Story F
Posted: Tue Oct 18, 2005 8:32 pm
STORY F
Living Next Door to Leonard Cohen
On his fifth birthday, in 1963, Hillary was told he was a girl. He received this shock from Robin, the 9-year-old girl, from next door. Hillary cried. He remembered this moment for years. The shock, and uneasiness, and fear it induced never left him.
Cruelty has many faces. This one had Robin’s. A plump child who liked her food. But she didn’t like Hillary. He was thin; always had been. For the five years she’d known him, he’d been thin; ever since he’d been brought home from hospital.
At the time, Robin had expected the new baby to be very fat. Hillary’s mother had been gross for months, eating as much as Robin did. But her new son was a skinny little runt. It wasn’t fair. Neither was his hair. Atop his skinny face, Hillary had hair as pure as wool. White. His mother was proud of it; letting it grow. And those eyes, “where did he get those eyes?” Not that Robin saw them much, because he wore heavily tinted sunglasses. Years later, when she thought back to her childhood, she couldn’t remember the color of those sunglasses. But she could remember the color of his eyes. Pink. She had taken a perverse delight in teasing him about his hair and eyes, but only when grown-ups weren’t around.
Robin’s neighbours weren’t local people. Her mum said they came from somewhere called Edinburra. They spoke in a very odd way. Once, when Robin was about nine years old, she saw Hillary’s dad wearing a skirt. It was like a coat of many colors. “Perhaps he had a girl’s name too?” Robin thought. Looking back, as Robin recalled that family, she came to realise that although all families are different, these were ordinary folks, like her own family. But at the time, it wasn’t easy for a nine year old to understand.
By 1968, Robin was in high school, where she discovered that her own name was also a man’s name. She’d forgotten all about her cruel teasing of Hillary by then. Her new English teacher, was actually English, and joked that back home, Robin was a name for men. “What about Robin Hood?” he asked the class. Some didn’t know who he was talking about; thinking he was going on about some boy from town. But Robin had heard of him, and for the first time was shocked. She felt upset at this sudden discovery.
What Robin feared most, was the inevitable teasing, which might follow from her school friends. And then she remembered Hillary. “What ever happened to him?” she thought. She’d heard that his family had moved to Nashville, where Hillary’s dad now worked. The fact that Hillary’s dad, whose name was Duncan, was Scottish, was something she’d discovered a few years back. Her parents had taken her to a concert where Duncan played guitar in a band. Robin’s dad told her about him, because she’d asked him why Hillary’s dad was wearing a skirt on stage. “It’s a kilt, honey,” laughed her dad, “that’s what they wear in Scotland.”
But now, Robin felt a need to get in touch with Hillary. They shared a similar affliction; their names were wrong. Or so she thought. She wanted to find out about the skinny, albino boy, who she’d teased mercilessly all those years ago. “Mom, do you remember Hillary’s family?” Robin asked, when she got home.
“Of course dear,” answered her mum, “why do you ask?”
Robin replied, “Whatever happened to them, after they left here?”
Pouring two mugs of coffee, her mum said, “They moved to Nashville. Duncan is a session guitarist. Hillary goes to music school down there. I heard he’s a gifted musician, even though he’s only 10 years old. He must have gotten it from his father.”
To cut a long story short, Robin eventually persuaded her parents to take a trip to Nashville. They made enquiries and got in touch with Hillary’s family. Four weeks later, Robin and her parents sat in their automobile outside a house in Franklin, Tennessee. A surprise for sure, because the house was more like a backwoods cabin. But it was cosy inside and half a dozen guitars were propped up against the walls. Hillary’s mum made them feel welcome, but gave Robin a furtive sideways glance.
An upright piano occupied a spot by the front window. It was sideways to the strong sunlight and obviously allowed a player to see clearly as he hit the keys. But, there was also a full-length, thick woollen curtain, half draped across the window. The strong light from the window made it impossible to see what color the curtain was, and no light got through the thick curtain. The piano stool had a leather seat, which was quite high off the ground. Robin immediately thought of Hillary.
Hillary’s mum looked steadily at Robin and said, ‘You’ve lost all that puppy fat; I hardly recognised you.’ Robin felt annoyed, embarrassed and pleased all at once. Being reminded she was no longer fat, was not an easy compliment to take on board, especially for a fourteen year old girl. Robin’s image meant more to her now than ever and that comment touched on a raw nerve.
“Where’s Hillary?” she asked, altering the thread of conversation.
‘Oh, he’s over at the Bryants’ house. They’re our nearest neighbours,” replied Hillary’s mother, “Sue will drive him back when the sun ain’t so strong.”
“Sue?” asked Robin’s dad.
“Yes,” replied Hillary’s mum, “she’s renting the house, or at least I think she is, from someone in the music business.”
Robin’s dad looked surprised. “Do you know him?” he asked.
“Who?” asked Hillary’s mum.
“The music man,” he replied.
”Oh no,” replied Hillary’s mum, “all I know is her bloke is some sort of writer. I haven’t met him yet, I think he’s called Leonard. Hillary likes him though.”
