Хилари Боннер - A Deep Deceit

I was undersized and painfully thin, and not only did all the other five- and six-year-old children seem to be years older than me already, they were also much bigger. Although there was no uniform at St Justin’s, Gran had kitted me out in a grey gymslip, which flapped around the calves of my legs. Ever sensible and practical, she had allowed plenty of room for growth. I also wore old-fashioned black lace-up shoes and ankle socks. The other children all had on brightly coloured sweaters and shirts, tracksuits, jeans and sneakers. Even I realised that I stood out like something off the pages of Billy Bunter .

There is always a leader, at every stage and in every walk of life. And all too often, I did not learn until much later, the leader is whoever is most inappropriate. At St Justin’s the leader of the pack was a staggeringly precocious six-year-old called Janet Postings and she took it upon herself to make my life a misery from the moment I arrived.

Thanks to Gran I could already read and write better than any of the other girls and boys in my class, but this did not seem to work in my favour. In fact, just the opposite. I was asked to read aloud on my first morning.

‘Let’s see what you can do,’ said the teacher. Reading aloud was no problem for me. That was the way Gran taught. And the book was actually similar to the reading material I was already used to. I read clearly and fluently, the way Gran had always insisted upon, and when I finished I was all too aware that the entire class were staring at me. And they weren’t very friendly.

The trouble started at morning break. Janet Postings broke off from whatever activity she and a small group were involved in at one end of the playground and ran across to where I had sat down alone on a wooden bench, eating the apple Gran had provided me with.

‘Do you want to join in our game?’ she asked. Janet Postings was fair-haired, blue-eyed and very pretty. In fact, she looked quite angelic. And I had yet to discover that looks can be very deceptive, particularly in children.

My hearted lifted. ‘Oh, yes,’ I said eagerly.

‘Well, you can’t,’ she replied. ‘It’s my game and I don’t like you. I think you’re a show-off.’

I felt my face turn crimson. How often over the years I was to loathe myself for blushing so easily. That was just the beginning. It seemed that if Janet Postings didn’t like you at St Justin’s, then neither did anyone else.

My hair was long and straight, and tied back in bunches. A constant leisure activity for the rest of the class was to pull at them. It’s the kind of damn silly thing you read and hear about in schools, and you think it probably doesn’t really happen because it’s too stupid – even for five- and six-year-olds – but it happened to me, that’s all I can say.

In addition, my books and gym kit would go missing, and I would find things broken and dirty. Then I would get into trouble with Gran, who would lecture me on how I should look after my belongings. Somehow, I could never tell her what was really happening.

On one occasion a group of girls, who had apparently been lurking in a gateway waiting for me to pass by, jumped on me as I walked home. They snatched my satchel and emptied my books into a puddle.

There were sixteen girls and thirteen boys in my class. Funnily enough, the boys weren’t really a problem. They just used to ignore me. It was the girls who seemed to hate me. I suppose it was a classic case of habitual bullying, but nobody seemed even to recognise that as a problem in schools in those days. I had no idea why I was picked on so relentlessly. I certainly did nothing to provoke it, or I thought I didn’t, and I had no ability whatsoever to deal with it. I just could not cope with other children in any way.

I retreated into myself. I kept my eyes cast downwards and hardly spoke at all, except to the teachers and then only when spoken to. They seemed to notice nothing amiss, even though I think I can honestly say that during my time at St Justin’s I added absolutely nothing to the learning Gran had already instilled in me.

My nightmares grew worse and took on whole new dimensions. Sometimes I was chased by hordes of chanting children who cornered me and then, just as they were about to pounce upon me, turned into howling, teeth-baring wolves.

Things reached a crisis one day after I had endured this daily torture at St Justin’s for almost a year. Every day after each playtime, at morning break, lunch and afternoon break, each class had to line up in alphabetical order on a raised platform alongside the north wall of the school building to wait to be collected by their teacher. My surname was Adams then, so, inevitably, I was always at the front of the line and it seemed to greatly amuse those behind me to push me off the platform until our teacher arrived. They were a clever lot, St Justin’s Class Two. They never shoved hard enough to hurt me, just sufficiently to ensure that I repeatedly had to half jump off the platform and then clamber back up again.

For almost a year, three times a day, I endured this. Finally I cracked. Even wimps and natural-born victims have a breaking point. Perhaps especially wimps and victims. Pushed off once too often, I ran to the back of the line, wrapped my arms round my head, leaned my body forward and charged. I did it well, finding a strength I did not know I had. The worm really turned. I was, I suppose, beyond fear by then. Twenty-eight small bodies went flying and landed in a crying, screaming heap. There were no broken bones or other serious injuries, but plenty of grazed and bleeding arms and legs, bumped heads and even, I believe, a chipped tooth or two. It was a totally chaotic scene and, for just a moment or two, I remember being quite pleased with myself.

Then the trouble started. I was sent immediately to the headmistress, having been unceremoniously shopped by my dear little friends who certainly did not share my tendency to be tongue-tied. She gave me a corker of a telling off, which reduced me to tears. I knew none of it was fair but, as ever, could not find the words to explain myself. Ultimately the head told me to wait in the corridor outside her office. I was still standing there snivelling when Gran arrived two hours later, having been summoned to the school.

Gran had to walk past me on her way into the headmistress’s office. I was a complete wreck by then, of course, and I saw the corners of Gran’s mouth turn down and a flash of anger in her eyes. At first I thought she was angry with me, which she probably was, but she seemed to be even more angry with the school.

She was, of course, as calm and controlled as ever. She told me to stop crying, that she was there and that everything was going to be all right – typical Gran, never emotional but always strong and reassuring. Then she took me by the hand and led me back into the headmistress’s office.

She listened in silence while the headmistress ranted for some time about my ‘appalling behaviour’, but did not seem to be overly impressed.

‘And you think that gives you the right to leave a six-year-old child to cry alone in a corridor, do you?’ she asked eventually in an icy tone.

Gran really was my champion, bless her.

‘She has to learn her lesson; what she did was very dangerous,’ said the headmistress. ‘Somebody could have been badly hurt.’

‘I think it would be best if I took her home for a few days, don’t you?’ enquired Gran, but in a firm tone of voice, which made it clear she was not really interested in the headmistress’s opinion, but was merely telling her what she intended to do.

Gran had spoken and there was little more discussion. But it was already the end of the school day when we left together after what would turn out to be my last appearance at St Justin’s. Pupils were waiting outside for buses and parents as Gran led me out through the big wrought-iron gates. ‘Straight back, eyes forward,’ she murmured.