“It’s dumb. I hate it. School and its stupid rules,” Michael shouted. “‘If you don’t eat yer peas, you can’t have yer pudding!’ Stupid lunch matron.”
“Now, Michael, I’m sure they just want you to have a nutritious, healthy supper,” Wendy said, feeling the comfortable role of mother easily slide over her with its dulcet tones and indulgent smiles, banishing any uncertain feelings from the moment before.
“Are there any of those French biscuits left?” Michael asked hopefully. “The ones you made?”
“The ones I and Mother made? Perhaps. I’ll set out some and serve you a nice cup of proper tea while you go upstairs and bathe. And then, if there’s time, I’ll tell you a story before bed.”
“Oh, Wendy and her stories,” John said with a smile and not quite a roll of his eyes. “I have too much reading to do. Like actual reading. Of actual history. Plus, Wendy Darling, I find your tales have a bit of a Freudian bent to them these days. Haven’t you noticed? It’s all fathers and sons and missing mothers.…”
“I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said frostily. And indeed she didn’t. But his tone was nasty enough.
“I want three lumps in my tea! And milk!” Michael called over his shoulder as he stomped out of the room.
“Oh,” Wendy said, suddenly remembering. “Mother is supposed to come home from her dinner with Mrs. Cradgeapple early tonight—if you hurry, you may get to say good night to her before you turn in!”
“Oh. Yes. Mother,” John said thoughtfully. “Haven’t seen her in ages. Tall lady? About so high? Would absolutely love to catch up with the old hen.”
“John!” Wendy put her hands on her hips.
“Tootles, Sister. Off to read some more Swiss psychology. You know those Swiss. All chocolate and timepieces and subtext.” John made an elaborate bow and pretended to tip the hat that was no longer there.
Once he was gone, Nana, curled up comfortably in her early retirement by the fire, gave Wendy the sort of questioning look that only a really intelligent dog could.
“Yes, I see the muddy tracks they left on the floor,” Wendy sighed. “And no, I don’t know what to do about them. Boys! They grow up so fast.”
Now that was an interesting idea.
Never Land was full of children who never grew up—but what about a boy who grew up too fast? Literally. Like…hatching out of an egg as a baby and then attaining the height of a man by the end of the day.
“They watched the egg with expectant faces,” she murmured, trying it out. “‘What’s it gonna be?’ asked Cubby. ‘How should I know?’ Peter laughed. ‘It’ll be something great, though—you can count on that!’”
Yes. That was lovely. She pulled out her little notebook. Now that her brothers no longer cared to hear Wendy’s stories, she had to put them somewhere.
And maybe, someday, someone would like to hear them again.
Michael came back down dripping wet and yet somehow barely clean—there was still chalk on his neck. He guzzled his tea and madeleines and stomped back upstairs to play with his lead soldiers. John hadn’t bothered descending yet, probably caught up in his books about real soldiers being played in the wars of kings.
Wendy sat by herself in the kitchen, regarding the notebook and the abandoned and untouched tea plates. Madeleines were all the rage right now and it had been wonderful spending the afternoon trying to make them with Mother, but after the first day they had sort of dried out and become a little tasteless. She picked one up and tentatively dipped it in her cooling tea, then nibbled its now soft edge. Much better. They almost tasted a little bit like sunshine—like warm, exotic days.…
Her mind whirled. Suddenly, she saw a ship bobbing in tropical waters, and herself on a beach. It was another Never Land dream she was remembering—but this one had felt so real! The sailors—pirates—were singing, and Hook was bowing from the waist, as perfect and gallant as John had been awkward and foolish. In the sunlight and open air the captain seemed far less terrifying.
But maybe it was because of the wolf at her side, the one she had befriended so long ago, growling and ready to kill for her. Maybe that was why she was brave.
A pity you can’t stay here…the captain was saying. That rapscallion utterly abandoned you to such a dismal, gray life in London Town.…
She had frowned. “Do not talk about Peter Pan that way. You are a pirate. You make people walk the plank and burn their ships.”
And yet never in my most evil and wretched moments would I abandon a lady like yourself to such a fate. He really has no heart, not even a black one like mine.
“I am not abandoned. He left me his shadow,” she said, perhaps a little too boastfully.
Hook’s eyes widened at that.
You…have…his shadow, you say?
Wendy felt her lip quiver a little but stilled it. A mistake?
“It is nothing to you. And I am fine, thank you very much.”
After all those stories you told about him…all that time you devoted to enriching his legend…and this is how he treats you? By leaving you…and making you be caretaker of his shadow, no less.…
Wendy in the dream didn’t cry. She wouldn’t, not in front of a villain like Hook.
Wendy with the madeleine did.
She put her head on her arms and wept herself to sleep.
Hours later she was gently woken by the soft touches and sweet perfume of her mother, who somehow, without actually picking up the nearly grown Wendy, managed to gather her daughter in her arms and gently lead her upstairs.
“What in the blazes is wrong with her?” Mr. Darling growled. “Asleep at the table like a serving wench?”
“Shhh,” Mrs. Darling cooed. She gestured with her hand, making him scoop up the notebook Wendy took with her everywhere.
“Mother,” Wendy murmured, waking a little. “Oh, Mother, you look so beautiful.”
“Thank you, dear. You’re so sweet.…”
Mrs. Darling helped her out of her dress and fixed her hair, more shadowy apparition of eyelashes and perfect coif than parent of stuff and substance. Wendy enjoyed being treated like a little girl again. She snuggled into her bed drowsily and heard her parents talk.
“Something’s got to be done about her,” Mr. Darling swore, shaking the notebook for emphasis. “There’s something not quite right about that girl.”
“She’s just a little…blue. She needs a project,” Mrs. Darling said. “A boy. Or maybe a charity.”
“Charity? How about a Darling charity?” Mr. Darling huffed. “Courtships are all very well and good but require dresses and hats and all sorts of expensive shenanigans. That was always the advantage of Wendy…she never wanted the things other girls had.”
“No,” Mrs. Darling said with a touch of sadness. “She always wanted something…else.”
And Wendy dreamed quickly forgotten dreams of foreign seas and wolves.
Wendy opened her eyes, dreams of hidden cabins and friendly wolves and menacing pirates disappearing into the dim morning grayness. She had absolutely no desire to get up and perform the start-of-day rituals she used to relish: washing her face with fresh, cold water, giving her hair a hundred solid strokes before pinning it back, going through her dresses and deciding which one to wear, which one to mend, which one perhaps to embellish a little.