Shades of Neverland (2 page)

CHAPTER 2

The Morning after the Party

The boy!

Wendy Darling awoke with a start. She flew to the open window searching for some sign of his presence. The sun was not yet visible overhead and the house remained heavy in slumber due to the past evening’s frivolity. She leaned forward straining to peer over the garden wall. There was some commotion in the next street over, which, despite her best efforts, remained hidden from view. A thorough scan of the skies yielded nothing further except a few fading stars in the West.

“It was just a dream,”
she murmured to herself. But in truth, these were the shades of Neverland, which persist after we’ve lost our way to remind us of what once was.

Returning to her bed, she mused over the strange visions that troubled her sleep. She recalled beautiful mermaids, fierce Indians, and magnificent swordfights. There was a terrible pirate with a hook for a hand—and her brothers were there. She’d been forced to walk the plank at knifepoint. Shivering, she remembered the horror of falling—then not falling—flying!

She’d been flying—and not alone. There was a boy, strong and sure and brave. Moreover, he had saved her from certain death. He came to her often in her dreams and at his side, she had the grandest of adventures. Last night she had given him a kiss—no not a kiss, exactly—a thimble. In the world of the boy, a thimble was called a kiss and a kiss called a thimble. The recollection made Wendy smile. She willed herself to conjure up the image of the boy but the more she concentrated the more elusive he became, like the morning mist.

After a moment, she shook her head. How foolish she was being. Clearly, the events of the previous night had been the basis for her strange dream—James’s kiss in the garden, the boy who vanished into thin air, the little thimble.

The thimble!
Wendy jumped out of bed and hurried to her dressing table. Reverently she pulled a small box out of the drawer. The box was black and glossy with beautiful exotic markings. It had been a gift from the orient given to her by her father and it kept her dearest treasures. She set the box on the table as if suddenly afraid to open it. Still trying to sort out dream from reality, she was unsure what she would find within.

Almost reverently, Wendy lifted the top. Nestled among cards, ribbons, and pressed flowers was a little collection of thimbles. The first was golden and had appeared on her windowsill without explanation on the morning of her thirteenth birthday. For her fourteenth, shiny silver, followed by deep copper on her fifteenth—both left to be found in the same mysterious way. And yes, next to them the object which she sought, half a porcelain thimble.

Wendy picked up the trinket feeling its coolness between her fingers. It was exquisite, creamy white with tiny hand painted pink roses.
Where is the other half?
she wondered. She pressed the delicate porcelain to her cheek. Closing her eyes, she meditated on its smoothness, its coolness. She carefully ran a finger along the break as if trying to memorize every detail of its ragged edges. Somehow, she felt sure that her fate, even her very life, depended on this thimble. Only when the other piece was found and the two halves restored to wholeness would the true course of her life be revealed to her.

From somewhere deep below, the muted clank of a pot signaled the house beginning to stir. Reluctantly, Wendy put the broken thimble back into the box and the box into the drawer. It would not do to be in her nightdress when Aunt Mildred called for her. She needed to be properly attired and looking every bit the grown woman her family expected her to be…even if that woman was an elusive stranger.

Today she turned sixteen, yet she felt no different than the she had last week or last year. She felt trapped in a curious limbo between selves, no longer the child that once inhabited the family nursery, nor fully the young woman who’d just been introduced into London society. What Wendy didn’t realize is the magic of her youth was already slipping away, and in her haste to grow up she had already begun to lose the best part of herself.

Ringing for Liza, she admonished herself for indulging in girlish fantasies.
Enough
, she chided.
Today,
I am grown
. Still, before dressing, she could not help but take one last look out the window and into the morning sky for the figure of a flying boy.

One street over, Peter awakened to a sharp, persistent rapping against his right shoulder. In a state of deep sleep, his head swirled with disturbing visions; the specifics of which he would be unable to recall, but whose shades would cling to the edges of his consciousness like spider webs filling him with vague apprehension.

The first thing he felt upon waking was the cold, then the dampness. Gradually he became aware of various aches and pains, unfamiliar sensations caused in part by sleeping in a doorway. He was possessed by an overall trepidation and in the pit of his stomach lodged a tight ball of fear. Try as he might, the boy could never recall feeling such a lack of arrogance about himself or his circumstances. The experience was foreign and uncomfortable, like wearing new shoes.

