A call on my mobile at about ten in the evening was how things would normally start. A withdrawn voice, possibly infused with tears, would ask a simple question: “Can I come over?” It would be the advisory that I should expect a girl and her bicycle at my window within the next twenty minutes. It had become something of a routine over the past few months…
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I had first met Emma the previous year when she accompanied her mother to a barbecue at the home of my family and me. My parents had been taking part in a local political campaign and hosted a lunch for fellow volunteers. She seemed rather quiet to begin with, but when I withdrew from the gathering after the meal to the lounge room she soon followed me and we got talking. Her interests were what could be crudely described as nerdy: literature and music, with her tastes in the latter being rather eclectic. One wouldn’t normally expect a conversation to start with a whinge about the Rimsky-Korsakoff trombone concerto I was practising at school, proceed through Emerson, Lake and Palmer and end with a debate on the merits of Radiohead (we disagreed on Kid A but we both loved The Bends) but that’s what I got that afternoon with Emma. It didn’t hurt, or help, that her appearance was worthy of more than a second glance: dark shoulder-length hair, green eyes and pale skin on an averagely-built five-foot-ten frame clad in a white shirt, grey jumper, jeans and Doc Marten boots.
While I sympathised with my parents’ politics (not exactly relevant to the story but, for the record, best described as progressive), I hadn’t been interested in campaign work up to that point, but when Emma’s mother mentioned as they were leaving that she had started assisting with letterboxing, my interest was piqued. A couple of weekends later we met up on a street corner on the edge of Melbourne’s north-eastern suburbs with a map, a few hundred flyers and Melbourne’s famously fickle Spring weather threatening to behave itself.
As we thrust flyers into every letterbox we encountered, the two of us taking turns, we got talking about ourselves. I, Francis, was the younger of two children, with my sister Melanie six years older and having moved to the UK long-term earlier that year, and my parents still quite happily married. I attended the local state secondary school, in Year Eleven at that time. Emma’s story was a bit more complicated: her parents had split up a few years before when her mother came to the realisation that she preferred the intimate company of another woman. Emma’s father lived in Melbourne’s leafy eastern suburbs where she grew up, and she still attended school there (also a state secondary, but with a prestigious reputation and a restrictive entry policy to match, where she was also in Year Eleven), but her mother had moved in with her partner in the same suburb as me. Emma and her younger sister Amber would divide their time between both parents, usually spending a fortnight’s stretch with each parent.
As the year rolled towards its conclusion, Emma and I would catch up whenever we could, sometimes on campaign work but also just socially. While I had some feelings for her I couldn’t bring myself to actually ask her out. Much like her, I was something of a nerd, cursed with a shyness that was, to quote Morrissey, criminally vulgar. While I had adventurous musical tastes of my own, in lieu of Emma’s love of books I had a rather more unusual interest in trains and buses: what Americans would call a “foamer”. My idea of getting out of the house was usually taking long rides on my bicycle, sometimes in pursuit of my hobby but often just to take in the hilly countryside near to home. At school I had not received much attention from the opposite sex: was it my appearance (five-foot-ten, average build, shaggy auburn hair, brown eyes, features that could be referred to as “baby-faced”) or was it just that I couldn’t bring myself to walk up to a girl and talk to her without sounding a jabbering fool? In any case, my self-doubt stopped me from asking her if she wanted to be mine, and she seemed to have no particular interest in breaking the impasse herself. Or least it seemed...
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It was a Friday night in late November when it first happened. Having no plans that night I had retired to my bedroom where I was in an online forum for train enthusiasts. As I was debating the merits of Melbourne’s recent suburban trains versus Sydney’s at ten o’clock, my mobile rang. It was Emma, and she sounded distressed.
“Hi, Emma. What’s up this late?”
“I’m not feeling good, Fran. Are you at home?” she said, her voice showing signs of recent crying.
“Yeah, I am.”
“Can I come over?”
“Sure. It’s late though. Did you want me to come over and we walk back? What’s wrong?”
