Bill's New Frock (2 page)

And when Astrid and Bill took up arguing again, she told them the subject was closed, rather sharply.

Back in the classroom, everyone settled down at their tables.

‘We’ll do our writing first, shall we?’ said Mrs Collins. ‘And after that, we’ll
reward ourselves with a story.’

While Mrs Collins handed out the writing books and everyone scrabbled for pencils and rubbers, Bill looked round his table.

He was the only one in a dress.

Flora was wearing trousers and a blue blouse. Kirsty and Nick were both wearing jeans and a shirt. Philip was wearing corduroy slacks and a red jumper, and Talilah wore a bright red satin salwar kameez.

Yes, there was no doubt about it. Talilah looked snazzy enough to go dancing, but Bill was the only one in a frock.

Oh, this was awful! What on earth had happened? Why didn’t anybody seem to have noticed? What could he do? When would it end?

Bill Simpson put his head in his hands
and covered his eyes.

‘On with your work down there on table five,’ warned Mrs Collins promptly.

She meant him. He knew it. So Bill picked up his pen and opened his books. He couldn’t help it. He didn’t seem to have any choice. Things were still going on in their own way, as in a dream.

He wrote more than he usually did. He wrote it more neatly than usual, too. If you looked back through the last few pages of his work book, you’d see he’d done a really good job, for him.

But you wouldn’t have thought so, the way Mrs Collins went on when she saw it.

‘Look at this,’ she scolded, stabbing her finger down on the page. ‘This isn’t very neat, is it? Look at this dirty smudge. And the edge of your book looks as if it’s been
chewed
!’

She turned to Philip to inspect his book next. It was far messier than Bill’s. It was more smudgy and more chewed-looking. The writing was untidy and irregular. Some of the letters were so enormous they looked like giants herding the smaller letters haphazardly across the page.

‘Not bad at all, Philip,’ she said. ‘Keep up the good work.’

Bill could scarcely believe his ears. He was outraged. As soon as she’d moved off, he reached out for Philip’s book, laid it beside his own on the table, and compared the two.

‘It isn’t fair!’ he complained bitterly. ‘Your page is
much
worse than my page. She didn’t say anything nice to
me
.’

Philip just shrugged and said:

‘Well, girls are neater.’

Bill felt so cross he had to sit on his hands to stop himself from thumping Philip.

Up at her desk, Mrs Collins was leafing through the class reader:
Tales of Today and Yesterday
.

‘Where are we?’ she asked them. ‘Where did we finish last week? Did we get to the end of
Polly the Pilot
?’

She turned the page.

‘Ah!’ she said. ‘Here’s a good old story you all know perfectly well, I’m sure. It’s
Rapunzel
. And today it’s table five’s turn to take the main parts.’

Looking up, she eyed all six of them sitting there waiting.

‘You’ll be the farmer,’ she said to Nick. ‘You be the farmer’s wife,’ to Talilah. ‘Witch,’ she said to Flora. ‘Prince,’ she said to Philip. ‘Narrator,’ she said to Kirsty.

Oh, no! Oh, no! Bill held his breath as Mrs Collins looked at him and said:

‘The Lovely Rapunzel.’

Before Bill could protest, Talilah had
started reading aloud. She and the farmer began with a furious argument about whether or not it was safe to steal a lettuce from the garden of the wicked witch next door, to feed their precious daughter Rapunzel. Once they’d got going, Bill didn’t like to interrupt them, so he just sat and flicked over the pages, looking for his first speech.

It was a long wait. The Lovely Rapunzel didn’t seem to
do
very much. She just got stolen out of spite by the Witch, and hidden away at the very top of a high stone tower which had no door. There she just sat quietly for about fifteen years, being no trouble and growing her hair.

She didn’t try to escape. She didn’t complain. She didn’t even have any fights with the Witch.

So far as Bill Simpson could make out, she wasn’t really worth rescuing. He
wasn’t at all sure why the Prince bothered. He certainly wouldn’t have made the effort himself.

After three pages, there came a bit for Rapunzel.

‘Ooooooooh!’ Bill read out aloud. ‘Oooooooooh!’

No, it wasn’t much of a part. Or much of a life, come to that, if you thought about it.

