Til' the leaves come fallin' down.

Till the leaves come fallin' down.
By
L. Mary E. Room





There he was, I knew immediately, despite the ten years or
more since I had seen him last. He had not changed at all, well perhaps
a little rounder around the waist, but still the same fit build, and
the face just looked wiser or perhaps 'more used', rather than older,
but is was definitely him.


I was sitting on the sea front wall; my class of
ten-year-olds sitting more or less well behaved having their picnic
lunches that they had brought along on this start-of-autumn term school
trip. Most of the 'please Miss, he pushed me' and 'please Miss, Jimmy
ate my sausage roll' had finally died down as the serious eating had
set in. This was the kids main day trip of the year, which had now
moved from its usual timing at the end of the year in the summer term,
because of the pressure of the SATs tests that they had to sit at that
time. Whilst the trip was mainly an exciting day away for the children,
it also had an official title of 'nature day', because just about every
detail and second of a child's primary education had to be accounted
for and linked to authorised curriculum.
A trip to Newcastle, the beautiful seaside town that snuggled between
the sea and Northern Irelands highest mountain Slieve Donard, was
perfect for combining fun and nature studies at the same time.



So it was that I was sitting on the sea wall, occasionally
casting a warning stare as one or other child began to get too
boisterous, but on the whole gazing along the beach or out to sea. My
mind was a relaxing blank, I wasn't thinking about him, I wasn't
thinking about anything. At first I noticed the family of four, walking
along the beach, playing some sort of game on the sand with a stick as
they walked along. My first reaction was as a teacher, noticing that
the children were about nine and seven years old, I wondered why they
weren't at school.


The father was walking backward drawing a line in the sand
with the stick. He made the line zig-zag, loop-the-loop and swirl
around, the aim of the children to try and walk along the line as fast
as they could. Occasionally, he would spiral the line inwards into
tighter and tighter circles, before bursting off in a straight line
from the centre. The children were clearly enjoying the game, as their
laughter and giggles carried easily along the beach. Their mum was
following along at a more sedate and straighter pace, a loving smile
breaking across her at the antics of her family ahead of her.



I had heard that he had married a GP. That much had made it
through the gossip lines, but I had not heard about the children. She
was certainly not your average female family doctor; she was very
stylish and good looking. Their daughter, though dressed slightly
tomboyish, had her mothers striking looks. The boy was the image of his
father, in looks and nature. I sat transfixed as they made their way
along the beach, soaking in detail about all of them. As they came
closer and closer towards where I sat, I suddenly felt an impending
panic, what if he saw me, what if he talked to me, should I talk to him
first, what on earth would I say. What could I say, that wouldn't sound
shallow and would be appropriate after all this time, especially if his
wife and kids were within ear shot?


So it was that as they drew level to my position on the wall,
perhaps no more than twenty or so yards away, David turned in my
direction and for a few seconds our eyes met. Nothing changed in his
stance or expression to suggest any recognition. His gaze diverted away
from mine and back to his family, just as if he had temporarily locked
eyes with any stranger, then realised that to look any longer in that
direction would be impolite or unusual.


I felt relieved and disappointment in equal measure. The
relieve arising from the dissipation of any risk of an inept verbal
exchange. The disappointment arising from any sort of sign of
recognition. I was thoroughly convinced that it was a lack of
recognition I had witnessed rather than any conscious decision from
David to ignore me. Had I really changed that much?


Whilst he had not appeared to have changed much, I on the
other hand had undergone a self-imposed re-styling like many women in
their thirties. Gone were the soft blonde curls that I had sported for
most of my teenage and university days, to be replaced by a short
straight formal style. My figure was still trim and fit, but no longer
naturally, but rather through the punishment and persuasion of several
gym visits and aerobics classes every week.


As I watched, David and his family headed away from me up the
promenade towards the car park at the bottom of Slieve Donard that
served as the main parking area for visitors to the town and as a
starting point for climber and walkers heading into the mountains. As
they passed under one of the beech trees that stood along the
promenade, David rushed forward calling something back over his
shoulder to his children, who quickly followed. He reached the tree
first and reaching up as high as he could grasped a branch and shook
it, causing the autumn-coloured leaves still clinging to the tree to
fall just a little prematurely. As the leaves floated to the ground,
his children ran around in circles under the tree trying to catch as
many leaves as they could before the reached the ground.
With a final substantial tug on the branch to dislodge as many leaves
as possible, David began to compete with his children in the game.



It was autumn and David was catching leaves. He was catching
leaves as they fell, smiling and laughing as he did so.



