The imagination gap by Eileen Padmore

Nobody ever knew about my imaginary friend. She had a name, but that is classified information. Revealing such detail would diminish her. She was beautiful and much cleverer than me – always around when needed but never intrusive. At times she became less accessible, her features elusive no matter how hard I tried. Attempts to entice her back seemed to push her further away.

If I had told anyone about her they would have said she wasn't real. That's why I kept her hidden. It's difficult to explain, but although she didn't have a body you could touch, or a voice you could hear, her presence was powerful.

I can't remember how old I was when she first appeared or why she came. Maybe I was about seven? I named her after my favourite Enid Blyton character. Later I renamed her. It was easy enough – no bureaucracy as in real life.

Together we invented a world without prohibition.  You could have dark hair one day and blond the next. You could wear whatever you liked when you liked.  Even changing your family was the easiest thing in the world.  Most of all you could perform great acts of heroism together, like rescuing other children from the lake – or from the railway line in the nick of time. Brownie points (not exactly plentiful in real life) rained down from amazed onlookers.

Spectators were a recurring theme. I became a trapeze artiste dressed in glitzy gauze, holding capacity audiences transfixed to ear splitting applause. The trouble was, just as the situation was beginning to develop, the real world would put out a rude finger to bring me back. Like when I was interrupted in full flight by my grandfather who trundled his wheelbarrow around the corner with a startled, 'Whatever next!' The crowds fled. There I was exposed, hanging upside down from the top bar of a rusty garden swing, grubby frock tucked into knickers.

Later, as a teenager, she helped during those endless maths lessons when figures drove me beyond boredom. Where are the possibilities of two plus two makes four?  Her presence worked magic in lessons but back home she was no use as I wrestled with equations. There were missing links. Here, the boundary between real and imaginary proved absolute. 'Rubbish!' pronounced my teacher next day, his puce face hovering above my desk whilst hairy hand despoiled rows of randomly dreamed up numbers.

So what happened to my friend in the end? I must have moved on. She came and went for a bit but I began to grow up too fast for her to keep pace. Sometimes when I am writing she pops back in clever disguise.

Maybe when I'm old and unable to get around, I'll bring her back.  Away on wings we will soar above the mundane and painful to connect with the good times: the colours, shapes, smells, variety, laughter and fun. And as I lie in bed chuckling – nobody need ever know why.

Eileen Padmore has retired from a life spent in health care and academia, having worked in Sierra Leone, Zambia, Eire and Northern Ireland (in the troubles) as well as inner city Birmingham and Leeds.  She has had articles published in Woman Alive, Christian Writer and contributed to the popular ACW Lent Book.  Next month she hopes to launch her new website / blog entitled Benedict Unravelled: reflections from a prayer shawl ministry