Wendy

Wendy sang in our St Paul’s Church choir at Colchester, Essex, England Having girls there at all was an innovative act on the part of Mr Jennings, our organist and choirmaster. I’m not sure he was right, as the boy treble is, for me, the finest voice in the world.

Being able to sing, as a boy treble, gave me great pleasure. We were a ragged bunch, but sang with gusto, and I always enjoyed Thursday night practice as we lounged about in the churchyard afterwards, and as time went on Wendy and me would slip under the Yew tree for a kiss. Such sweet joy, those early explorations and Wendy’s kisses were pure bliss. Today they would lead on to much more, but then we kissed, we did no more, the rest of the body was not yet ready to be explored.

At just 17 Wendy died. I was shocked. No-one told me why or how she had died, just that she had gone. I passed her house every day of my life, and thereafter always looked up at her bedroom window, which was marked out as it was round, an art deco window, although I didn’t realise that at the time. Her death pains me even now.

I met our organist, Pat Jennings, again many years later when I ran Weeley Crematorium, as he was a duty organist but all that is another story.

On the way to choir practice
Looking up, always looking up
I run past your small round window
Knowing you will not be there
Fat master gently cajoles as we lark the tunes away
Eager to stroll out into evening shadows
Where under the aged yew we kiss
Again and again with new found love
Then suddenly tender Wendy you die away
God. What have you done?
Twas just a moment between friends
Where was the harm?