Bill raised his hand. He couldn’t help it.

‘Yes?’ Mrs Collins said. ‘What’s the problem?’ She hated interruptions when they were reading.

‘I don’t see why Rapunzel just has to sit and wait for the Prince to come along and rescue her,’ Bill explained. ‘Why couldn’t she plan her own escape? Why didn’t she cut off all her lovely long hair herself, and braid it into a rope, and knot the rope to something, and then slide down it? Why did
she have to just sit there and waste fifteen years waiting for a Prince?’

Mrs Collins narrowed her eyes at Bill Simpson.

‘You’re in a very funny mood today,’ she told him. ‘Are you sure that you’re feeling quite yourself?’

Was he feeling quite himself? In this frock? Bill stared around the room. Everyone’s eyes were on him. They were all
waiting to hear what he said. What could he say?

Mercifully, before he was forced to answer, the bell rang for playtime.

Outside in the playground a few boys were already kicking a football about. Bill Simpson was just about to charge in and join them when he remembered what he was wearing. He’d look a bit daft if he took a tumble, he decided. Maybe just for once he’d try to think of something else to do during playtime.

Each boy who ran out of the school joined the football game on one side or
another. What did the girls do? He looked around. Some perched along the nursery wall, chatting to one another. Others stood in the cloakroom porch, sharing secrets and giggling. There were a few more huddled in each corner of the playground. Each time the football came their way, one of them would give it a hefty boot back into the game. There were two girls trying to mark out a hopscotch frame; but every time the footballers ran over the lines they were drawing, they scuffed the chalk so badly that you couldn’t see the squares any longer.

But it was rather chilly just standing about. The dress might be very pretty, but it was thin, and Bill’s legs were bare. He decided to join the girls in the porch. At least they were out of the wind.

As he came up to them, Leila was saying: ‘Martin bets no one dares kick a
football straight through the cloakroom window!’

The girls all looked at the cloakroom window. So did Bill. As usual, the caretaker had pushed up the lower half of the window as far as it would go. It made quite a large square hole.

‘
Anyone
could kick a football through there,’ scoffed Kirsty.

‘
I
could,’ said Astrid.

‘Easy,’ agreed Leila.

‘What do you get if you do it?’ Bill asked them.

‘A wumpy choo.’

‘A wumpy choo?’

Bill Simpson was mystified.

‘Yes,’ Leila told him. ‘A wumpy choo.’

Bill glanced round the little group of girls. Nobody else looked in the least bit baffled. Presumably they all knew about wumpy choos – whatever they were.

‘I didn’t know you could get wumpy choos round here,’ said Flora.

So they were rare, were they? Like giant pandas.

‘I’d
love
a wumpy choo,’ said Sarah. ‘But I’m not allowed because I’m allergic.’

Definitely an animal, then. A furry one. Bill’s next-door neighbour was allergic to furry animals, too.

‘What colour is it?’ asked Astrid. ‘Is it a pink one?’

If it was still pink, thought Bill, it was probably a baby and hadn’t grown a lot of fur.

‘No,’ Linda told them. ‘I know exactly what colour it is because it’s Martin’s very last one, and it’s browny-yellow.’

Perhaps Martin hadn’t been feeding it properly, thought Bill. Perhaps that was the reason its nice pink skin and fur had gone all browny-yellow.

Obviously it needed to be rescued – and fast!

He’d better take the bet.

‘I’ll do it,’ he announced. ‘I’ll kick the football through the cloakroom window, and get the wumpy choo.’

Talilah gave him a bit of a look.

‘You’d better be careful of your dress,’ she warned. ‘That football is filthy.’

‘I’ll manage,’ said Bill Simpson. ‘I know what I’m doing.’

The news, he noticed, spread like wildfire all along the line of girls perched on the nursery wall, and into the little huddles in the corners of the playground. All the girls turned to watch someone have a go at kicking a football straight through the cloakroom window.

‘What’s the bet?’ they asked one another.

‘A wumpy choo.’

Right then, thought Bill. No reason to
hang about. It was a simple enough shot. All he needed was a football.

He walked towards the footballers in order to borrow theirs for a moment. Just as he did so, the game happened to swing his way and several boys charged past – knocking Bill flat on his back on the tarmac.