Starting Over
This is the story of how we grow old – how we give up the dreams of youth for something better – and how many chances we have to get it right.George Bailey has been given the gift we all dream of – the chance to live his life again.After suffering a heart attack at the age of 42, George is given the heart of a 19-year-old – and suddenly everything changes…He is a friend to his teenage son and daughter – and not a stern Home Secretary, monitoring their every move.He makes love to his wife all night long - instead of from midnight until about five past. And suddenly he wants to change the world, just as soon as he shakes off his hangover.But George Bailey discovers that being young again is not all it is cracked up to be – and what he actually wants more than anything in the universe is to have his old life back.
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Starting Over
Tony Parsons
For Yuriko
That was the last time the girl Wendy ever saw him. For a little longer she tried for his sake not to have growing pains; and she felt she was untrue to him when she got a prize for general knowledge. But the years came and went without bringing the careless boy; and when they met again Wendy was a married woman, and Peter was no more to her than a little dust in the box in which she had kept her toys. Wendy was grown up. You need not be sorry for her. She was one of the kind that likes to grow up.
J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan and Wendy
Table of Contents
Part One The Canteen Cowboy V The Careless Boy
She doesn’t feel comfortable driving this car. It is too big, too unfamiliar, too much her husband’s car. And the woman on the sat nav just will not shut up.
‘If possible, try to make a U-turn…try to make a U-turn.’
It is late now. She doesn’t know this neighbourhood. The big BMW X5 rolls past strips of worn-out shops, ugly superstores, unlit yards protected by razor wire. And everywhere, there are the children. In groups of three or four or more, standing by their bikes, the light from their phones glowing in their fists, their faces hidden inside their hooded tops.
‘Try to make a U-turn…’
‘I’m trying!’ she shouts, suddenly aware that she has had perhaps one glass of wine too many.
Eyes follow her. At least that is how it feels. She is too well dressed for this area, the car too conspicuously expensive. She should have taken her own beat-up little runaround. But her husband had pressed the BMW X5 on her, telling her she would feel safer.
Yeah, right.
The terrain changes. Suddenly the exhausted shops and the superstores and the herds of sullen youth have gone. There are no signs of life here. These are streets full of – what are they? – warehouses. Old warehouses. Big, black buildings with long skylights that have been smashed. They look as though they were deserted years ago, as though they are rotting, as though they are waiting to be swept away and built upon. The big car barrels through the dead streets. She is perhaps a few miles from home but this no longer feels like her town.
‘Try to make a U-turn…’
‘Oh, try to put a bloody sock in it!’ she cries.
And then she sees him.
The boy lying in the middle of the road. He is curled up in a foetal position, but one arm is stretched out, supporting his head. Her foot touches the brakes, but only for a moment. It is the arm stretched out, making a pillow for his head, that makes her feel that this is wrong, all wrong, that this is trouble waiting to happen.
So she does not stop.
She puts her foot on the throttle and yanks at the steering wheel, swerving around the boy at the last moment. In the rear-view mirror she sees that he has not stirred. The car almost hit him and yet he did not move a muscle. And all at once she believes that she is mistaken.
This is someone who is really hurt, she thinks. This is someone who needs her help.
The car comes to a halt.
She pulls out her phone.
No signal.
Then she finally obeys the woman on the sat nav and makes a U-turn, abruptly pulling off the road and into an abandoned petrol station where the pumps are gone but the roof still bears the fading name of an oil company. There is a low wall running around the petrol station and beyond it the place has been turned into a rubbish dump. Debris everywhere. She registers black bags that have been ripped open by sharp teeth, a burned-out car, a grease-blackened oven, and some old computers with their screens stoved in. Suddenly it is like driving on the surface of the moon. The BMW X5 bounces over God knows what and now she is glad to be driving this thing.
She pulls up next to a pothole where a petrol pump once stood and she leans forward, the engine idling, staring at the boy in the middle of the road lit by her headlights.
And she still doesn’t know.
She still doesn’t know if he is really hurt. She can’t just leave him lying there. But she can’t get out of the car.
So she puts her foot down and drives through the ruined petrol station, the big car lurching and bumping, and all the while she watches the boy, illuminated by her lights, and then receding in the rear-view mirror.
And he never moves.
But she knows she is not getting out of this car and so she swings it on to the road and heads back the way she came with the woman on the sat nav silent now, as if happy at last.
They could not be more understanding at the police station. They tell her she did the right thing. You don’t get out of your car in that neighbourhood. A young red-haired cop in a suit and tie drives her back to where she saw the boy in the road.
