each other, got each other into trouble but still remained the best of friends. Because she wasn’t allowed any pets, I told her stories about ours: a dog, cat, two canaries, and two goldfish, Chips and Smoky. When our cat had kittens, I took two of them over to Nancy’s house for her to cuddle. Occasionally, we’d dress up—she in the red dress I liked so much, me in my mother’s pearls—and we would play mothers and fathers with her dolls and teddy bear.
When the weather was fine, Nancy was able to go and sit in the garden, where she had a swing. I’d push her backwards and forwards until my arms got tired or she wanted to go back indoors. As the exams approached, I spent more time studying and less time with Nancy. When I did see her, she’d often be too tired to play and just want to lay on her bed while I read our words to her from the books I was studying.
Just before the exams, Nancy’s mother came to our door, her face tear-stained. In her arms she carried a box. In the corner of it, I saw a patch of red. I turned and ran away.
chalk erased but still the words
About the Author
Patricia Prime is co-editor of the NZ haiku journal Kokako. She is the articles editor for contemporary haibun online and also a reviewer for Atlas Poetica, Takahe, and other journals.