Nights like this
I just want to get slammed
by a truck.
I think my favourite chapter of any book is “When Wendy Grew Up” from Peter and Wendy (the original Peter Pan story by JM Barrie – you can read the whole book here). What comes before it – islands, mermaids, pirates, flying, fairies, “to die will be an awfully big adventure”, is all wonderful. But the last chapter changes everything. Here are my two favourite passages. If I’m ever able to read this without breaking down, then I am not me anymore and you can do what you want with her.
If you don’t remember, Wendy and the Lost Boys go home, and Peter promises to come back and take her to visit Neverland once each year…
She had looked forward to thrilling talks with him about old times, but new adventures had crowded the old ones from his mind.
“Who is Captain Hook?” he asked with interest when she spoke of the arch enemy.
“Don’t you remember,” she asked, amazed, “how you killed him and saved all our lives?”
“I forget them after I kill them,” he replied carelessly.
When she expressed a doubtful hope that Tinker Bell would be glad to see her he said, “Who is Tinker Bell?”
“O Peter,” she said, shocked; but even when she explained he could not remember.
“There are such a lot of them,” he said. “I expect she is no more.”
I expect he was right, for fairies don’t live long, but they are so little that a short time seems a good while to them.
Wendy was pained too to find that the past year was but as yesterday to Peter; it had seemed such a long year of waiting to her. But he was exactly as fascinating as ever, and they had a lovely spring cleaning in the little house on the tree tops.
Next year he did not come for her. She waited in a new frock because the old one simply would not meet; but he never came.
“Perhaps he is ill,” Michael said.
“You know he is never ill.”
Michael came close to her and whispered, with a shiver, “Perhaps there is no such person, Wendy!” and then Wendy would have cried if Michael had not been crying.
Peter came next spring cleaning; and the strange thing was that he never knew he had missed a year.
That was the last time the girl Wendy ever saw him. For a little longer she tried for his sake not to have growing pains; and she felt she was untrue to him when she got a prize for general knowledge. But the years came and went without bringing the careless boy; and when they met again Wendy was a married woman, and Peter was no more to her than a little dust in the box in which she had kept her toys. Wendy was grown up. You need not be sorry for her. She was one of the kind that likes to grow up. In the end she grew up of her own free will a day quicker than other girls.
And Wendy keeps on growing up, and has a daughter called Jane, and turns her old adventures into bedside stories.
“But, alas, he forgot all about me,” Wendy said it with a smile. She was as grown up as that.
“What did his crow sound like?” Jane asked one evening.
“It was like this,” Wendy said, trying to imitate Peter’s crow.
“No, it wasn’t,” Jane said gravely, “it was like this”; and she did it ever so much better than her mother.
Wendy was a little startled. “My darling, how can you know?”
“I often hear it when I am sleeping,” Jane said.
“Ah yes, many girls hear it when they are sleeping, but I was the only one who heard it awake.”
“Lucky you,” said Jane.
And then one night came the tragedy. It was the spring of the year, and the story had been told for the night, and Jane was now asleep in her bed. Wendy was sitting on the floor, very close to the fire, so as to see to darn, for there was no other light in the nursery; and while she sat darning she heard a crow. Then the window blew open as of old, and Peter dropped in on the floor.
He was exactly the same as ever, and Wendy saw at once that he still had all his first teeth.
He was a little boy, and she was grown up. She huddled by the fire not daring to move, helpless and guilty, a big woman.
“Hullo, Wendy,” he said, not noticing any difference, for he was thinking chiefly of himself; and in the dim light her white dress might have been the nightgown in which he had seen her first.
“Hullo, Peter,” she replied faintly, squeezing herself as small as possible. Something inside her was crying “Woman, Woman, let go of me.”
“Hullo, where is John?” he asked, suddenly missing the third bed.
“John is not here now,” she gasped.
“Is Michael asleep?” he asked, with a careless glance at Jane.
“Yes,” she answered; and now she felt that she was untrue to Jane as well as to Peter.
“That is not Michael,” she said quickly, lest a judgment should fall on her.
Peter looked. “Hullo, is it a new one?”
“Boy or girl?”
Now surely he would understand; but not a bit of it.
“Peter,” she said, faltering, “are you expecting me to fly away with you?”
“Of course; that is why I have come.” He added a little sternly, “Have you forgotten that this is spring cleaning time?”
She knew it was useless to say that he had let many spring cleaning times pass.
“I can’t come,” she said apologetically, “I have forgotten how to fly.”
“I’ll soon teach you again.”
“O Peter, don’t waste the fairy dust on me.”
She had risen; and now at last a fear assailed him. “What is it?” he cried, shrinking.
“I will turn up the light,” she said, “and then you can see for yourself.”
For almost the only time in his life that I know of, Peter was afraid. “Don’t turn up the light,” he cried.
She let her hands play in the hair of the tragic boy. She was not a little girl heart-broken about him; she was a grown woman smiling at it all, but they were wet eyed smiles.
Then she turned up the light, and Peter saw. He gave a cry of pain; and when the tall beautiful creature stooped to lift him in her arms he drew back sharply.
“What is it?” he cried again.
She had to tell him.
“I am old, Peter. I am ever so much more than twenty. I grew up long ago.”
“You promised not to!”
“I couldn’t help it. I am a married woman, Peter.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Yes, and the little girl in the bed is my baby.”
“No, she’s not.”
But he supposed she was; and he took a step towards the sleeping child with his dagger upraised. Of course he did not strike. He sat down on the floor instead and sobbed; and Wendy did not know how to comfort him, though she could have done it so easily once. She was only a woman now, and she ran out of the room to try to think.
My ‘safe place’ in London is the British Film Institute, which is currently doing a season of films gathered under the title ‘The Long Goodbye’, all chosen because they ‘engage with death as a fact of life’. These kind of specifics are so pleasing.
I saw ‘Last Night‘ there – the description had me at ‘a delightfully low-key apocalypse movie’. There are six hours left before the world ends at midnight (everyone’s known this was coming for a few months now), and people are finding their own ways of dealing with it – going to big raver parties on the street, pretending it’s Christmas, fulfilling fantasies & dreams, trying desperately to connect with just one other person…and almost everyone is trying to go out listening to their favourite song.
Funnily enough, I didn’t realise it was made in 1998 until after it ended and I read the programme, which suddenly explained the floral dresses. It’s also awesome that the world ends at midnight… Toronto time. There’s no night anymore either, so everything’s lit by this weird, off-putting light. And I love that everyone’s extreme?/true? selves and beliefs are cast into relief by the knowledge that the end is coming – even though we all know we will die anyway, one day. It makes a difference, somehow, that everyone else is being obliterated all at once too, that not even a memory of who you were will outlast you in another person for a second. It will happen all the same – this is just time sped up. This is why one should never ask for a fortune.
It was one of those rare, glorious, workdays today where I am instructed to spend thousands of other people’s pounds on Italian designer formalwear. Of course, in practice this gets me a little jittery. Also, I got lost, which is not ideal when perusing cobblestoned streets in heels while trying to remain coiffed enough to actually be allowed in the store.
In the end, the mission was accomplished. The highlight for me wasn’t so much walking out with the flashy bag (which I could totally fit inside, and I would have a photo taken to prove it if I wasn’t sole charge at the office this week), as when the shop assistant leaned in and said: “I love your bag! So pretty. Is it THE Burberry?”
It was, in fact, THE extremely humble Lippy, but I guess it’s all how you hold it! And that, mon ami, is why I have never had the desire to buy an It bag.
Image: United State by Nick DeMarco