The Sidelines
Disclaimer: None of this is mine.
"Wendy," asked Mrs Darling, "what do you think of this dress?"
Her daughter barely glanced round from the place where she was standing, completely oblivious to what her mother was doing, or even where the pair of them were at that moment: a crowded dress shop in the middle of the high street. "Wendy?" she prompted.
The girl started and looked around. "What?" she blurted out. Her mother stifled a smile; thankful her sister wasn't here to hear her niece answer like that. "This dress," she explained. "What do you think about it?"
"It's…" Wendy seemed to be searching for a word. "…lovely, Mother."
Mrs Darling beamed at her. "Shall we ask for it to be set aside for you, then? Oh, you're going to look wonderful in it—so grown-up!"
Wendy stiffened. "Oh, no, Mother—I'm far to pale for that colour! Really," she added, as though trying to convince her.
She raised her eyebrows and said, "Well, I'm sure you'll find one that's perfect." Casting her eyes around, they fell on a pretty blue frock. "There! How about that one?"
She couldn't help noticing how her daughter's face fell as she followed her, like a dead weight had settled there, as she dragged her feet forward.
- - - - -
Dear Mr and Mrs Darling,
This letter serves its purpose to inform you of your daughter's behaviour whilst in the confines of the schoolroom. I request that you instruct her in proper uses of paper and ink, or we shall have her removed. She has received numerous warnings, but she sees fit to continue.
Yours sincerely,
Miss A. Kettering
"George!" Mrs Darling called frantically. "Come here!"
He appeared seconds later, panting, alerted by the panic in her voice. "What is it?"
"Read this." She passed the letter to him. His eyes scanned the page, pausing when he reached the bottom. He didn't say anything.
"Well?" his wife asked. "What do we do about it?"
Mr Darling blinked. "The…the answer is simple, Mary." His voice sounded oddly gruff, as though he was trying to grasp control of the situation. "We merely order Wendy to behave. That's all there is to it."
"Oh, George," Mrs Darling sighed. "There's more to it then that." She paused. Then: "I worry about her."
"About Wendy? But why?"
Mrs Darling considered how exactly to phrase her concerns. "She seems…discontent."
Now his brow was furrowed. "But why should she be? She has six brothers to play with!"
"She's been like this ever since we adopted those boys! They are wonderful children, but Wendy will never join them in games."
"Well," began Mr Darling, sounding hopeful, "perhaps she is growing up after all."
"No, George," Mrs Darling answered quietly. "That's the point. I truly don't think she is."
- - - - - -
The mother of nine continued to worry. Whenever she saw her daughter, there was that ever-present vacant expression on Wendy's face. There was no point asking Millicent for advice—even though, it had to be admitted that being an adoptive mother was doing her sister-in-law much good. Mary watched as Wendy was engaged in a dull conversation—but her eyes didn't light up as she fed pretty answers to her companions—many of whom were sometimes adults.
At night, Mrs Darling would pass by her daughter's bedroom door, which was always left open, and would see her, not in bed asleep, as Mary supposed, but wide awake and staring out of her window up at the twinkling stars. At fourteen she was turning out to be a very pretty young lady—lovely sparkling eyes, beautiful smile, and the beginnings of a slender figure—but the smile very seldom appeared, and the sparkle seemed to have gone out. A soft "Ahem!" from her mother would send her scurrying back across the room and under the covers, and Mary would walk along to check on the boys all squeezed into the nursery. She would observe silently as they all slept on. The expressions on the sleeping faces were each unique—puzzlement, happiness, a frown, or simply the unreadable expression one wears when deeply, blissfully unconscious.
- - - - - -
The school had found no further complaints and Wendy continued to attend willingly. It was almost like it had been when she was a child. But she wasn't a child anymore.
It was noticeable in the way she frowned when unoccupied, cupping her chin in her hand—something not unlike brooding. Her mother interrupted one of these phases when she found her in the drawing room one evening just before Wendy's fifteenth birthday.
"Wendy?"
