1946...
If you see Terry Larkin, tell him to whistle,
When he gets to the end of our street.
Like a shot, I’ll be out through the window,
I’ll be there in a single heartbeat.
Onto the pigeon loft roof, then the dustbin,
Me dad’s sleeping and I’ve taken flight.
We can kiss in the glow of the steelworks,
Fiery sunsets pulsating each night.
If he hears any barking, tell him to stand still,
In case Rebel sets off the alarm.
I shouldn’t be out with a Catholic,
But I’m a maverick, entranced by his charm.
We’ll have to be quick in the lush grass,
It’s past nine, so I shouldn’t be gone.
We’re from opposite sides of the school fence,
So we can’t stay entwined for too long.
2026…
If you see Terry Larkin, tell him I’ve missed him.
With his blue eyes and Brylcreemed black hair.
Though I don’t have a photo to treasure,
When I drift off, his smile’s always there.
I met someone else and we married,
It was never the same but I tried.
The spark wouldn’t catch in the kindling,
Yet with Terry the flame never died.
So, if you see Terry Larkin, tell him to whistle,
When he’s outside this care home I’m at.
He’ll need to whistle that little bit louder,
Now my hearing aid battery’s gone flat.
You can tell him to climb up the drainpipe.
Or swing into my room from a tree.
I really don’t care how he gets here.
As long as it’s just Terry and me.
You’re the love of my life, Terry Larkin,
Though too many sunsets have passed.
Let’s hold hands and fly out of the window,
Then we’ll be together…at last.
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When she was 94, my Mum went into a care home after having a stroke. When I visited her, I got chatting to another resident who started talking about Terry Larkin – her boyfriend when she was 14. She used to climb out of the window when he whistled outside her house but they couldn’t stay together because he was a Catholic and she was a Protestant. I found it moving that, near the end of her life, she was still misty-eyed over her first love. “If you see him, tell him I’m waiting,” she said, insisting she’d always been a rebel.
The backdrop to their love was the blast furnace ‘flaring’ at night, which created sunsets over Teesside. A metaphor for their fiery passion. The pigeon loft is another metaphor – she was like a bird cooped up, only allowed to fly when her dad said so.