The significance of this stunned me instantly, then as the
realisation diffused through me, I reacted and the emotions surfaced,
unintentional, uncontrollable and natural.


'Are you al' right Miss, it looks like you crying' asked one
of my girls sitting closest to me.
'Sounds more like she's laughing' chipped in one of the cheekier
boys.
'I'm doing both' I replied suddenly realising how open my inner
thoughts had become.


Wiping my hand over my eyes and down my face until it rested
on my neck, in an attempt to sweep the emotions away, I turned towards
the class.
'Come on you horrible lot, hurry up and finish your lunch, we still
have wood habitats to study this afternoon up in Donard Forest' I said
smiling.


When I turned my attention along the promenade towards the
tree, the leaves had stopped falling; no one was there. David and his
family were gone.


The class began to tidy up after lunch and get ready for the
afternoon's activity, when at last we were all ready, we moved slowly
off towards the Donard car park. This was the same direction that David
and his family had taken, and the random panic returned to me, should I
speak to him, what would I say, would he want to speak to me.
As it was, the class and I passed through the car park and up onto the
wooded hillside of Slieve Donard without a sighting.


We carried up through the woods until we came across a couple
of felled tree trunks, on which the class managed sit down on, despite
a great deal of pushing, shoving and giggling. Once I had explained
their task for the afternoon centred around bugs and habitats within
the woods, warned them not to wander too far away from our present
location, and then sent them on their way, I collapsed down on the now
vacated logs. Resting my hands on the log, I tilted my head back to
look at the sunlight filtering through the autumn leaves in the canopy
above. As my gaze turned earthwards again, I saw Claire returning after
running after a pair of the children who had managed to leave both
their clipboards beside the logs. There were times when I really did
not know what I would have done without Claire, not only in my role as
a teacher since I joined the school, but also as a good friend during
that time. Wise and yet totally mad, firm and yet loving with the
children, she had boundless energy for life, despite many years in her
job as classroom assistant. She finally reached me, and despite there
being a whole log free, and a good part of mine, she still insisted in
siting up close to me, playfully nudging me along a few centimetres as
she sat down.


'Mary, what one earth set you off back there during lunch'
asked Claire.


'I thought a saw someone I knew from a long time ago.'



'Who, what, where, when, and why, tell me more.'



'Oh it's a long story' I replied.


'Oh go on, tell me, we've got loads of time, whilst this lot
dig up their bugs and stuff' pleaded Claire.


'I can't' I replied, 'I really can't, I haven't even told the
whole story to myself yet.'


'Well when you do, you make sure you come and tell me next,
as you really have me intrigued now.'


'I will, I will, I promise'


Claire turned around to look down into the wood for a few
seconds, before quickly turning with another request 'Has it got
anything do with school, you can at least tell me that' she
asked.
'No' I smiled, 'it has nothing do with school.'
"If you really must know, it's something that happened at university, a
long time before I had even decided to go into teaching.'
'It must involve a man, it just has to' probed Claire.
'Yes it did, but look you, no more questions' I snapped with more anger
than Claire deserved.
'Mary I'm sorry, I didn't mean to push.'
'No, I'm the one that should be apologising, you didn't deserve to get
your head bitten-off' I replied whilst reaching my arm around her
shoulders, giving one of my best friends and colleagues an apologetic
hug. It seemed to do the trick, we both smiled, which is sometimes rare
on a school trip with a brood of thirty or more.
As I stood up, both to stretch and move down into the woods to check on
my cohort of kids, I turned round to face Claire. 'Look you, I promise
to tell you more on the bus on the way home, but so much of it is all
confused, mixed up and I guess slightly forgotten.'
'It's a deal' said Claire 'but start praying now that are little
darlings are tiring themselves out and will be a little less boisterous
than they were on the journey down.'


The rest of the day passed smoothly, thankfully none of my
kids managed to get hurt, lost or distressed in any way. I spent my
afternoon talking to each small group about food webs, looking at
woodlice and trying to explain to one or two children that even though
they had found large stones in the forest they should be not be
classified on their sheets as a living inhabitant.


At approximately two thirty in the afternoon, we began making
our way down through the wood to the car park at the base of Slieve
Donard where are bus was waiting for us. As I counted them onto the bus
to ensure that we had a full head count, Claire was already on the bus
settling the kids into their seats, also ensuring that our main trouble
makers were seated well away from each other.