Just like before in the dress shop, her head snapped up, as though disturbed from a dream. "He's not coming back," she muttered distractedly. "Yes, Mother?" she asked, smiling.
Mrs Darling froze. "Who's not coming back?"
Wendy blushed, lowering her head. "Nobody," she said. Too quickly.
"Wendy—"
"It's nothing, Mother." Wendy seemed to be trying to smile convincingly, and not making a good job of it.
She was getting nowhere, so Mrs Darling simply nodded and left her alone again. But from that day forward, she was on her guard. Mr Darling had noticed nothing, neither had the boys, and she was happy to keep it that way.
Dimly, she began to recall Wendy's stories after she has come back. That time seemed so long ago that she could barely remember any of it. But she knew that Wendy's stories had been particularly detailed and lively for those few months. She would sit by the fire and listen as Wendy described fearful pirates and brave Indians, children. One name in particular seemed to resurface time and time again.
Peter Pan.
The name meant nothing to her, of course, but Michael, John and the others seemed to know who Wendy meant. They would sit around their older sister in a circle, gazing at her with rapt attention, sighing and complaining when she announced that the tale was over.
But then the popularity of this epic adventure seemed to fade. It was as if the boys were forgetting about Peter Pan altogether. But Wendy never did. She had tried desperately to get them to listen just on more time. They refused. So Mrs Darling had taken their place; admiring her daughter's ability to describe every minute detail of a strange place called Neverland. But it was the boy who came it that Wendy paid most attention to. Something strange happened when he was mentioned. The light seemed to come back into Wendy's face as she told her mother how he had (supposedly) taught her to fly.
- - - - - -
Snow had been falling heavily through December of that year; the bitingly cold wind whipped at their cheeks. The river froze completely, and your breath was visible as you travelled around outside the safety of your own home.
Christmas was coming. You could feel it in the air, through the excitement of little ones. Mistletoe had become increasingly popular, and it was when she saw this particular decoration and learnt its sole purpose, she remembered something else that Wendy had mentioned.
"I—I gave him my hidden kiss," she muttered. Then she had run from the room, not responding when Mary called her back.
Hidden kiss. She knew very well what that meant. But none of it was real, was it? … The answer always came back: No, of course not.
- - - - - -
That lasted until a few nights later, as she made her usual trip past Wendy's room. She paused, as always, for a second, listening for thee reassuring sound of her daughter's steady breathing.
But instead she heard whispers.
"But why didn't you come back?" That was definitely Wendy. She sounded a little sad.
Then she heard someone else.
"I couldn't find you—you weren't in the nursery. I didn't know where else to look without being seen." That was a boy. Most definitely.
"Oh Peter, I'm sorry! I'm no longer allowed to sleep there," Wendy said remorsefully. Then she said quietly, as though ashamed, "I thought you wouldn't come back."
Now he sounded indignant. "I told you I wouldn't forget!"
There was complete silence for a few seconds. It sounded strangely expectant. Mrs Darling held her breath and the door-handle.
The strange boy said, very quietly, "Wendy?"
"Yes?"
"Do you want to come back?"
"Yes!"
Mrs Darling gasped. Wendy hadn't even hesitated. She stayed rooted to the spot.
"…but what about Mother and Father and the Lost Boys and my brothers, Peter?" The sadness was back. "I can't leave them."
"I can't take them with me…"
"I know that."
"Please, Wendy." He was pleading with her.
"Yes—"
"No!"
Mrs Darling had flung the door open just as she was about to accept. As soon as she appeared, the boy leapt into the air.
Mary gasped.
Wendy hadn't been making anything up.
He really could fly.
"Please, Mother," Wendy begged. She had whirled around in shock when her mother appeared. Now she was staring imploringly into her face.
"I'll be back soon—"
"But—"
"—I promise!"
Without another word, Peter had grabbed her hand, pulled her to her feet. They sped though the always-open window, disappearing into the night.
- - - - - -
A/N: What did you think? If it's crap, I'm really sorry, but I'm very tired, and this was just the result of inspiration. Please drop a review!