I was standing outside the Wallace Park with wee Charlie. We were teenagers; just about the time the word was invented to describe youngsters. The year? Well, Elvis was singing something about being all shook up that year. Summer, it was. I remember that, as the two girls who came walking towards us, struggling up the hill with their suitcases, were wearing summery clothes, no topcoats. The one with the jet-black hair was wearing a pencil thin skirt and high heels. Without that long slit in the skirt she would have struggled even more. Her top, unbuttoned at the collar, was white, and wasn’t much different to a man’s shirt. She was fairly tall, even without the heels. But there was no mistaking her femininity. One of those sixteen going on twenty-five girls that we see even more of nowadays, Her companion, also quite tall, but looking shorter in flat shoes, wore a frock, a wispy affair, its autumnal colours complementing her crowning glory of thick dark brown hair with a hint of auburn. Her pale pink-cheeked face was exceptionally pretty.
Charlie was a good-looking wee lad, but we both knew we were out of our league, so our offer to carry the cases was nothing more than a bit of good old fashioned chivalry. The cases were heavy. As those who know me will have heard many times, I am much stronger than I appear, but after half an hour I started to feel the strain, and wee Charlie was almost on his knees. But, after what seemed like a very long way, we arrived at our destination, a farmhouse. To our surprise, the only person there to greet us was a young girl of about eleven years old. The girl with the jet-black hair, Dolours, or Dolores, explained that she and her friend, or perhaps sister,, Marian, I think, were here to look after the child for a fortnight while her parents were away. I scarcely remember the fair-haired child, who was quiet to the point of timidity. I politely avoided staring around, but noted that the living room was expansive. Around the walls and on the large display cabinet, were various family photos. All the pictures were black and white, of course. The exception was the ubiquitous colour painting of The Sacred Heart Of Jesus, which held centre stage on the widest wall. There was an old Chesterfield and a couple of matching sofas. We sat on the sofas, had a large glass of lemonade, and talked for half an hour, and were invited to return, the girls saying they would be pleased to see us, as they would have little to entertain them during their stay. On my next visit, I brought, and introduced them to, Ken, Shaun, and Laurence. We told jokes and stories, and sang songs. We lads were still singing ‘ The Windy City’ as we walked home in the darkness of the tree-lined road.

This 'padded out' story is written in the hope that Ken, Laurence, or Shaun, (Charlie, I know, to use a euphomistic phrase, is no longer with us), may spot it and recall those Belfast girls, and those innocent, carefree days.