Betrayal
By peter_kalve
- 579 reads
We were such good friends. I mean really close. Thinking about it
now, I can hardly believe how close we were. It was always sunny,
always. Things never changed, never needed to change. We were on top of
our world, and our world was this village, these little lanes, and our
friendship.
John and I grew up together. We were part of the same gang. We went
around with each other, inseparable. I remember there were times we
would get into such trouble. Stealing apples from Mr. Sharnford's
trees, getting chased half-way out of the village after we put bangers
into the post box. We even managed to lock Percy Simmons inside the
parish church toilets one day.
No one seemed to mind that I was the only girl in the gang. John
especially seemed to find it almost useful. And me? Well, for me it was
John who made the gang special. He was wonderful. We were like twins.
We would go everywhere together. Whatever one of us did, the other was
sure to follow. We laughed and ran in the sunshine, never realizing how
that time together was drawing to a close.
I remember when I started a paper round. I would collect the bundles of
tied up newspapers from Mr. Williams' corner shop, and wheel them home,
balanced precariously on my bike. And along the route home, every day,
I would meet John. He would smile, and say "alright?", and then we
would walk to my mum and dad's. He would help me fold the papers, and
when we were done, we would set out with them together. He would take
one side of the road and I would take the other, and we would race
round on our bikes, putting papers through the letterboxes as fast as
we could, seeing who would finish first.
I remember I fell off my bike one day, taking a corner round Mrs.
Barrett's just a bit too fast. I grazed my knees, and stung my hands on
the gravel, but as I lay there, I just laughed. And John, well he
laughed with me too.
But then it all changed. We changed. Something happened. Two new boys
joined the gang. They were brothers who just moved into the
neighbourhood. And they were trouble. Suddenly we began to argue and to
split apart. We began picking on each other. And very quickly our
little group of friends began to separate.
But the real trouble started when one of the new boys, Mickey, began to
show an interest in me. He would hang around, chatting to me, and he
even started showing up at my house. John became angry . I think he was
jealous.
Then, one day we were all messing about by the brook that ran past the
village, swinging from one bank to the other on a length of rope.
Mickey and his brother had begun taunting John who had got stuck
between the banks. He would swing from one bank to the other, only ever
managing to touch his foot on the ground before swinging back, and
never managing to let go. He began to look a bit panicked, and all the
time the two brothers were making fun of him, calling him names and
laughing at him. John cried out for help, but that only made them jeer
all the louder. Then Mickey reached out and instead of holding on to
John, he grabbed John's trousers, and yanked them down, pants and all,
so that John was left swinging, with his bottom glaring out at us all.
Everyone started laughing then, even me. I didn't mean to at first,
but, well it was so comical at the time, that I couldn't help it. Not
really.
And then John saw me. Swinging on the end of the rope, naked from the
waist down, he caught sight of me. I stopped laughing when I saw his
face, but it was too late. His humiliation was terrible for me. But
what was worse, was the look of someone betrayed that he gave me - a
hunted, frightened look that seemed to empty me, and make me want to
look away.
The rest of the gang just kept on making fun of John, laughing and
shouting at him. Eventually he stopped swinging, and just stayed there,
over the water, tears now running down his face. Then he let go, and
landed with a splash in the shallow stream. Soaked, he pulled up his
pants and trousers, and clambered out. I watched, feeling sick inside,
as he trudged off, mud smeared down him.
He never spoke to me again after that. He left the gang and went off on
his own. I saw him once, riding his bike. He looked so small and
lonely. But when I called out to him, he acted as if I wasn't there. A
few months after that, his mum and dad split up and he moved out of the
area. I grieved in my heart for him. I didn't know it was grief at the
time, you understand. Now I know, but not then.
I never saw him again. Many years later I read his obituary notice in
the local paper. In my mind I could still see him at that stream. I see
him as he was then, a small, humiliated boy who had learned too early
the cost of friendship, and the ease of betrayal. I am not ashamed to
say I wept for him, for his memory. I wept for the little boy who's
world had been shattered by my callousness. But I was weeping also for
myself.
I wish he hadn't looked at me. I wish I hadn't laughed. I hold him in
my memories only, now, too late for forgiveness or explanation, but not
too late for my tears, nor for the griefs of our lost friendship.
- Log in to post comments