As the last child climbed the couple of steps onto the bus, I
briefly glanced around, my gaze moving up the slopes over the wooded
lower half and up to the treeless summit of Slieve Donard. I closed my
eyes for a few seconds, dropping my head, so that as I reopened my eyes
they now rested on the sea only yards away. Newcastle was truly an
amazing place, spoilt by nature, amazingly unspoilt by man and tourism.
Even though Northern Ireland is a very small place, I had known nothing
of this area through my childhood and teenage years. It had only been
David who had opened my eyes to the sheer natural beauty of the area, a
place to be at peace and at the same time a party, he had often
said.
His devotion for the area had rubbed off on me during the incredibly
short, yet eventful couple of days that we spent together here all
those years ago.
How curious that it was here of all places that I had seen him again
after all this time. Well, at least I think it was him. No, that was
stupid, I was sure. Why had the sighting affected me so much?
Especially as it had appeared that he had not even recognised me, and
not a single word had been exchanged. Yes, lately I had been thinking
about him, along with many other events and personalities from my past.
Nevertheless, it was still surprising to be so emotionally moved, to
the point that Claire had needed to know why.
My day dreaming was interrupted at the thought of Claire, as I suddenly
realised that everyone was now settled on the coach and waiting for me
to get on-board. I turned and climbed the stairs, and with one last and
probably unnecessary question to whether everyone was on-board, which
resulted in a chorus of cheeky no's, I collapsed into the seat beside
Claire at the front of the coach.
The coach pulled out of the car park, moving through the one way
traffic system in Newcastle, making its way back onto the Belfast Road,
to return us to our primary school in the affluent area of Hollywood,
just outside Belfast.


I sat silently starring straight ahead very much aware of
Claire's silence beside me. Without turning to look at Claire, I began
to try and explain.


'He was an old boy friend, no, he was more than that, he was
my er?fianc?, no?shit, I told you it was all confused.'



'Hold on Mary, slow down, I've never seen you like this
before. Deep breath, and start again?well it works for the kids in
reading sessions.'


'He was an old boyfriend, I guess we never got to the
official engagement stage, but I did agree to marry him when he asked
me.'


'So what went wrong, what did the bastard do, cheat on you,
just walk out or what?'
'It was me, I was the bastard or I guess the bitch.'


'What! Very unlike you, how long ago was this?'



'It all happened in 1985 to 1986, more or less a full
academic year at university. The whole thing then dragged on for a
further four years in which I tortured him some more. I last spoke to
him in 1990, the same night we had our last dance together. That was
him that I saw on the beach today.'


'What the bloke with the woman and two kids.'



'Yep.'


Claire unexpectedly laughed,
'Christ Mary you should have told me earlier so that I could have got a
good look at him. I could even have gone up him and found out what you
really got up to back at university.'


Her ability to make me laugh despite any situation never
ceased to amaze me. I was about to challenge her with a 'you wouldn't
have dared' but I know better, she would have done.


'I think what upset me most was that I saw him catching
leaves with his kids.'


'And that upset you!'


'I once made him a promise that involved falling leaves, one
that I made when we were very much in love, one that I made with my
heart, but I broke it, and in doing so, I think I broke him too.'



'Lets leave the 'falling leaves' promise for the moment as I
guess that will take a lot of explaining. Lets start with an easier
one, such as, are you still in love this guy?'


'No' I exclaimed, perhaps a little too loudly and with a
touch too much passion 'its just that I seem to be thinking about him
lately, what we did together, along with all sorts of university stuff.
The slightest little thing will trigger some memories, such as that
Steps song.'


'What Tragedy?' asked Claire.


This time I did decide Claire deserved a thump and give her a
gentle but firm punch on her upper arm. Her playful overreaction far
outweighed the strength of the punch.


'One of the songs that we danced to that night, the last
night I saw him, was 'Better the Devil You Know' you know the original
version, the one covered by Steps that all these kids keep singing, not
believing us that we knew it first.'


'So what is the significance of the song, it's hardly one of
the most romantic songs in the world.'
As she said this she turned around and kneeled up on her seat to face
down the coach.


'Oih, Rosie and Alison give us a quick blast of 'Better the
Devil You Know' ' she shouted to two of the classes best pop experts
and undisputed karakoe queens.


Without hesitation the two started singing and after the
first verse more or less the whole bus spontaneously joined in the
chorus. The karakoe queens started into the next verse.



'All right, all right that's enough' Claire interrupted them
'I was just having an argument with Miss Room about the lyrics, and I
think I've heard enough to win the argument.'


As Claire wriggled back down into her seat the karakoe
queens, now sparked into life, were well into Steps cover of the Bee
Gees hit 'Tragedy', including all the bands choreography that involved
the arms and head.


'See I told you it wasn't romantic' she said smiling.



