The house was quiet again. Robbie and Kizzy stood back to check their handiwork. The Form Photo, pinned to her wardrobe, was now forever damaged by dart holes – only for having 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 they also had to be discounted. Robbie had some notes to share. Kizzy hadn’t been able to be everywhere; she hadn’t wanted to be.
“What about Helen?” Kizzy asked.
“Helen had been polite. Not shy. Present. She met my gaze with the faintest smile. We were aware of each other, thanks to our shared experiences in badminton and tennis. Jane Uldall was around. A little bit more boy-savvy away from her books, in a tennis skirt, holding a tennis racket. Is ‘mature’ a positive thing?” Robbie asked.
There was a party in the evening. At Jane’s. Four girls, four boys. I was put with Helen as we seemed to tolerate each other. We talked a little, danced a bit, and then she was gone, a little before 10:00 p.m. No dart required, we know. Cece introduced us, or pushed me into my path, and we have inadvertently become a thing, paired off. Not that either of us asked for it, but since there are four girls and four boys, if someone hasn’t already made up their mind, we are, like, ‘dance partners’. Neither of us is very much interested in the other.
“Then the Rugby Club Disco again. Sharon had caught my eye. Wouldn’t she just. No dart required. No one was interested. She danced like a demon. I couldn’t resist. No one else was around to make a fool of myself. None of the other Dart Board girls, at least.
Robbie would match her every move, whatever it took.
Helen didn’t dance like Sharon. Sharon didn’t grind like India. Nor did she escape like Cece. But he hung back from a kiss.
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’d not be there, then be there, and after a while she’d be gone again, like someone shopping for frozen peas inadvertently wandering into a shoe shop. 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. Kizzy had drifted into Helen’s orbit earlier that week to suss out the possibilities. By Thursday, Kizzy and Helen had shared history notes, mugs of tea, and engaged in a lot of talk about horses, along with some comparisons of their respective brothers. Kizzy approved of Helen the way she approved of certain books: functional, elegant, quiet, with sharp corners. The Form Photo shenanigans put her up as a ‘definite maybe’.
Helen had long ago mastered the art of being welcome everywhere without needing to belong. She’d gone unnoticed until then. Helen hadn’t laughed much. Robbie took that to be the level of her self-control. Cool in all circumstances.
When Helen appeared at his elbow in Mike’s partially lit bedroom, they kissed – gently, without curiosity. Robbie would have described it as being pecked at best – like a chicken deciding whether a piece of sandstone was edible. It wasn’t. He wasn’t. If this is love and romance, thought Helen, then it’s a dull affair.
Her hands stayed folded in her lap. Robbie hovered, unsure, then found the edge of her sleeve and stopped there. He was touching her. And they kissed again. 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 Simon Small’s party. Same set-up, same group: four boys, four girls. They listened to Ian Drury and the Blockheads. That was memorable. For half the evening, Helen leaned her head on Robbie’s shoulder. He felt accepted like a pet Labrador.
At 10.00, she stood up, collected her coat, and left.
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