Disoriented, he rolled over to find two men regarding him with a mixture of concern and distrust. One, undoubtedly the source of the tapping, wore the uniform of an officer of the law and clutched a nightstick. The other was clearly a businessman. Both men had come upon Peter at the same time from opposite directions and each had his own reasons for rousting the sleeping boy. For the former it was obligation to his duty and for the latter, obligation to his doorstep.

“You boy,” demanded the constable. “What are you doing there?”

“I don’t know, Sir,” replied the boy in earnest.

Leveling his nightstick at the boy’s chest just under his chin and raising it steadily produced the practiced effect of forcing the boy to his feet. “Where do you come from?”

“I do not know, Sir,” repeated the boy looking from one man to the other.

The businessman, a kind and gentle old soul, bent down and inquired of him, “Lad, where are your parents?”

“In truth, I have none,” answered the boy. Although he could not offer why, he knew this to be true with a certainty that bordered on insolence.

Upon hearing the boy’s reply, the constable pushed forward. “An orphan is it? Well, back to the orphanage with you!” You see, the officer, who possessed no patience for vagabonds or children, had been looking for a reason to seize the boy.

The businessman, however, harbored more progressive ideas concerning the young citizen. Noting the child’s growing concern, he inserted himself between the zealous officer and the lad. “How old are you boy?” he inquired.

Peter’s age was another certainty for which he had no evidence except the arrogance of his heart. “Today, I am grown. Sir.”

While the answer was far from satisfactory, the kindly old man seemed obliged to let it go. “And have you really no one?”

The boy shook his head. “I am alone in the world, Sir.”

Again, the constable endeavored to grab the boy.

The old man foiled this attempt by deftly intercepting the officer’s hand with his own and giving it a vigorous shake. “Sir, I thank you for your diligence.” He let the hand drop. “I do not presume to know about you, but I believe in providence. The boy is quite alone and I have need of another apprentice. He is of age and I therefore propose to remove him from my doorstep by bringing him into my business. We certainly wish to trouble you no further.”

The constable did not budge but rather scrutinized the boy as if hoping to find the slightest provocation to haul him away.

The old man, giving no heed to the officer, turned back to the boy placing a fatherly and protective hand on his shoulder. “What say you, my fine lad? Would you like to come and work for me in my
office
?”

At the mention of the word
office
Peter shuddered. He did not know why the word offended him so. However, not wishing to disoblige the generosity of the speaker and having no other prospects, he answered with a slight nod.

“Very good,” said the businessman, as he produced a key and inserted it into the lock behind the boy. “If you are to be my apprentice, I think I should know what to call you?”

“Peter,” replied the boy.

“And your surname?”

“I have none, Sir.”

Frowning, the man hesitated. For a moment Peter thought his would-be benefactor had changed his mind and about to deliver him to the still waiting constable. With growing anxiety, Peter watched the frown of the old man break into a jolly smile.

“Well, Peter, if you have no surname of your own, then I suppose I shall just have to give you mine.”

With that, the pair entered the old man’s business, leaving the astonished constable mouth open in the street. And that is how Peter of Neverland became Peter Smythe of Smythe and Sons Accounting Firm of
Highbury
Street.

CHAPTER 3

The Boy in the Park

Peter learned that Sir William Smythe of Smythe and Sons had, in fact, no sons of his own. He was, rather, the younger of the two original sons and had inherited the business from his father. Being the sole Smythe survivor, and also a widower, Sir William had reconciled to himself the reality that he would eventually have to sell his family business. Then one day while in Kensington Gardens, he struck up a conversation with an orphaned lad who was willing to work for food. Sir William, both observant and fatherly, saw beneath the boy’s grime, the spark of intelligence and reason. As he had with Peter, he took the boy in that very hour calling him apprentice and son. That is how Peter came to make the acquaintance of Griffin Smythe, adopted son of Sir William Smythe.

About twenty minutes after the confounded constable had been abandoned in the street, Griffin Smythe, a dark lad of nearly seventeen, came hurrying into the office carrying a stack of files. Upon seeing Sir William and Peter, Griffin dropped his files to the floor and smartly saluted the latter as “Sir.” Griffin could not explain why it felt natural and right to do so any more than Peter could explain why it felt right to be greeted as such.

Sir William, assuming the salutation was for him, put an aged hand on his adopted son’s shoulder. “Griffin, my son.”

“Aye, father?”

“Soon you shall be a clerk and we shall have need of an apprentice.”

“I suppose so father.”

