It was a wet afternoon. The boy must have forgotten how rainy London gets in the springtime, though how anyone could forget that I'm not sure. He wasn't dressed for the weather either, tattered trousers, a large stained shirt and vines of one sort or another were his only covering, he didn't even have shoes. I would have mistaken him for a lost tramp, but lost tramps have a certain air about them; a desperateness, a wariness, a stoicness that this boy did not have. In fact this boy could not have made his feelings more clear than if he was shouting his complaints at the thundering sky.
He had a devil-may-care aura about him that set him apart from other boys. He simply didn't care that he was walking in the middle of a downpour – he wanted to walk, and he was going to walk. He didn't bother to watch where he was going either, and tramped through the mud of Kensington Gardens without noticing the how filthy he was getting. He tripped over roots of trees and sticks but still didn't stop and just pressed aimlessly onward.
Truth be told, he was grateful for the rain. The rain hid his tears. The rain ensured no one would see him like this. The rain washed away the absolute and intolerable agony he had endured the past few hours. The rain washed away his dirtiness in a way a dip in the ocean could not. For as much as he despised baths more than was considered normal for a boy of about twelve, he recognized the need to be free. And he felt so completely locked up at that moment he was willing to give up his slavery to filth if only to regain his total freedom.
Upon running into a bench his green eyes lit up like a jack-o'-lantern's and he circled the bench three times, observing it from every possible angle before climbing onto it. He first lay down flat on it, then sat on the back-rest with his grimy feet on the seat. Then he lay backwards with his back on the seat and his legs thrown over the back-rest. Finally he seemed to remember what benches are meant for and sat in it the right way, butt on the seat, back resting against the back-rest and too short legs leaving his feet to swirl patterns in the puddle on the ground.
The boy stared at the puddle for quite some time before inner passion seemed overcome him and he threw himself – face first – into the puddle at his feet. He spoke into the muddy water in a way that – to the untrained eye – evidenced self-drowning when he was actually using the water in the same way most of us use a pillow: to block out words we need to say, but have no desire to hear.
His grievances were very similar to the perils of any boy his age: namely growing up and a certain girl he called Wendy. Apparently, this Wendy was much too old to notice him, a sorrow many a boy must suffer before he becomes a man.
He remained there for so long I considered the possibility that he did, indeed, wish to drown himself. But I suppose I shall never know, because at that moment he was found by a great St. Bernard who took a great interest in his overly-long red hair which was plastered to his cheeks and the back of his neck.
Now the dog, whose name was Porthos, had an owner. A rather old man who was so dedicated a dog-lover that he braved the horrible London rain in order to exercise his dog. Or perhaps he did not see the rain as so horrible a thing; he was, after all, Scottish and I'm told the weather there is far more unpleasant. Either way Porthos' owner was a novelist and a playwright and everyone knows that people of that calibre are rarely right in the head, nor do they see stock in following social norms such as remaining indoors and enjoying a cup of tea when the weather is inclement.
Porthos' owner approached the miserable creature, grabbed him by the collar and pulled him up to sit on the bench. This was quite an impressive feat considering the amount of white hair on the man's head. Wordlessly the man held his black umbrella over the now shivering boy and handed him his handkerchief, not caring at all that the rain was drenching him.
The boy looked at the monogramed bit of cloth, taking a moment to try and remember what the letters but seeing as the loopy letters were. Never being one for school he gave up almost instantly and began to wipe first his face, then neck and hair and then his nose and finally cleaned his ears with the cloth. When he was finished he wrung the ruined hankie out and handed it back to the man who, wordlessly, accepted it and placed it back in his breast pocket.
They sat in silent companionship for several minutes, the boy sniffing back his final tears and attaining a normal breathing pattern. Then, out of nowhere there was a sudden tinkling of little bells. The sound was quite charming but if either of them were surprised by it they didn't show it.
A small golden light approached them and alit on the boy's shoulder, tinkling excitedly the whole while. The boy heaved a great sigh, grinned boyishly, stood, bowed to the man and stepped out from under the umbrella and back into the rain.
Bright eyes closed and still grinning he threw his hands into the air, let the polluted London rain water soak him right down to his soul and lifted both feet up so that he was hovering a good six inches above the pavement. Then, with a natural grace, he continued to rise until he was he was around six feet in the air. Looking up, the rain-soaked boy leaned forward and shot off into the blackened sky.
The old Scotsman, who had been watching this whole strange spectacle, eyes grew wide and he whispered a single word out into the atmosphere.
"Peter."
Disclaimer: Peter Pan is the creation of JM Barrie and the rights belong to London's Great Ormond Street Hospital