by Stephen Barnaby
There was, briefly, an American girl in my class.
She can be called Casey Watts.
She must have been from the Naval Base.
Why she wasn’t at their school I don’t know.
She was always trying to kiss the boys, to their terror and the girls’ bafflement.
The Mormons at Thurso Swimming Pool must have been from the Base too.
They unnerved us with their short hair, smart suits and unshakeable politeness.
They would strip completely, astonishingly naked, use the showers, then, without going near the pool, dress and leave.
My father worked at the bleached, bulbous fast reactor that, as a child, I thought was the moon.
But I knew that Casey and The Mormons were↑