Gwyneth (Short Story)
09th February 2025
In: Short Stories
Welsh — meaning “fair maiden” or “happiness”
Gwyneth was a big girl. More than plump, and exceeding dumpy, she had a weight to her, a bulk that settled into its orbit on the outer limits of our crowd, her presence there accepted, but rarely noticed, so seldom acknowledged. She never said much, never crossed anyone, was neither friend nor enemy. She was simply there.
Anyone sitting next to her, had they been in any sense observant, would have noticed a vague unkemptness about her appearance. Nothing obviously grubby or ragged, it was more subtle than that. Her uniform had an indifferently-worn tiredness about it, and there hung around her the musty smell of a closed-up room long-denied the benefit of a thorough airing. It was all the more puzzling because, as far as we knew, her family was fairly well-off, her father being local businessman Stan Jenkins, who ran a smart taxi and car hire firm. She was dropped off at school every morning, collected again each afternoon by one of his liveried drivers.
Once, only once, she offered me a lift. I was tempted, mainly because it was raining, but something stopped me, and I really can’t think what it was. Anyway, she merely shrugged and got in. I watched the car drive away, baffled by my own refusal, and ended up soaked through. I don’t think she ever spoke to me again.
Gwyneth wasn’t the best scholar, managing to only scrape through most of her exams. However, she excelled at music, and had a terrific voice. Maybe her Welsh background accounted for it. Born in Swansea, so we’d heard, but moved to Sussex when she was still a toddler. Her mother had been a dancer — ballet trained — but caught her foot in a train door, and that ruined her chances of an audition with one of the directors of an exclusive dance academy she’d set her heart on attending.
It was Mary Delaney who told me all this, years after we’d left school and gone out separate ways. Mary had only learnt this stuff because her mother worked for Gwyneth’s family as a general household help. Mrs Jenkins being too busy with her charity committee work to do very much of her own housework, apparently. When I asked how Gwyneth was getting on, Mary didn’t know much, except that she’d left home less than a year after leaving school. The rumour was that she had met someone, and gone to live with them. We mulled this over, neither of us really able to match this idea with the image we had of Gwyneth — big lumbering girl with nothing going for her except that awesome singing voice. As for romantic entanglements — was that likely? It really didn’t seem so.
Then, last week, I was flicking through the TV channels to find something worth watching, and paused on one that was running a talent show. I forget the name of it. An all-female rock band with a striking lead singer had caught my eye. Or rather, my ear. The voice was familiar. I stared hard at the screen, disbelieving what I was already thinking. It couldn’t be her. But it was her. And she looked amazing. Fabulous. Gorgeous. Debbie Harry — eat your heart out!
Gwyneth had transformed into a babe. One of the Brutal Babes, as they called themselves. Now a slim, blonde, statuesque goddess of rock ‘n’ roll, only her voice was the same. Gwen Pasquini — married to Paulo Vincente Pasquini, the film director.
I was, and still am, gobsmacked. And I still can’t fathom why I didn’t take that taxi ride.
Gwyneth was a big girl. More than plump, and exceeding dumpy, she had a weight to her, a bulk that settled into its orbit on the outer limits of our crowd, her presence there accepted, but rarely noticed, so seldom acknowledged. She never said much, never crossed anyone, was neither friend nor enemy. She was simply there.
Anyone sitting next to her, had they been in any sense observant, would have noticed a vague unkemptness about her appearance. Nothing obviously grubby or ragged, it was more subtle than that. Her uniform had an indifferently-worn tiredness about it, and there hung around her the musty smell of a closed-up room long-denied the benefit of a thorough airing. It was all the more puzzling because, as far as we knew, her family was fairly well-off, her father being local businessman Stan Jenkins, who ran a smart taxi and car hire firm. She was dropped off at school every morning, collected again each afternoon by one of his liveried drivers.
Once, only once, she offered me a lift. I was tempted, mainly because it was raining, but something stopped me, and I really can’t think what it was. Anyway, she merely shrugged and got in. I watched the car drive away, baffled by my own refusal, and ended up soaked through. I don’t think she ever spoke to me again.
Gwyneth wasn’t the best scholar, managing to only scrape through most of her exams. However, she excelled at music, and had a terrific voice. Maybe her Welsh background accounted for it. Born in Swansea, so we’d heard, but moved to Sussex when she was still a toddler. Her mother had been a dancer — ballet trained — but caught her foot in a train door, and that ruined her chances of an audition with one of the directors of an exclusive dance academy she’d set her heart on attending.
It was Mary Delaney who told me all this, years after we’d left school and gone out separate ways. Mary had only learnt this stuff because her mother worked for Gwyneth’s family as a general household help. Mrs Jenkins being too busy with her charity committee work to do very much of her own housework, apparently. When I asked how Gwyneth was getting on, Mary didn’t know much, except that she’d left home less than a year after leaving school. The rumour was that she had met someone, and gone to live with them. We mulled this over, neither of us really able to match this idea with the image we had of Gwyneth — big lumbering girl with nothing going for her except that awesome singing voice. As for romantic entanglements — was that likely? It really didn’t seem so.
Then, last week, I was flicking through the TV channels to find something worth watching, and paused on one that was running a talent show. I forget the name of it. An all-female rock band with a striking lead singer had caught my eye. Or rather, my ear. The voice was familiar. I stared hard at the screen, disbelieving what I was already thinking. It couldn’t be her. But it was her. And she looked amazing. Fabulous. Gorgeous. Debbie Harry — eat your heart out!
Gwyneth had transformed into a babe. One of the Brutal Babes, as they called themselves. Now a slim, blonde, statuesque goddess of rock ‘n’ roll, only her voice was the same. Gwen Pasquini — married to Paulo Vincente Pasquini, the film director.
I was, and still am, gobsmacked. And I still can’t fathom why I didn’t take that taxi ride.