“No. I’ll tell you when I get there.”
“OK. It’s late. You might want to come to my window rather than knocking on the door. Are you sure you’re OK to come over?”
“I’m sure. See you soon.”
I tidied up what mess there was in my room. Having prepared to go to bed at some point I was only in a t-shirt and boxer shorts; I hastily pulled out a pair of cargo shorts and put them on in order to look halfway decent for an impromptu visit.
My house was one of those large homes often found on the fringes of Australian suburbia and built back in the Eighties: single story with living areas in the centre, children’s bedrooms to one side of that, and the master bedroom – the “parent’s retreat” – on the other side, all on an acre block landscaped mainly with native plants. The main entrance was closer to the parent’s end of the house: having an unexpected female visitor knocking on the front door would have probably resulted in a surprised reaction from my folks and, possibly, an awkward conversation about potential nocturnal activities. Luckily most rooms, mine included, had a sliding door outside: installed mainly to allow ventilation in the hot Australian summer, but with the side benefit of providing ease of access on those occasions where one wanted to enter or leave without tipping the folks off.
Twenty minutes later I glanced out the window and saw what appeared to be a bicycle headlamp move down our street, slowing to a stop before being turned off. Having decided it was nothing, I went back to my screen before hearing footsteps and the sound of a bicycle freewheel ticking. Emma stepped into view and I slid my door open for her.
“Didn’t realise you rode as well.”
“You didn’t ask, did you?”
She sat on the edge of my bed, a double futon, and opened up about that night. Emma and her mother’s partner had a massive argument, and it wasn’t the first time. Her mother’s partner was a butch with a capital B and apparently wasn’t averse to bullying from time to time. Previously, with nowhere to easily go over this side of town she had to sit it out; now, she felt she had somewhere she could go.
While Melanie’s room next door had been vacant for nearly a year, I wasn’t keen on explaining why someone had crashed out there to my parents the next day. Besides, Emma wanted the company, so I offered to share my bed. She lay down and fell asleep almost immediately, while I took a little longer as I wondered how I finally managed to have a girl so close to me.
Saturday morning soon rose and I awoke to find Emma facing me, with a rare smile on her face.
“Thank you for having me, for putting up with me”, she said.
“No problem.”
She put an arm around me, pulled me close and placed a lingering kiss on my lips. I was taken aback slightly, wondering why on earth someone would want to be so close to me, before returning the favour. We took turns gently sucking on each other’s lips before I inadvertently passed my tongue over her lip. Unlike my reaction at the start, she didn’t flinch, copying with her tongue. Soon our mouths opened up and our tongues touched, commencing a session of passionate kissing lasting fifteen minutes until we finally broke.
“I guess this is the point where I’m supposed to say ‘I love you’?” I sheepishly asked.
“Yes, and I love you too, Francis”, she said smilingly.
I heard activity in the kitchen. My parents were up and about.
“I’ll go and explain to them, so they don’t get a shock”, I said.
As I entered the kitchen the phone rang. My mother answered it, and soon the tone turned serious.
“Has she? Well…” There was a pause as she listened. “I’m not sure. He’s here, I’ll ask.” Mum turned to me. “Francis, it’s Emma’s mum. She’s gone missing…”
“That’s what I was going to tell you. She’s here, she stayed with me last night.”
“And when were you planning to tell us?”
“Right now.”
She raised the handset. “Don’t worry, she’s here… oh, OK. See you soon. Bye.” She turned back to me. “Is she OK?”
“She’s fine, she’s better than she was last night.”
“Oh good. They were worried.”
I made to head back to my room. As I did, my mother piped up.
“Oh, and… did…”
“The answer’s either no or no comment,” I said curtly.
“Did she walk here? In the dark?”
“No, and neither did some mysterious soul leave a bike outside my window.”
----
This happened a few more times over the following months: there would be a falling out between Emma and her mother’s partner, Emma would walk out and turn up at my bedroom window shortly afterwards. Sometimes it would be earlier in the day, sometimes it would be on a school night in which case she’d bring all of her gear on foot and head straight to school the next day, but usually it would be a Friday or Saturday night.
