Barry Walsh - The Pimlico Kid

‘Oh.’

I try to imagine her face without the purple stain, and whether she would be pretty. She does have the shiniest dark hair and Mum says that the skin on the clear side of her face is beautiful. Josie’s blue eyes can be fierce while she waits for people to take in her birthmark, but sparkling and kind once they have.

‘I hope it works.’ I say.

‘Thanks. Mum thinks that saying prayers helps, the more the better.’

‘I see.’ No, I don’t.

Her head drops. ‘Will you say one for me Billy? For my new face?’

‘What, now?’

‘Oh no, whenever you …’

She looks at me full-on and I’m reminded of what is at stake. So, yes, I will say a prayer for her new face, as well as for the end of my asthma, for Arsenal to win the League and for a Charles Atlas physique.

‘OK Josie.’

‘Thanks Billy.’

She leans closer. As I look into her eyes her face blurs and I see no blemish. She sits back, wraps her arms around her knees and stares at the ground.

‘Josie Costello and Billy Driscoll, what are you two up to then?’

Sarah Richards has a neat accent that turns most of her ‘rs’ into ‘rrrs’. Rooksy once said that she sounded like the country yokels who sing the TV advert for cider: Oh Coates comes up from Somerset, where the cider apples grow.

She told him it was better than sounding like a Cockney. Then she sang the real song, as she called it, which ends with, ‘because we loves it so’ . Fair enough. Maybe it’s because I’m a Londoner ends with : ‘’Cos I love London so’.

Sarah’s question has pleased Josie and I think that she meant it to.

‘We were just chatting,’ says Josie. True but not what I’d have said; chatting is what girls do. Sarah sits down and gives Josie’s knee a little squeeze. Josie covers Sarah’s hand with her own. If she could have a new face, I think she’d choose one like Sarah’s.

Sarah Richards came to Pimlico two years ago when her dad, a chauffeur, followed his employers up from Somerset. His large black Humber looked strangely out of place, like it could be visiting Sarah’s house for a funeral or something. There were no more than half a dozen cars in her street and even fewer in ours. Mr Richards is forever washing and polishing the car outside his house and looks askance when the elderly cars and vans of his neighbours pass by.

At first, Sarah was the skinny new girl who sat in front of me in my last year at primary school. However, in the final term, things changed. Not that she had changed much – she was already pretty – but I was finding her more likeable. I observed her more closely, noticing things, like the way she wore ribbons in her hair when most girls thought them babyish, and how she never waited after school for friends to walk home with, but that others waited for her. Soon I was thinking about her a lot and even guessing, the night before, which of her dresses she’d wear the next day. My favourite had thin blue and white stripes with piping at the neck. I’d stare at her back, at the straight seam between her shoulders, and admire the way she held herself square to line up with it. And whenever she pushed up her hair to reveal the back of her neck, the hairs would stand up on the back of mine.

I even played a game in which seeing her face by getting her to turn around in class was worth twice seeing it elsewhere. One way was to answer the teacher’s questions. My hand was usually first up. Christine Cassidy and Shirley da Costa, my rivals for being top of the class, would scowl from their front-row desks. But Sarah would swivel round, head-on-hand, without taking her elbow off the desk and give me a smile that said, Go on then, clever clogs, tell ’ em . And I did, although seeing her face sometimes made me forget the question and there would be jeering.

When there were no questions to answer, I’d stare at her back, willing her, like Svengali, to turn around. On the only occasion it seemed to work, she grinned as if to say, OK, just this once .

Then came the11-plus exam and the traumatic move to an all-boys grammar school. Sarah surprised Christine Cassidy and Shirley da Costa by passing the exam too and joining them at the local girls’ grammar school.

Even in my new uniform, I no longer felt special. At my new school, everyone was clever and almost everyone was bigger than me. In my form room I sat behind a fat kid with body odour. In my darker moments I’d superimpose Sarah’s slender blue and white dress on his black blazer, dreaming of her swivel and smile. Thankfully he never turned around when I put my hand up as he was too busy waving his own. He, too, had also been top of his class at primary school.

I saw little of Sarah during my first year and this was just as well. She was maturing fast, while I wasn’t. Even worse, she had grown taller than me and, in the company of her school friends in their grey school uniforms, she seemed reluctant to have much to do with me. I felt young, small and left behind. So while I continued to look for her, I avoided any meetings. Even in the holidays I saw little of her as she spent most of the time at her Nan’s in Somerset.

However, at the end of this year’s Easter holidays, I met her again. She was sitting on the Big Step with Josie. For the first time since primary school she seemed pleased to see me and said how tall I’d got. She asked me all sorts of questions about my school and what I was up to. I forgot to ask her any questions in return, something that often happens when talking with girls. Then, as I was leaving, she said ‘see you later then? At the same time, she turned her head and pushed her hair up. With that glimpse of her neck, everything and more that I had felt for her at primary school came flooding back. I’ve looked for her most weekends since but with school cricket matches on Saturdays and the agony of quiet family Sundays our meetings have been restricted to brief hellos, often in the company of our respective parents.

In the two years since primary school, her face has grown slender, and her cheekbones seem to have moved closer to the surface. I’m struck more powerfully than ever how pretty she is and dismayed to realise that this is what her woman’s face is going to look like. Panic rises in my chest about how much I need to grow up, to catch up, to get better looking. I’ve been checking my own face daily in the mirror. There has been some improvement, but one or two spots seem to have become as permanent as my nose.

She must have been on holiday in Somerset because she’s suntanned and blonde strands streak her light brown hair where it’s brushed past her ears. A pale green cotton frock snugs her slender body from her bony square shoulders down to her waist. Each time she smiles, tiny dimples appear either side of her mouth and I have to catch my breath. Even though she’s so pretty, the boys say they don’t fancy her because she’s flat chested. This has become such an important issue that even ugly girls are OK, if they have tits. I wouldn’t let on to my mates, but I think that if a girl has a face like Sarah’s, breasts are worth waiting for.

‘My dad’s cleaning his car. Would you both like to come and sit in?’

I’d love to get behind the wheel of a Humber, although it’s not one of my favourites. A vertical chrome grille and big headlamps give it a smug, snobby face and it has a fat-arse boot that can swallow not only cases but also the large trunks that wealthy people use. I’ve only ever ridden in cars like the Morris Minor belonging to my aunt in Cumberland, and I can’t wait to get inside a limousine similar to the one used by the Prime Minister, Mr Macmillan.

I’m thinking this as we get up from the Big Step when Josie’s bad leg gives way and she tumbles forward on the pavement. Instead of trying to get up, she rolls onto her back clutching the elbow that has taken the brunt of the fall.