Wendy Darlin'

Chapter Twenty Two - The Boy who Grew up

I woke up in the night, completely unaware of where I was, where I had been, where I was going. The last I remembered was waking up in the nursery, of having dreams of that strange boy... What was his name? 

I climbed out of the bed I was in, a small cot with a lumpy mattress. The only thing familiar to me was the London smog outside, nothing else. The walls were white wash and weathered, and drunks could be heard from outside. How I got into the poverty area of the city, I did not know. 

I told myself to keep calm, because panicking never got anyone anywhere. I rested my hands on the sill and shut my eyes, tears pooling on my cheeks. Why couldn't I remember? It felt like years ago I was dreaming about that boy, but I couldn't remember anything that had happened in the time between. 

And why was I here, of all places? I began to think of the worst and my tears became larger. Was I a slut? Did father lose all his money, and the house? I'd had enough of questions, I spun around, preparing myself to find answers. 

He caught me with both hands on my forearms, and it didn't take me long to be reminded of everything, every last detail. 

Peter. 

I pulled him close, a laugh excusable for a choke escaped my lips. He held me tighter and ran one hand through my hair, kissed my cheeks, my forehead and lips. Relief washed over me as tears ran freely over my face. 

We were finally free and there was nothing I wanted more than to be with him. 

"Always be here, to remind me, I never want to forget." I whispered into his chest. 

"Always." He replied, and lead me back to the cot. 

***

Peter told me, when we woke later that morning, that Lisa had allowed us to stay the night. He said she did not want to say goodbye, but wished us well, for she did not want to feel the pain she felt when Mother left and when Father died. 

I did not cry over Father. 

***

I found a peasant style skirt on the dresser and a loose blouse, which I tucked into the skirt. I tied the laces on my boots. I much preferred this skirt. Where I felt awkward and uncomfortable in the trousers Peter gave me, and the impracticability of the gowns I used to wear, the skirt was a perfect medium. 

Peter and I walked into the depths of the woods, the small, sickly woods in Kensington Gardens. I tried not to notice the tear in his eye when we entered the park, but it was so rare I couldn't help to. 

After a sprinkle of fairy dust, we flew away into the morning mist, that folded around the city like some kind of beast. 

Peter said we were going to the country side, because the air is fresher, and we might go travelling some time. 

Boy, did we travel. 

We saw mountains that pierced the sky. We saw sunsets that flooded the water in impossible colours. We walked along desert sand until our throats were raw. He took me to New York, where we met Slightly and his new lady. He told us of the course in Law he was taking, and how he wanted to become a judge, and how it seems that, upon the death of the parents he never met, he inherited a generous fortune. 

His lady was lovely, with bright red hair and a charming accent. She was not of money, but I could tell, by the way she looked at Slightly, there was nothing but love and respect in her eyes. 

***

We did not travel anymore. I fell pregnant. 

We moved into a cottage by the sea. Our first child, a girl, was named Jane. Peter showed her the mermaids in the sea (who were much kinder than Neverland's), and the fairies in the flowers. 

I was rather content, for many years, until not only did another baby arrive, but also, a letter from Mother. 

She had written to tell me all was well, that she had wed again and was glad to be free from "fathers strict bonds". I saw this comment as rather dramatic and uncalled for, and could not help but laugh at her unchanged, pathetic ways. 

Another girl, followed by a boy not too much later. Bethany and Thomas, but still, Peter and I refused to wed. 

He had brought up the topic just after dinner one evening, when we were walking about the cliff tops, a sleeping boy in my arms. 

I smiled at him as we let our feet dangle over the edge, the rays of the setting sun catching on his slowly, greying hair. His cheeks had grown stubble, and I noticed the age in his eyes, despite how young we were. 

Then words began to spill from his lips, words that at first made no sense, so little, in fact, I had to shut him up. 

"The thing is," I remember him saying. "I love you, I really do, and I think a wedding is in order."

I laughed. I laughed so hard that he was forced to join in too. Through all the silliness, he was able to ask; "Why not?"

So I told him I didn't want to, and I knew he didn't either. He only wanted to, for he did not remember his last name, and I didn't fancy another wedding dress, to be honest. 

He took on his Mothers maiden name, which happened to aliterate. Hence, he became Peter Pan. 

***

He died, Peter Pan. 

Not by a dangerous illness or an aggravated, ex lover, but by age. 

With Bethany married, and Jane off to who-knows-where, Thomas is the only one I can share my grief with. 

And with my frail limbs and thin torso, silver locks and wrinkled flesh, I think of the day when I can see him again.

My Peter, my boy who grew up.