At my old secondary school there was a girl whod lost her parents. She lived with her greatgrandmother a tiny, devout old lady who seemed to have been born with a prayer book in her hand. Every Sunday they would shuffle down the lane, past the brick church opposite my house, as a pair of frail, willowthin figures wrapped in spotless white kerchiefs. Rumour had it that Grandmother banned her from watching the telly, eating sweets, or even laughing out loud, lest the devil get a foothold, and she forced her to splash her face with icecold water each morning.
We gave her a hard time. She would stare at us with those solemn, adultlooking eyes and whisper, Lord, have mercy on them; they dont know what theyre doing. No one befriended her they thought she was a bit cracked. We called her Milly, or sometimes Angelica, just because it sounded posh.
Back in my childhood the school canteen served food that could have been used as a paint test. On Fridays, though, there were treats: fresh scones with tea, or sausage rolls drizzled in cocoa and a tiny chocolate bar. One day, while a bunch of us were teasing Milly, one of the boys gave her a shove. She flew into me, I slammed into a table, and the tray of cocoa cups tipped over, spilling a chocolate river onto two senior sixthformers.
Oops, they muttered.
Run! I shouted, grabbed Millys hand and we bolted for our classroom.
I swore I could hear a herd of buffalo and a squad of Cossacks giving chase with a chorus of yippeeyip. The next two lessons were maths. Behind the glass door two hulking silhouettes loomed. Occasionally the door cracked open and two heads peeked in, then retreated, whispering to each other. I realised a trial, a verdict and perhaps an execution were waiting for us classic schoolyard drama, if you will.
First, we have to slip out unnoticed. I know a hatch that leads to the attic; we can hide there until dark and then head home, I said.
No, Milly replied, lets go the proper way, like decent girls. Quiet and respectable.
But Milly, those boys they might
What? Theyll pour kefir on our heads? Throw us out? Beat up the fifthformers? she snapped.
Well
Even if they give us a whack, itll be just one. If you dont go, youll be scared every single day, she finished.
We left the class with the rest of the pupils, as ladylike as possible. Two sixthformers were lounging against the wall.
Hey, little ones, lost something? one of them called, holding my MickeyMousethemed wallet with ten pounds inside the money for the swimming pool and the art studio.
Here you go, he tossed the wallet into my hand, and dont run off again.
I walked home, backpack swinging, thinking how lovely life was now that Id got a new friend.
Shall I ring my mum? She can call your gran, get you a day off and we can pop over to my place for cartoons. Or is that a nogo? I asked.
Milly rolled her eyes. Lets go and steal some of Grans custardtopped waffles; she baked a batch this morning.
We stayed tight for years, until life eventually scattered us across different continents. Yet I always remember that one day. Leaping from the high dive into the blue mirror of the pool was terrifying but terrifying only once. The scariest thing is trying something new. What if they call me a fool? you wonder. They might say it once, and then youll remind yourself every day that fear is just a oneoff splutter, or a daily hum. You beat it once, or you let it live in the background of your whole life. The choice is yours.
