The first thing I noticed
was that no-one else
was wearing a cap,
so I quickly doffed mine
and folded it out of sight
into the pocket
of my brand new blazer.
So I entered the school gates
more angry than nervous:
Ten bob of dad’s wages
from the factory wasted
on something I would never
wear again. Not much,
but more than he could afford.
“Oi, fustie!” I was accosted
as I crossed the asphalt
playground by two Cro Magnon
Krays. From being top dog
at juniors, I was now
back at the bottom
of the food chain.
I committed the mistake
of making eye contact.
”Wotcha looking at, fustie?”
they demanded, light glinting
off their Prefect badges,
like stars on the chests
of a crooked Sheriff and his deputy.
“Don’t wanna talk, eh?
Too stuck up.” They grabbed
my arms, while I glared,
indignant at being accused
by two working class oiks
like myself, who had scraped
entry into grammar school.
“Into the holly bush wivvim.”
Sentence was pronounced
and executed with a shove.
I landed amidst the prickle
of green leaves and false
jollity of orange berries.
It should not have hurt.
I slumped dizzy on the dirt
with something hot and wet
in my eyes. Not tears.
A bell rang and I sprang
to my feet, swinging
a fist in the direction
of two mocking grins.
If only it had connected…
All of history
would have changed that moment
and five years of misery
at the hands of bullies
would have been broken
with their grinning teeth.
But I missed.
They tripped me and I fell
again at their feet,
that kicked me only once
in contempt. They snatched
the cap from my pocket
and passed it like a rugby ball.
I played piggy-in-the-middle
until the second bell.
A final drop-kick lobbed
my cap over the wall
into no-man’s-land:
The girl’s playground;
as forbidden to me as East Berlin.
My tormentors became officials,
ushering first years with authority
towards the doors, while
I seemed to be invisible.
No sympathy, no recognition,
no wish to suffer the syndrome
of victim by association.
I joined the line and filed
into school. Comparisons with Belsen
are outrageous, but all hope
was gone from my soul;
as tattered as my muddy trousers.
And still I had to face
my dad and find ten bob, somehow.