There was a rather clumsy discussion between my parents and me about how to accommodate Emma, with them under the presumption that there wasn’t anything happening between the two of us: fair enough, it was early days. While they were completely OK with her sleeping in Melanie’s long-unused bed, I thought that Emma might feel funny about spending the night alone in an unusual room. There was the option of an inflatable mattress but… well, you can make your own jokes about pumping up an air bed at midnight…
Soon, though, it was clear that we were an item, and we were welcomed into each other’s family’s homes that Christmas. I felt a bit awkward at Emma’s mother’s house, meeting the woman who seemed to be causing all manner of torment – and, inadvertently, bringing Emma and myself closer together – but dinner with them was civil enough.
When school resumed at the end of January I seemed to have a sunnier disposition. There may have still been the jokes about dating the books in the library or being in need of a girlfriend, but at least I knew I was fine on that front. Even the leader of the school concert band, whom I had a secret crush on for the better part of two years, noted I didn’t sound as awkward around her.
“You’re sounding more relaxed. Did something happen over the holidays?”
“Well…”
“Or did someone happen over the holidays?”
“Well…”
“Ooh, Franny’s got a girl…”
“Er, yes…”
“So, who is she?”
“It’s no-one you know of…”
“So she’s imaginary…”
“No, she just doesn’t go here.”
Sure, I may not have had the prestige of being able to swan about the school grounds with my girl hand-in-hand, but I felt much better knowing there was someone who not only cared for me but actually trusted me.
My liaisons with Emma were still at an early stage. We would make out whenever we had the chance, an outcome of the fact we didn’t see each other every day, and it felt good. But I didn’t want to push things on too fast: every time I had the desire to maybe push my hands further down or further up and feel more of her, I would remember that she sought me for security and trust and that I think twice before doing anything that might suggest that I would exploit that. But the desires were there, and they would linger long after Emma returned back to either of her parents. A doubt developed in me: what if I could not convince her that I wanted to go further with her? What if she decided she could go no further with me and decided to take her own new-found confidence and find someone new?
In an attempt to break out of that funk, I decided to at least get myself prepared. One night, I took the long walk from my house to the local shops and purchased the two things I thought I may be needing in the future: a packet of condoms and a tube of lubricant. Thank goodness for the self-serve checkout at the supermarket: in this state of mind, the last thing I needed was the storyline from Madness’s “House of Fun” playing out in front of me. As I walked back, I tried to imagine just what it would be like to finally be fully intimate with Emma. Unfortunately, my mind instead decided to focus on the mechanics of putting on a condom in that moment, which proved to be quite a downer.
Easter passed and April saw both Emma and I celebrate our eighteenth birthdays, two weeks apart. A week after her birthday, she had another falling out with her mother’s partner and, once again, my mobile rang and a sullen-sounding Emma announced that she was coming over.
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Autumn had finally kicked into gear in Melbourne, and while the night was clear and the moon was full there was a clear frostiness in the air outside. Emma pulled up to my window wearing a fleecy jacket and a pair of pedal-pushers, leaning her bicycle next to my window before sliding open the door. I bounded up and embraced her, the combination of the scent of the shampoo she must have used when showering earlier that night and the sweat from her bike ride filling my nostrils.
“Are you OK, Emma”, I asked.
“I don’t want to talk about it. Just the same old thing”, she said with a combination of exasperation and fatigue: the former from the argument, the latter probably due to the exertion of the ride.
After kissing our hellos I briefly adjourned to the bathroom to clean my teeth. When I returned Emma had taken off her jacket, revealing the red t-shirt she had been wearing. I had lent her that shirt on a previous occasion when she was short of clean clothes along with a pair of my jeans, exploiting the fact that our similarly-built bodies meant my clothes fit almost perfectly on her; it meant “boyfriend jeans” had additional meaning in her case. She had also taken off her pedal-pushers and was wearing a pair of navy blue satin boxer shorts.