Donna was different. She didn’t arrive at discos in red cords, or kiss you like a nicotine bin fire. She just… existed. Behind the bar at the Whickham pub, pulling pints with the sort of grace normally reserved for Anglican vicars handing out communion wafers.
The McAdams were all fists and bragging. The Nobles were ballet and horses. Donna? Donna gave you a shandy and said, “Sit yerself down, pet.” And you did. Like she’d hypnotised you.
She didn’t need the darts. Kizzy could’ve thrown the whole set at the Form Photo and missed her — and still, I’d have found myself in her corner booth. She was sanctuary.
Our first “date,” if you can call it that, wasn’t a kiss. It was chips. Two forks, one pint of vinegar. The conversation was about how her dad had fixed the fruit machine again by kicking it, and how she’d once been banned from school netball for “excessive calmness.”
When I finally did stay over, it wasn’t fireworks. It was quieter than that. Proper snug. Two teenagers in the same bed, fully clothed, staring at the ceiling like it might give us the answers. We didn’t touch. Not properly. Just… co-existed. Like kittens in a basket. Peaceful.
She kissed me once, on the forehead. Like a priest. Like a sister. Like someone saying, you’re safe here, but don’t make it weird.
Compared to Cece’s drama, Sharon’s disaster, and Tracey’s grenades, Donna was the quiet room at the end of the corridor. No dartboard required.
Years later, when the rest of the girls were scandals, postcards, or rumours, I walked back into that pub and asked if she remembered me.
“Well,” she said, wiping flour off her cheek, “you look like you’ve been run over by time. Fancy a cup of tea?”
That was Donna. The Pub Vicar. No chaos. Just sanctuary with chips.
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