“This is Peter,” the old man continued. “He is quite alone in the world and has need of some position. It is my intent to give him one. Tell me, my son, what would you say to having a brother?”

For one brief moment, Peter wondered how the only heir to Sir William’s estate and the sole possessor of the man’s affections would feel having to split his good fortune with another. Griffin, however, was a kind soul, as incapable of jealousy as malice or murder. Smiling from ear to ear, he clasped Peter in a brotherly bear hug exclaiming, “It is my dearest wish to have a brother!”

Therefore, in a single morning Peter gained a surname, an occupation, a residence, a father, and a brother. The only thing the boy had wont of was a mother, but the idea never even occurred to him.

Things that would trouble others terribly did not seem to bother Peter Smythe. For example, he was not bothered that he did not have a mother or that he didn’t know A from Z. He was not concerned when his teeth began to fall out and on every evening for about a month, he would lose a tooth only to wake up in the morning to find an even larger one had taken its place.

In the way some children seem to do when no one is watching, Peter seemed to age three years overnight. In just a few months, he stood taller than both his new father and brother. He was, you see, making up for lost time.

Although he could remember some details about himself with perfect certainty, he could not recall his life before the doorstep of Smythe and Sons. And while this would put some into a terror, Peter felt it was of little consequence. Convinced the puzzle of his existence would be solved in the future, looking back seemed to him a fruitless waste of energy.

With such purpose, Peter accomplished in one year what other young men took a boyhood to master. Under the patient tutelage of Sir William, Peter learned not only the basics of education but also languages, art, and his personal favorite, literature. Peter, whose spirit was ever restless for adventure, found kindred souls in the characters of Chaucer, Dante, and Shakespeare.

Griffin, preferring math and science to prose, bore his brother’s fascinations with patience. Though Peter was younger in age, Griffin idolized him for his confidence and passion. It could be said that the brothers challenged each other in the best of ways. Peter propelled Griffin into grand adventures and benign mischief. Griffin, in turn, tempered his brother’s impulsiveness, teaching him to think things through and to proceed with patience.

When not in the office or in lessons with Father, the brothers would retreat to their most favorite place on earth, Kensington Gardens. For hours, they would lie in the grass, reading aloud a new book or play. Sometimes Peter would demand they act out a scene, usually a great battle or magnificent swordfight. Sometimes Griffin would point out a particular piece of flora or fauna taking opportunity to increase his brother’s knowledge of natural science.

On the afternoon in question, Peter was reading
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
aloud while Griffin was enjoying the labors of a colony of ants.

“Oh, Griffin,” the younger brother exclaimed. “I think I was Puck in another life!”

“I would swear you are Puck now!” retorted the elder.

Peter rose to his feet, hands on his hips in a challenge. “Are you calling me an imp?”

“Aye, an imp, a scoundrel, and a jackanapes!” replied Griffin breaking into a full run as the last word escaped his lips. Peter, feigning offense, followed after in close pursuit. The brothers chased each other round and round the park at a full gallop, their cries demanding the attention of all within earshot.
 

Peter, being slightly faster and more cunning, managed to corner Griffin in a grove of trees. Though Griffin was tall for his age, Peter, who had recently surpassed him in height and muscle, clearly had the advantage. “Do you surrender, Sir?”

“Never!” cried the older brother.

“If you surrender, there will be mercy for you,” Peter countered.

“Death first!” came the reply.

“Very well, you have been warned and now you will die!” Then Peter, whose nature was never to be merciful with victory in reach, did something quite astounding. He walked away.

At first Griffin thought it was a trick, some ploy to lull him into a false sense of confidence before striking the fatal blow. However, a closer look at Peter’s now pale face convinced Griffin that their game had been quite forgotten.

Griffin hurried to his brother’s side. “Peter what is the matter?”

“Oh Griffin!” Peter pointed. “There! Do you see?”

Griffin’s eyes followed Peter’s outstretched hand to the opposite end of the garden. At first, he saw nothing unusual, just a typical assortment of people enjoying the fine weather, but then near the ground—small movements. Straining, he could barely believe what he was seeing. “Peter, what is that? Is that a—a baby?”

“He fell out of his pram while his nurse was looking the other way!”

“I do not see a nurse.”

“There.” He pointed in another direction, “She has nearly reached the street.” Then Peter began to run toward the opposite end of the garden. Over his shoulder he barked, “Griffin you must stop that nurse!”

With instant obedience, Griffin followed his brother’s command. While he went after the oblivious nurse, Peter gathered up the child and cradled him to his heart.