Living Next Door to Leonard Cohen
On his fifth birthday, in 1963, Hillary was told he was a girl. He received this shock from Robin, the 9-year-old girl, from next door. Hillary cried. He remembered this moment for years. The shock, and uneasiness, and fear it induced never left him.
Cruelty has many faces. This one had Robin’s. A plump child who liked her food. But she didn’t like Hillary. He was thin; always had been. For the five years she’d known him, he’d been thin; ever since he’d been brought home from hospital.
At the time, Robin had expected the new baby to be very fat. Hillary’s mother had been gross for months, eating as much as Robin did. But her new son was a skinny little runt. It wasn’t fair. Neither was his hair. Atop his skinny face, Hillary had hair as pure as wool. White. His mother was proud of it; letting it grow. And those eyes, “where did he get those eyes?” Not that Robin saw them much, because he wore heavily tinted sunglasses. Years later, when she thought back to her childhood, she couldn’t remember the color of those sunglasses. But she could remember the color of his eyes. Pink. She had taken a perverse delight in teasing him about his hair and eyes, but only when grown-ups weren’t around.
Robin’s neighbours weren’t local people. Her mum said they came from somewhere called Edinburra. They spoke in a very odd way. Once, when Robin was about nine years old, she saw Hillary’s dad wearing a skirt. It was like a coat of many colors. “Perhaps he had a girl’s name too?” Robin thought. Looking back, as Robin recalled that family, she came to realise that although all families are different, these were ordinary folks, like her own family. But at the time, it wasn’t easy for a nine year old to understand.
By 1968, Robin was in high school, where she discovered that her own name was also a man’s name. She’d forgotten all about her cruel teasing of Hillary by then. Her new English teacher, was actually English, and joked that back home, Robin was a name for men. “What about Robin Hood?” he asked the class. Some didn’t know who he was talking about; thinking he was going on about some boy from town. But Robin had heard of him, and for the first time was shocked. She felt upset at this sudden discovery.
What Robin feared most, was the inevitable teasing, which might follow from her school friends. And then she remembered Hillary. “What ever happened to him?” she thought. She’d heard that his family had moved to Nashville, where Hillary’s dad now worked. The fact that Hillary’s dad, whose name was Duncan, was Scottish, was something she’d discovered a few years back. Her parents had taken her to a concert where Duncan played guitar in a band. Robin’s dad told her about him, because she’d asked him why Hillary’s dad was wearing a skirt on stage. “It’s a kilt, honey,” laughed her dad, “that’s what they wear in Scotland.”
But now, Robin felt a need to get in touch with Hillary. They shared a similar affliction; their names were wrong. Or so she thought. She wanted to find out about the skinny, albino boy, who she’d teased mercilessly all those years ago. “Mom, do you remember Hillary’s family?” Robin asked, when she got home.
“Of course dear,” answered her mum, “why do you ask?”
Robin replied, “Whatever happened to them, after they left here?”
Pouring two mugs of coffee, her mum said, “They moved to Nashville. Duncan is a session guitarist. Hillary goes to music school down there. I heard he’s a gifted musician, even though he’s only 10 years old. He must have gotten it from his father.”
To cut a long story short, Robin eventually persuaded her parents to take a trip to Nashville. They made enquiries and got in touch with Hillary’s family. Four weeks later, Robin and her parents sat in their automobile outside a house in Franklin, Tennessee. A surprise for sure, because the house was more like a backwoods cabin. But it was cosy inside and half a dozen guitars were propped up against the walls. Hillary’s mum made them feel welcome, but gave Robin a furtive sideways glance.
An upright piano occupied a spot by the front window. It was sideways to the strong sunlight and obviously allowed a player to see clearly as he hit the keys. But, there was also a full-length, thick woollen curtain, half draped across the window. The strong light from the window made it impossible to see what color the curtain was, and no light got through the thick curtain. The piano stool had a leather seat, which was quite high off the ground. Robin immediately thought of Hillary.
Hillary’s mum looked steadily at Robin and said, ‘You’ve lost all that puppy fat; I hardly recognised you.’ Robin felt annoyed, embarrassed and pleased all at once. Being reminded she was no longer fat, was not an easy compliment to take on board, especially for a fourteen year old girl. Robin’s image meant more to her now than ever and that comment touched on a raw nerve.
“Where’s Hillary?” she asked, altering the thread of conversation.
‘Oh, he’s over at the Bryants’ house. They’re our nearest neighbours,” replied Hillary’s mother, “Sue will drive him back when the sun ain’t so strong.”
“Sue?” asked Robin’s dad.
“Yes,” replied Hillary’s mum, “she’s renting the house, or at least I think she is, from someone in the music business.”
Robin’s dad looked surprised. “Do you know him?” he asked.
“Who?” asked Hillary’s mum.
“The music man,” he replied.
”Oh no,” replied Hillary’s mum, “all I know is her bloke is some sort of writer. I haven’t met him yet, I think he’s called Leonard. Hillary likes him though.”
I saw Hilary Benn on the telly tonight and noticed my mistake. 
Easy to correct, anyway.