Lardy Dar 

Lardy Dar

THE HOUSE RINGS WITH THE SOUNDS OF RAMBLING CHILDREN. IF THERE ARE ANY GROWN-UPS IN ATTENDANCE, THEY CERTAINLY DO NOT MAKE THEIR PRESENCE FELT. IN FACT, THE PARTY IS EVIDENTLY AT ITS HEIGHT, SINCE TWO GIRLS IN PINAFORE DRESSES, OF INDETERMINATE AGES, LEAN FROM A PRECARIOUS BALCONY, HOLDING FUNNY HATS TIGHT TO THEIR HEADS IN THE LATE AFTERNOON BREEZE. A BOY BLOWS A SQUEAKY TOY FROM ONE OF THE MANY ATTIC WINDOWS. HIS SHOUTS CANNOT BE HEARD FROM THE SUMMER PAGODA WHICH SOME ANCIENT FOLLY OF A PERSON ONCE SAW FIT TO HAVE ERECTED BESIDE THE GREEN LAKE.

THE BOY, DRESSED IN A SAILOR’S TUNIC, IS AN ECHO OF MYSELF AT THE SAME AGE. HE WAVES BUT, SURELY, I CAN’T BE SEEN. I WAVE BACK BUT, SURELY, HE CAN’T SEE ME. EVENTUALLY, HE DUCKS INSIDE TO ESCAPE THE EDGE OF DUSK.

LATER, A SEXLESS CHILD, WITH A BLACKENED FACE, EXTRUDES FROM ONE OF THE CHIMNEYPOTS ON THE VAST ROOF’S STAIRCASE STACKS. IT HOLDS UP A WINDMILL TOY WITH BUTTERFLY SAILS WHICH I GUESS MUST BE SPINNING LIKE MAD IN THE PICKING-UP BREEZE. INSIDE, THERE MAY BE SEVERAL OTHER CHILDREN IN PARTY DRESSES, BIBS AND TUCKERS, PLAYING THE WHOLE HOUSE FOR ITS EVERY NOOK AND CRANNY. HIDE AND SEEK, PASS THE PARCEL, MUSICAL CHAIRS, HUNT THE THIMBLE, FORFEITS AND DRESSING-UP. OH, I SIMPLY WOULD LOVE TO JOIN IN, LIKE A DROWNER, GRABBING MY SECOND CHILDHOOD HOOK-LINE-AND-SINKER. I ONCE DISCOVERED GREAT DELIGHT IN MOTHER’S DRESSINGUP TRUNK, THE ONE THROUGH WHICH SHE ALLOWED US TO RUMMAGE ON WET SUNDAY AFTERNOONS...

JUST AS WE SURRENDERED ANY HOPE OF THE WEATHER IMPROVING, THE LATE SUN SUDDENLY SHAFTED ACROSS THE LOFT FROM THE SKYLIGHT, PICKING ME OUT AS A CHILD IN SOME ANCIENT SHE-COUSIN’S COMING-OUT DRESS, BILLOWING AROUND MY ANKLES IN GOSSAMER SEAS OF ENDLESS CHILDHOOD’S DREAM. BY COMPARISON TO THE NIP AND TUCK OF MY USUAL TUNIC TROUSERS, I FELT SO GOOD, SO LIBERATED. MEANWHILE, THE OTHERS AIR-TOSSED THE KALEIDOSCOPIC FLOTSAM OF FABRICS, FRILLS, AND FAIRISLE WOOL. MOTHER LAUGHED UPON SEEING US ALL DRESSED UP, OUR EYES ENGORGED WITH SUNSET. MY OLDER SISTER WAS LANCELOT OF THE GREEN LAKE, SPORTING GRANDPOP’S OLD FIREGUARD, WITH SEE-THROUGH BODY TIGHTS BENEATH; ANOTHER SISTER STRUTTED THE LOFT AS A QUEEN, IN MINK-EDGED ROBES OF ROYAL BLUE SATIN, UNDER A CROWN OF CAPTURED SUNLIGHT. YET IT WAS ME WHO EARNED MOTHER’S WARMEST PRAISE, AS SHE TIED A PINK RIBBON IN MY HAIR.

