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SIXTEEN
January 1982. With no fresh murders reported since the previous September, the tension which had gripped our leafy corner of the world began to dissipate. A breath long held, finally released.
The apparent hiatus in the killings has led some to speculate whether the offender may have been imprisoned for another crime. Or perhaps even committed suicide– the Post wrote in one of its leaders.
The dreaded 11+ high school exams were approaching. We’d been told to read the papers every day, ideally a selection of titles from varying political standpoints. Even better if we could compare tabloids with broadsheets, our form teacher, Mrs Coates advised us– always one for extra homework.
Miss Bacon was thankfully long gone, along with my American accent and inability to fit in. I was delighted, a little sorry, and relieved about each of those thing in that order. I’d tried to convince myself I didn’t need friends, but as my mother said, no one is an island. Somewhat ironic coming from her, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t right.
I’ve never been more conscious of how I was standing or what I was doing with my hands as I was when I had no friends. Nor has a school noticeboard ever been more interesting.
Now though, I had people to talk to, to sit with at lunch, even to walk home with. And while Sally Sniders, the erstwhile freckled ringleader, was still a stone on an otherwise smooth road, I had at least learned to kick her to the kerb.
My mother was always going on about how you can’t tell what a person’s really like till you’ve walked in their shoes.
‘Maybe you should try doing it with Sally,’ she suggested adding that bullying came from a place of weakness rather than strength.
‘I suspect she’s insecure. Making you feel small to big herself up.’
When she was out of the room, Matty told me, forget this girl’s shoes. What you want to do is crush her.
‘Show you’re stronger than she is. She’ll leave you alone then.’
I liked his approach better than my mother’s. I also liked the idea of punching Sally in the face, though things hadn’t gone so well the last time I’d taken it to the mattresses. I explained my predicament.
‘You ever heard of that saying; Sticks and stones can break your bones?’
‘. . . but words will never hurt you.’
He nodded. That’s the one.
‘It’s backwards though. Take it from me, the right words can destroy a person.’
Echoes of Nanna G in my grandfather’s accent.
I spent the rest of the evening trying to identify the right words to destroy Sally.
Next day, she started up in her usual friendly manner the second I stepped into class.
‘Well, if it isn’t Miss USA.’
The chatter stilled, everyone tuning in for the morning show.
I looked her up and down like Clint Eastwood in Hang ’Em High, Matty’s favourite movie. (‘I used to watch it with my dad too.’)
‘You can make fun of my accent all you like, Sally Sniders, but it won’t stop you being fat and ugly.’
That got some laughs. The circle closed in.
Sniders spluttered.
‘Well, at least I like talk properly.’
‘Like, do you?’
More laughs, glorious mutterings of ‘Good one, Sophie.’
It went on in that vein until Sniders recognised she was beat. When there was no one around, she said she wanted to be friends and did I want to go to her house after school for tea?
