At my old primary school there was a girl an orphan. She lived with her greatgrandmother, a tiny, devout old lady who could have been a portrait on a church postcard. Every Sunday the two of them shuffled to StMarys, passing our cottage in matching white head scarves, looking as fragile as freshlybaked shortbread. Rumour had it that Grandmother banned her from television, sweets, laughing with her mouth open lest the devil slips in and she made her splash her face with icecold water every morning.
We liked to tease her. She would stare back with a dull, adultsized gaze and mutter, Lord, have mercy on them; they havent a clue what theyre doing. Nobody befriended her; they called her a bit mad. Her name was Poppy, sometimes Amelia when she tried to sound proper.
Back in my childhood the school canteen was, to put it mildly, dreadful. On Fridays, however, they served sconewiches with tea, or sausage rolls drizzled with cocoa and a tiny chocolate bar. One Friday, while the older girls were giving Poppy a hard time, someone gave her a shove. She teetered into me, I crashed into a tray stacked with cocoa mugs, and the whole chocolate river spilled over two senior pupils.
Bloody hell, they muttered.
Run! I shouted, grabbing Poppys hand, and we bolted toward our classroom.
In my head I imagined a herd of cows and a marching band of schoolboys giving chase, bellowing OOOOOOOOO. The next two lessons were maths. Behind the glass door two lanky figures loomed. Occasionally the door cracked open and two heads peeked in, then hid again. I realised what awaited us a classic British drama of investigation, trial, and possible expulsion.
The trick, I whispered, is to slip out unnoticed, then I know a backdoor to the loft. Well hide there till it gets dark, then make a dash home.
No, Poppy replied, well do it the proper way quietly, like proper schoolgirls.
But Poppy, those boys
What? What will they do? Splash kefir on our heads? Throw us into a pond? Beat up fifthform girls?
Uh.
Even if they give us a whack, itll be a single slap. If we dont go, well be terrified every day.
We slipped out of the classroom with the rest of the class, just as any ladylike girls would. Two senior boys were propped against the wall, looking smug.
Hey, little ones, lost something? One held my MickeyMousethemed wallet and ten pounds the sort of cash you need for the swimming pool and art club.
Here, he tossed it into my hand, and dont run off again.
I walked home, swinging my satchel, feeling oddly triumphant. Everything had turned out alright, and I was grateful for my new mate.
Shall I ring my mum? Shell call your gran, get you permission, and we can pop over to my place for cartoons. Or is that a nono?
Poppy rolled her eyes.
Fine, lets go. Well nab some scones with clotted cream from your gran she baked them today.
We stayed friends for years, until life scattered us across different continents. I still remember that one time.
Leaping from the diving board into the blue mirror of the pool is scary. But its only scary once.
Doing something new is frightening. Whats the worst that could happen? Theyll call me a fool? Just once. And then Ill keep telling myself that every day.
Scared once. Or every day.
You beat fear once, or it lives in you, running the show every day.
The choice is yours.
