Well… you never know. Its one theory, in any case. The picture above is Wendy, albeit not exactly of the Disney variety. She is, perhaps, a younger version… about six or seven years old… Peter has not lost his shadow yet, there is no ticking clock to signal the advance of one hungry and vengeful crocodile and little Tinkerbell has not yet tried to murder the competition.
Perhaps Wendy is sitting there on the seat by the window as Mr and Mrs Darling soothe the still crying Michael in his bassinet, cooing over him with concern as John glares from his bed just beside them, with all the jealous anger of a four year old who is not the one getting the attention. Wendy, however, doesn’t really mind. She’s allowed to have the curtains drawn open way past her bed-time.
She’s wrapped around in a warm down comforter, her eyes wide and bright as the cries of her brother are drowned out by the wonder of seeing a London street bathed in the milky glow of the moon reflected off brand new snow not yet disturbed by the carriages and horses that will undoubtedly trundle by before she wakes in the morn. By that time, the pristine snow will already have been churned into a muddy slush.
Wendy would look towards the sky filled with tiny pinpricks of beautiful white light, dotted against a velvet sea of deep, dark blue and dream… seeing just one of those stars seemingly tumble out of the sky before righting itself and flickering out of sight. A little white moth, who’s roamed too far from the glow of the august street-lanterns? A speck of snow, trying to escape from a wayward cloud not present in a cloudless sky? Or perhaps… just perhaps… her first little hint of what is to come, as miss Wendy spies her rival and perhaps future lady love for the first time, before little Tink goes darting out of sight.