The Power Of The Pen

Cedric -- how he hated that name -- was an ordinary sort of boy, at an ordinary kind of high school, in an ordinary Australian town; but he was at that difficult age. His body was not only growing but changing, and he wished there was someone he could talk to about what was happening to him. He couldn't bring himself to mention it to his father, who was so caught up in his own affairs that he seemed scarcely aware of his son's existence, and it would be too embarrassing to discuss it with his mother. There was nobody else. It was one of the rare occasions when he regretted being an only child.

Hair had begun to grow in places where hair hadn't grown before. He had developed an Adam's apple, his voice couldn't make up its mind whether it was high or low or somewhere in between, and he had begun to notice girls. It wasn't as though he hadn't been aware of girls before – there had always been girls in his class at school but, thinking them stupid and giggly, he never had much to do with them. Now he was beginning to realise that they were not just different, but interestingly different, and some were more interesting than others.

For him, the most interesting was Helen Calloway. He spent much of his time both at school and at home trying to decide why he found her so attractive. It wasn't as if she was one of the girls who flaunted themselves at boys – not that any of them ever flaunted themselves at him. Helen wasn't in any of his classes, so his observations were confined to the corridors, the playgrounds, the netball court, and the swimming pool. He really liked what he saw at the swimming pool. In the end he decided it was her auburn hair, her fair complexion, the fine dusting of freckles on her nose, and the sparkle in her green eyes that attracted him.

He wished he could think of a way of getting to know her. He knew that in circumstances like these you were supposed to send a message by another girl, but when he had written a terse little note inviting her to go to the pictures, he couldn't bring himself to ask any of the girls from his own classes to pass it on, fearing they would only laugh at him.

He decided to write her a proper letter. It took almost the whole weekend and a full writing pad before he was satisfied. After school on Monday he helped himself to some of his mother's pale blue notepaper with the matching envelopes and carefully copied out the final draft. He checked the address in the telephone directory, peddled off to the Post Office, bought a stamp and, taking a deep breath, thrust the letter into the slot marked 'Local Delivery.'

He was half way home when the enormity of what he had done struck him. He peddled furiously back to the Post Office. It was closed. There was no way he could reclaim the letter and, unless there was an unaccountable failure in the postal service, it would be delivered the following morning.

He wasn't worried about what might happen that day; the letter couldn't possibly be delivered before Helen left for school. But Wednesday was different. He almost didn't go to school, fearful that she or her parents would have reported him to the Headmaster or, worse still, she would show the letter to the other girls who would point and giggle.

By an unwritten rule, the bare, unattractive concrete behind the school, with its array of seats where lunch was eaten, was divided by an invisible line into an area occupied by only girls and another area occupied by boys. Trespassing was frowned upon but on the far boundary, straddling that invisible line, stood a huge, old Morton Bay Fig tree. By another unwritten rule, the half dozen benches under it were where boy could meet girl.

By the time Cedric plucked up the courage to go outside for lunch on Wednesday, Helen Calloway was sitting alone in the shade of that ancient tree. She looked up and saw him as he walked hesitantly towards her, his heart pounding. Her green eyes sparkled and the welcoming smile she gave him made his heart race so fast, he was afraid his chest would burst.

That was more than 50 years ago, but she still has the letter. Every year, on the anniversary of that day, she unfolds it carefully and asks him to read it to her.