February 14th, 1981
Dear Diary,There’s a boy next door, a boy! He’s got blond hair and his name is Patrick. I know because I followed him down to the beach this morning and asked. He’s twelve, a year older than me. He’s made a hideout in the dunes. He spends most of the day there. I asked him if he wanted to swim with me, he said no. He thinks water is for fish and stupid people.
He says his parents are really rich and they travel all over Australia, and that he stays with his Aunty in the summer because she’s lonely. I think he’s lying about that, Mrs Anderson always has people at her house. I heard Mum say she’s a swinger. Ever since I’ve known Mrs Anderson - and that’s ever since I was born - I’ve never seen a swing in her yard.
Today I made a Valentine’s card for Dad; it’s in the shape of a heart, with sea shells and sand sprinkled on it. I made one for Patrick too, but I didn’t give it to him. I hope he doesn't go home very soon.
February 14th, 1982
Dear Diary,
It’s 9:30 at night, I was meant to be asleep ages ago. I’ve just finished whispering to Patrick. Our bedroom windows are opposite each other. He told me his parents are going to take him to Disneyland in America. I wish I could go.
Yesterday we spent the day down at the rock pools. He swims like Gus, our Labrador; he splashed me when I said so. I tried to show him the right way, but he swore at me, so I punched him in the face.
Mrs Anderson sunbathed topless again today. Mum calls her an overripe melon. She thinks it’s not healthy for us kids to see. Dad always complains about his eyes when she does it; he says they feel like they’re being clawed at by crows.
I gave Patrick the heart shaped candies I bought him, he didn’t really like them, but he let me hold his hand when we ran down the dunes.
I promised Patrick I’d write to him when he goes home. That made him smile, but he wouldn’t promise he’d write back.
February 14th, 1983
Dear Diary,
Patrick and I snuck out last night. We went to the dunes. He told me about his new stepdad; he doesn’t sound very nice.
Every summer, Patrick usually complains that he can’t wait to leave the beach. Tonight he held my hand and said he wished he could stay with me in the dunes forever. I thought I saw a tear on his cheek, but I didn’t say anything. We sat and watched the sea; listened to the gushing of the waves in the night. We stayed there till light started to peek over the end of the sea, and the gulls started to cry 'good morning'.
He kissed me on the lips when he said goodbye.
I think I love him.
Patrick, Patrick, Patrick, forever.
February 14th, 1984
Dear Diary,
I heard Mum telling Mrs Anderson how they have to give us 'The Talk'. As far as I'm concerned, Mum can stick her 'Talk' up her arse. She caught me and Patrick kissing yesterday in my room. Now my door has to be wide open when he's around. I hate it! I'm 14 not 10. At least we can still sneak out at night. She’d go ballistic if she knew about that.
Patrick has a ponytail now. He thinks it makes him look like a surfer, but I know if he were to go in the water he’d look more like a wet dog.
February 14th, 1985
Dear Diary,
Patrick leaves tomorrow; four weeks early. They're sending him to boarding school.
We're going to meet on the dunes tonight. I think I’m going to cry. I don’t want him to leave. At the end of each summer, I feel like my heart is wrenched out of my chest. There's a string tied around it that squeezes my heart to bursting point while he's gone. It only slackens on his return; letting my heart breathe and pump my love for him through my veins. If he doesn't come back next summer, I’ll die.
Mum has finally gone to bed, and I can hear Dad’s snoring through the walls. I’m going to go see Patrick now. Will this be the last time?
February 14th, 2013
Dear Diary,
I found you today while clearing out my parents’ home. You were in a cardboard box filled with stuff from my past; one that was securely taped shut and expelled to the loft's deepest, darkest corner.
It's ironic that it took the passing of loved ones to reunite us, on the one day of the year I find the hardest to endure. You are here, ready and waiting for my entry as if the previous page was only yesterday. And here I am, a spinster whose tears dampen the pages before her, wondering if now is really the time to confide? And if it is, what should she say?
The nightmares are still the same; a mix-tape of memories my subconscious chose especially to torture me: the taste of the salt pooling in my throat; the strangled call of my name; Patrick's face disappearing through the waves, my screams no longer reaching him. I wake suffocating, sobbing his name into the darkness.
We had made love that night. Sacrificed our virginity on a promise we made to each other. We ran down the dunes together, hand in hand; careless and happy, splashing our way into the water. Not for one moment did I think ... well, I couldn't have known.
What's important is that I've stayed true to our promise. I’ve tasted the sweetness of love, and although my time with it was so short, I've never loved another. Patrick was, and always will be, my one and only Valentine.
(c) Rebecca Clarke, 2013
Rebecca Clarke is a Kiwi who’s been hiding in North London since fooling UK Border Control into letting her in four years ago. By day she writes code. By night, desperate for sex and marriage, she writes dirty love stories and the obituaries of ex-boyfriends.
This will be Gloria Sanders's one year anniversary with Liars' League! Currently working with Hide and Seek Theatre, her one woman show 'The Clock' is on at The Pleasance, Islington on the 22nd & 23rd of February.
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