J F Vernon Blog

Thursday 13 April 1978 Mike’s Party

The house was quiet again. Everyone either asleep or pretending to be.

Robbie and Kizzy stood back to check their handiwork. The Form Photo, pinned to her wardrobe, was now forever damaged by dart holes – only three had hit someone viable. One had hit the form teacher Miss Rowbotham. Ruth was a non starter. Other darts had hit random bits of the ground or sky so had to be discounted as well

Dart No. 3.
Helen Laidlaw.
Front row, three in from the right. A dart through the heart, her school badge in fact. They hoped that was a good omen, not a bad one.

He ran a finger down the photo, tracing the string that now looped toward her name.

Cece had introduced them at the disco on Saturday. Casually. One second she was there—laughing, teasing—and the next, she’d handed him Helen with a quick “Oh, this is Robbie,” and vanished, sidestepping another kiss he’d been inching toward all evening.

Helen had been polite. Not shy. Present. She met his gaze with the faintest smile. They were aware of each other, from badminton, from tennis. She was friends with Jane.

They talked a little. Danced a bit and then she was gone a little before 10.00pm.

Sharon had caught his eye. No dart required. She danced like a demon and Robbie would match her every move whatever it took

Helen didn’t dance like Sharon.

She didn’t grind like India.

She didn’t escape like Cece.

At Mike’s Party a few days later Robbie noticed Helen before the music started, which was saying something—because Helen never tried to be noticed. She wore navy that night. Her necklace caught the light barely. A tennis girl’s chain. A breath of something expensive. But not loud.

Kizzy was already talking about her by then, of course.

Helen had drifted into Kizzy’s orbit earlier that week.

Helen was someone who had long ago mastered the art of being welcome everywhere without needing to belong anywhere. She’d gone unnoticed until then. This is where the darts came into play. They shone a light on a girl. Made her the centre of their attention for a few days. Or weeks. However long it took.

Helen hadn’t laughed yet. A disco isn’t a great place for conversation. Between tennis had been an improvement but she wasn’t very talkative, so knowing what would make her laugh was a tricky one.

This is where Kizzy stepped in. By Thursday, Kizzy and Helen shared history notes, mugs of tea, a lot of talk about horses and some comparisons of their respective brothers. Kizzy approved of Helen the way she approved of certain books: useful, elegant, quiet, with sharp corners. The Form Photo shenanigans put her up there as a ‘definite maybe’.

And Robbie? Robbie was still circling Cece like an asteroid doomed to crash into her

Watching her like people watch a fire—half hypnotised, half hoping not to get burned. When Helen appeared at his elbow in Mike’s partially light bedroom they kissed – gently. Without curiosity.

Her hands stayed folded in her lap. Robbie hovered, unsure, then found the edge of her sleeve and stopped there. It was that kind of kiss. Safe. Quiet. Without consequence.

At 10:00 p.m. sharp, headlights lit the drive outside and Mike’s mother called up to say that Helen’s father, punctual as ever, was there to collect her. Helen stood, smoothed her skirt, and said, “That was nice.” And left.

They saw each other once more at Jane Uldal’s party. All that happened that time was for half the evening Helen leaned her head on Robbie’s shoulder. At the stroke of 10.00 she stood up, collected her coat, and left.

Kizzy (2028):

“Always collected at ten. I don’t think she ever once left late. That became part of her spell.”

Robbie (2028):

“She let me kiss her. But didn’t kiss back. That’s… a kind of nervous grace. And a clear message. Not for me.”