“There, there my lad,” he crowed. “You shall not be without a mother tonight. Peter will save you.”

By this time, Griffin had retrieved the oblivious nursemaid. Made crosser by her obvious negligence, she snatched the child from Peter’s arms without as much as a word of thanks. Peter did not doubt by the time she got her young charge home, that in self-preservation, her own mind would greatly alter her version of events. With great trembling and emotion, she would recount for her employers how she alone had saved her precious cargo from a vile gang of ruffians. Still Peter took consolation in the knowledge that despite the facts of the story, the babe’s mother would hold him a little tighter and longer for many evenings to come.

Griffin, while not fully understanding, sensed how deeply the events that had just unfolded affected his brother. So, taking him by the arm, the older brother led the younger one home.

That evening in Peter’s dreams, baby after baby fell out of his pram. Try as he might, Peter could not save them all. Their oblivious nurses were leaving them behind. The little lads were being lost….

Wendy Darling preferred the company of females to males. Being pretty and of good family, she had no end of would be-suitors but Wendy found the opposite sex, on the whole, tiresome. She was at that awkward age where boy and girls, having stopped playing together, had not yet learned to communicate. Males certainly seemed to speak another language. When talking to a young man she had to work at conversation. She would coax him into talking about himself with artful questions then appear to listen carefully to his dull replies.

“Conversation is an art.” Her Aunt Mildred never failed to remind her. “It is the duty of a wife to draw her husband out. Who knows what opportunity will become evident through artful conversation?”
 

In a most regal and authoritative manner, the spinster would instruct her, “You must always be vigilant, Wendy, to seize opportunities for your husband’s advancement. A carefully worded card, a chance meeting in the right shops, a deliberately chosen charity, an invitation to an exclusive party, a coy response to your husband’s employer, a perceptive compliment to the employer’s wife—these can all progress and secure your husband’s position. While it is the husband that earns the living it is the wife who determines the family’s status.”

Under Aunt Mildred’s scrupulous tutelage Wendy practiced the art of conversation weekly. Indeed, talking to young men made her head ache!

With her girlfriends, however, Wendy found that conversation was like breathing; it was natural and effortless, flowing rhythmically without self-consciousness or contrivance. They spoke the same language and understood each other’s passions. Yes, Wendy greatly preferred spending afternoons in the company of her female friends.

On the afternoon in question, Wendy was taking in the lovely spring air with her best and dearest friend Margaret Daphne Sharpe, whom everyone called Maimie. Admired for her mass of flowing red curls, Maimie was considered a beauty only slightly diminished by her wit and outspokenness. Strolling through Kensington Gardens arm in arm, the girls were discussing the one subject that had had a monopoly on their conversations of late—young men.

“I am just saying that James is a young man worthy of
esteem
,” baited Maimie, a smile playing about the corners of her full mouth.

“Oh, rubbish!” retorted Wendy. Then in a perfectly ghastly imitation of Aunt Mildred she continued, “James Christopher
Whitby
III is the embodiment of good breeding. That coupled with his good form make him quite a desirable catch. Indeed if I were but a few years younger, I should snatch him up myself.” To emphasize her point she turned to Maimie making horrid kissing sounds.

Maimie joined in the game with her own imitation of the spinster. “It certainly does not hurt that his father owns the largest bank in London. A more desirable match in all of England, there cannot be.”

“Aunt Mildred can have him.” Wendy said in earnest. “I used to think because he was quiet that he was pensive. I was mistaken. He simply has nothing to say.”

“He is rich,” her friend countered.

“He is boring!”

“He is handsome.”

“But only in so much as one without passion can be. He has no fire; no, not even a spark! He is so jolly proper with his good breeding and good family and good form. I say good riddance!”

“He is a
good
match. Your Aunt Mildred constantly says so.”

Wendy stopped and pressed her dear friend’s hand to her heart. “Maimie, would you have me wither on the vine like the morning glory in the heat of the day? For that is what will surely happen if I am forced to marry James
Whitby
!”

Maimie kissed her friend penitently. “Of course not! But what is to become of my Wendy? Shall she become a spinster like Aunt Mildred?”

Wendy shivered. “I cannot abide that either. I have always wanted to become a mother with babes at my knee.” A sudden smile played on her lips. “Perhaps, I will become a novelist.”

“A novelist!” replied the redhead with delicious enjoyment. “What a scandal!”