When I was just seven or eight we had a border in our home. His name was Ken Littlejohn. Even saying his name now makes me feel uncomfortable. I don’t remember ever having spoken to Ken Littlejohn. I never said, "Hi Ken…what are you up to", or even "Hey Ken, have you seen Mum?" I don’t remember him ever having initiated a conversation with me either. There were never any words. It was just a feeling. I didn’t know where it came from and I wouldn’t be able to think of the moment that "it" happened. All I know is that I was besotted with this man that lived in our house. At first I would watch him from a distance. Too overwhelmed by his presence to want him to know that I was near. I became a master of stealth and all those places that a child can hide …behind the couch …in the curtains…. out side his window…I would make use of. I would be there knowing that he was breathing on the other side. He was there and I was close to him.

Of course these feelings confused me as I was unsure what this thing was. Why did I want to be by him? I wasn’t happy that I felt this way about him but I couldn’t help myself. I was like a moth to the flame and although people might think that I was only a child constructing a game to play with our visitor, it never felt like a game. It was something that I was compelled to do and which I knew would only bring me some kind of shame.

Sometimes my pursuit of Ken Littlejohn was too obvious and I would be caught in the act of trying to be close to him, or I would be looking at him in a certain way and someone would notice.

My mother would tease me a little, perhaps having some inkling of what I was doing. Her knowingness was humiliating. This was my terrifying and wonderful secret and I did not want to share it with anyone.

The longer that he was in the house the bolder I became. When he was sitting at dinner I would make an excuse to retrieve something from the kitchen. As I returned I would have to pass behind Ken Littlejohn. I would be so close that I would almost be touching him. I would stand there looking and breathing on to his neck. This moment would only last for a second or two but the image of his neck and hair are still clear in my mind.

In the moment that I paused behind him I would overwhelm myself with a desire for him to know that I was there. And this was confusing too, because although I wanted him to turn around and see me I did not want this to be a real world moment. I had an idea that he would sense my presence, turn, and suddenly be part of this other place that only he and I inhabited. I imagined his face as he turned, and it’s expression would be one of pure and intimate understanding.

Only once did he sense my presence and turn to see me standing there. He was startled that I was standing so close and he looked bewildered and slightly embarrassed. Ken Littlejohn moved out shortly after this.

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