'I could kill you sometimes.'


'No you wouldn't, who would tidy up after you in the
classroom, gossip with you and get ridiculously drunk on white wine at
least once a month.'


'All right I might not kill you but sometimes you deserve a
good thump.'


'You're probably right, but save the thumping until later and
get back to the story. So what was the significance of the song? I bet
none of the kids on this bus even realise that Steps weren't the first
ones to sing the song and that we were bopping away to little Kylie's
version over ten years ago.'


'Christ, that makes feel old, anyway, there is no huge
significance really, it was just one of the last songs we ever danced
to.'


'Was that the night you split up?


'No, we had been split up for nearly four years at that
stage.'


'Now listen Mary, you normally don't make sense after a
bottle of wine or two, but today, you are excelling yourself and
talking rubbish whilst stone-cold sober.'


'I told you earlier that I hadn't sorted out the whole story
in my head yet, though in the last few months I have been trying. It's
all this 80's nostalgia that is around at the moment. Everyone is at
it, TV programmes such as I love the 80's, The Best 80's CD Ever and
loads of advertisers using it trying to target us thirty-somethings.'



'What? Do you want to go back to the 80's with all that
terrible fashion, New Romantics frilly shirts, puff-ball shirts and all
the other stuff?'


'No, it's just that there are loads of compilation albums
around at the moment and bands in the charts with cover versions such
as that Steps song. Every time I hear a particular song, loads of
memories come flooding back, some good some bad. I am just trying to
make sense of it all.'


'Deep' said Claire.


'No I'm serious about this. We all need to reflect and try to
understand some of the decisions that we have already made in our
lives, some good, some bad, that have all contributed to where we are
and who we are today.'


'Even deeper.'


'You are getting closer and closer to another thump, and a
proper one this time.'
Claire turned around in her seat to face me, removing a smile and
replacing with a more serious expression.


'OK, no more jokes, I'm listening.'


'Claire, I'm in my mid-thirties and single. It's not that I'm
bad looking, it's just that how the hell am I supposed to meet any
decent blokes at a primary school with six other female teachers, all
married. There aren't even any decent single-dads that I could
hit-on.'


'You sound desperate.'


'I am in a funny sort of way, I mean I don't go clubbing or
to discos anymore, no more house parties or beach parties. All of which
were the tried and tested ways we used to find someone back at
university.'


'Ah but you got drunk more often back then and that always
made finding a bloke easier. There is no way you get on like that again
and still manage to make it to school, and survive the day.'



'Exactly, so that is one of the reasons why I've been
thinking about wild days at university, the parties and the hangovers.'



'And the fact that it was easier to get a bloke.'



'Yes, and it was easier to get a bloke.'


'So where does the bloke from the beach fit in to all of
this? What's his name anyway, I can't keep calling him the bloke on the
beach.'


'David, his name was David. I loved him, he loved me, and
then?and then I just turned away. He was good looking, funny, a
wonderful lover, and he always put the toilet seat back down, the
perfect man and I just walked away from him.'


'Why?'


'It's a long story and I'm still trying to sort out all the
where, when and why in my head.'


'This is obviously very important to you at the moment. Look,
I have a suggestion, why don't you approach the whole thing the same
way you would have done back at university.'


'What get drunk and forget the whole thing.'


'No silly, get a pen and paper and jot down some bullet
points. Get them in order and start filling in the fine details. When
you have the whole thing in some sort of decent order, come and tell me
the whole story. If you are looking for some advice I'll try and give
it, if not, I'll just be a good listener.'


'Claire the Agony Aunt strikes again.'


'Exactly.'


'OK, I'll give it a go. I'll even explain the 'falling
leaves' promise, though when you read it you'll probably think it was
dead corny, but at the time it just seemed right.'


So later that evening I sat down at my desk in my office,
which doubled up as the spare room in my flat, with my favourite
tipple. Basically any German dry white wine, a glass half filled and
the remainder of the bottle sitting on the desk just to my left and
right in front of me a lined paper pad. I tapped the end of the pen
against my front teeth half-concentrating on where to start the other
half listening to the Corrs CD playing in the background.
It was only as the room went silent as the CD ended that I realised
that half the bottle of the wine was now gone. I glanced down to see
the progress of the transfer of my thoughts and memories onto paper to
be greeted by a blank sheet of paper. I still felt confused, mixed up
and unsure of how to start an episode of my life that had involved
David.
So much for Claire's advice of approaching the whole thing the same way
I would have done a project back at university.
As I thought about this I concluded that things weren't the same. I
wasn't working in one of the universities libraries, not for the
availability of textbooks but rather for the warmth that is always
seriously lacking in any student flat. There wasn't the same urgency of
finishing the project, not only because of a lecturer imposed deadline
for handing it in, but also because if I got some serious work done, I
could still get to the pub with our crowd for a couple of drinks before
last orders.
I didn't have the distraction of wondering away from desk and cubicle
to find others to talk and gossip too, or for others to come and sit in
my cubicle and oh to easily persuade me to break from work to have a
chat.