WITH PRICKLING EYES, I SEE ANOTHER GIRL IN FLOWING TWILIT LACE JOIN THE OTHER TWO ON THE TINY BALCONY. SHE WAVES, AS I WAVE BACK SIMULTANEOUSLY FROM THE PAGODA. SHE HAS BEEN DISCOVERED IN THE UNLIKELIEST OF HIDING PLACES, BUT NOBODY KNOWS WHO FOUND HER, SINCE A SEEKER HAS NOT YET BEEN APPOINTED OFFICIALLY. MY MIND WONDERS AS IT WANDERS — THE EVENING DRAWING IN WHILE I SPOT EVIDENCE OF HIGH-BANKED FIRES CURLING FROM ALL THE CHIMNEYPOTS LIKE FEATHERY SOOT.

THE BOY SHUT HIMSELF IN THE BROOM CUPBOARD AS THE BEST POSSIBLE HIDING-PLACE FROM THE SEEKER. BEST IN THE SENSE THAT HE DID WANT HER TO FIND HIM AT SOME STAGE ... BUT NOT TOO EASILY. SOME OF THE OTHER CHILDREN WOULD PROBABLY BE NOW ENSCONCED IN THE OUTLANDISH PLACES IN THE LARGE HOUSE, PERHAPS NEVER TO BE DISCOVERED. THE BOY COULD HEAR HER COUNTING IN THE DISTANCE, MISSING OUT NUMBERS HERE AND THERE, EITHER AS A JOKE OR, MAYBE, EVIL. HE LAUGHED. THE CUPBOARD WAS STUFFY AND MUFFLED HIS NOISES.

THE COUNTING CEASED AT AN UNROUND NUMBER. “COMING — READY OR NOT!” HE LISTENED TO HER FEET SCAMPERING AWAY INTO THE FURTHER REACHES OF THE HOUSE. HE WAS SURPRISED TO HEAR AN IMMEDIATE RATTLING AT THE BROOM CUPBOARD DOOR. AT FIRST, A GENTLE TEASING OF THE PLAY AT THE HINGES, GRADUALLY BECOMING MORE INSISTENT. HIS SURPRISE QUICKLY TURNED TO FEAR. THIS SURELY COULD NOT BE THE OFFICIAL SEEKER-OF-HIDERS, IN BODY TIGHTS. FEAR, ONCE FORMED, QUICKLY HATCHED THE TWIN FIENDS DESPAIR AND TERROR, A DARK-DERIVED SYMBIOSIS WHICH RESOLUTELY TOOK SWAY.

“LARDY-DAR, LARDY-DAR.”

THE VOICE WAS OUTLANDISH, MAKING HIM THINK IT WAS A BROOM OR SOME OTHER SWEEPING IMPLEMENT TRYING TO RETURN TO ITS LAIR THE CUPBOARD. THE BOY LAUGHED ... AND CRIED. THE HOUSE WAS SUDDENLY QUIET. HE TRIED TO STOP BREATHING TO SEE IF HE COULD HEAR THE INTRUDER BREATHING. “INTRUDER” DID NOT SEEM THE RIGHT WORD, BUT STRANGE WORDS OF WHICH HE KNEW NO MEANING ALREADY PASSED THROUGH HIS HEAD, PRETENTIOUS WORDS, SILLY WORDS. LIKE SYMBIOSIS.

THE NURSERY RHYME OF WHICH HE HAD JUST CAUGHT A LINE WAS NOT ONE THAT MOTHER HAD READ TO HIM. THE VOICE MUST BELONG TO ANOTHER HIDER-WITHIN-DARKNESS LIKE HIMSELF, FRESH FROM COVERING ITS SKIN IN SOOT.

I AM NOW OLD, GROWN OUT OF SUCH GAMES. GROWN OUT OF THE PAST. AND, LIKE ALL SEXLESS HUMAN CREATURES, I EVER SUFFER THE PANGS OF GIVING BIRTH TO A PARTHENOGENESIS OF WRINKLED, HALF-FILLED HUMAN SKIN.

“LARDY-DAR, LARDY-DAR.” I HUM, AS I HOBBLE FROM, THE PAGODA: GROWN OUT OF PEEPING UPON A VICARIOUS CHILDHOOD. WHATEVER IT IS THAT IS INSIDE MY BODY OFTEN TURNS OVER IN ITS DREAMFUL SLEEP. THE LITTLE BOY I ONCE WAS? A SOOT-STAINED SUCCUBUS? OR WORSE? ALL WAITING TO GROW OUT OF *ME*.


(published 'Not Dead But Dreaming' 1999)

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