It was this constant potential for distraction that David
finally persuaded me to move with him on some evenings from the science
library that was best suited to our needs, to the arts library where
few of our course mates would be. We would do an overnight loan on
whatever books we needed, and head down to the arts library, which in
contrast to the squat two-story science library, was in a ten-story
tower block at the centre of Queens University in Belfast. Our
favourite cubicles were on the tenth floor in which the desks faced the
window, with a panoramic view of heart of the city. A scene that was
purely magically at night with the lights of the city centre blurring
into the lights of north Belfast and the few lights that existed on the
slopes of Cave Hill and Black Mountain that walled the north of the
city. In these cubicles that I usually got my best work done, feeling
content in the knowledge that David was working just the other side of
the cubicle partition.


It was in these cubicles that David, who was the year above
me, introduced me to his incredible laid back and yet efficient and
effective approach to his work. The techniques for learning that he had
adopted and then passed on to me had been vital in my progress not only
in my first degree but also in later years. Following on from my first
degree, I had done a PhD in science to become Doctor Room, and yes I
have heard all the jokes. Then later when I became disillusioned with a
career in science it helped me through the year of the teacher-training
course that had led me into the position I was in now as a primary
school teacher.
I found myself pouring the last glass-worth of wine out of the bottle,
wondering what advice David would give me in my failed attempt to put
in writing what had happened to us. I wonder how he would have
approached it. God, I wondered, what would he write about the whole
thing, what would be his view of it all, what would his view be of
me.
That would certainly be something I would love to read, if I could
understand what he had felt then perhaps I could begin to sort my own
thoughts and feelings.
Perhaps it was the bottle of wine I had nearly consumed, perhaps a
flash of inspiration or madness, either way an idea began to glow and
grow deep in my mind. Could I consider the whole episode from his
viewpoint, could I begin to write down what he had felt? The pop singer
Madonna had just had a hit with the song 'Do you know what it feels
like for a girl'. This was going to be my own journey of discovery to
try and unravel what it felt like to be a boy, not just any boy, but my
boyfriend.
I began to write on the block of paper?.
'Once upon a time there was a boy called David..'
Almost instantly I scribbled this out as the minute I saw what I had
written it immediately thought that it resembled one of those simple
bible stories that they tell you at Sunday school.
The next attempt lasted no longer than the first, as it went along the
lines of?
'There once was a boy from Portadown?..'
This time I instantly knew that this was no way to start the account,
as it smacked of the opening lines of a rude limerick.
I took another sip of my wine and pondered for a second or two. My
thoughts drifted back to something my PhD supervisor had said to me as
I had started to write my PhD thesis. He had commented that the hardest
sentence of the thesis to write would be the first. How very right he
was.
Then inspiration struck again, or like before perhaps the wine. Either
way, it had suddenly occurred to me that this account would be
semi-autobiographical involving real people, and usually in such
situations a disclaimer would be the first thing that you would read.
The type that states that whilst some aspects of the characters may be
based on real people, there was no intention by the author to cause any
distress or harm. I smiled a very broad and slightly tipsy smile, I had
found my first sentence.
So with a new found sense of purpose I pushed the pen and paper away to
the far corner of the desk, reached down to the shoulder-bag on the
floor that I used to bring paper-work backwards and forwards from
school, and pulled out the laptop computer.
As the computer powered up, my fingers were already hovering over the
keys with anticipation. It seemed an unbearable age waiting for the
computer and word-processing programme to open, which in reality with
the power of the computer, was only seconds.
At last a blinking cursor appeared at the top of an empty page and my
fingers began to type in earnest. I watched the words flowing at last
on the computer screen?.


Author's Note : Whilst some of the places and events are
based on fact, a great deal of this work is pure fiction, as I can only
guess at peoples thoughts and attitudes. I am pretty sure that many
friends (old and current) may see glimpses of themselves here, but no
one character is completely true to life. I have done this in the hope
that no one will be hurt by what they read within these pages, as
enough distress has been caused already.


I paused for a second to glance over what I had typed,
pleased with what I saw, and the fact that I had started, I continued
to type.


Chapter 1



And so it began.