Bill's New Frock (3 page)

‘Get out of the way!’

‘
We’re
playing here!’

Bill picked himself up. He was astonished. Usually if anyone walked into the football game, the players just thought they’d decided to join in. ‘Come in on
our
side!’ they’d yell. ‘Be our goalie! Take over!’

This time it was as if they weren’t so much playing football around him as
through
him.

‘Get off the pitch!’

‘Stop getting in our way! Go
round
!’

It was the frock again! He knew it!

‘I want the ball,’ yelled Bill to all the other players. ‘I just want to borrow it for a minute – for a bet!’

Games always stopped for bets. It was a rule. But they all acted as if they hadn’t even heard him.

‘Out of our
way
!’

‘You’re spoiling the
game
!’

The ball happened to bounce Bill’s way again, so he leaped up and caught it in his hands.

‘I
need
it,’ he explained. ‘Just for a moment.’

The footballers gathered in a circle round him. They didn’t look at all pleased at this interruption of the game. In fact, they looked rather menacing, all standing there with narrowed eyes, scowling. If this was the sort of reception the girls had come to expect, no wonder they didn’t stray far
from the railings. No wonder they didn’t ask to play.

‘Give the ball back.’ Rohan was really glowering now.

‘Yes,’ Martin agreed. ‘Why can’t you stay in your own bit of the playground?’

Mystified, Bill asked Martin, ‘What bit?’

‘The girls’ bit, of course.’

Bill looked around. Girls were still perched along the nursery wall. Girls were
still huddled in the porch. Girls still stood in tight little groups in each corner. No girl was more than a few feet into the playground itself. Even the pair who had been trying to mark out the hopscotch game had given up and gone away.

‘Where’s that, then?’ asked Bill. ‘Where’s the girls’ bit? Where
are
the girls supposed to play?’

‘
I
don’t know,’ Martin answered irritably. ‘
Anywhere
. Just somewhere we’re not already playing football.’

‘But you’re playing football all over
every single bit
of the playground!’

Martin glanced up at the clock on the church tower next door to the school. There were only two minutes left before the bell rang, and his team was down by one tiny goal.

He spread his hands in desperation.

‘
Please
give the ball back,’ he pleaded.
‘What’s it worth?’

For the life of him Bill Simpson couldn’t understand why, if Martin wanted the ball back so badly, he couldn’t just step forward and try to prise it away from his chest. Then he realised that Martin simply didn’t dare. The two of them might end up in a bit of a shoving match, and then a real fight – and
no one
fights someone in a pretty pink frock with fiddly shell buttons.

So he said cunningly:

‘I’ll tell you what it’s worth. It’s worth your very last wumpy choo!’

To his astonishment, Martin looked delighted.

‘Done!’ he said at once, and began digging deep in his trouser pocket.

He handed a tiny, wrappered rectangle over to Bill.

‘There you are,’ he said. ‘Here it is.
Now give me the football and get off the pitch!’

Bill Simpson looked down.

‘What’s this?’ he asked.

‘It’s what you wanted,’ Martin said. ‘My very last 1p chew.’

In silence, Bill Simpson handed over the football. Where he’d been clutching it tightly against his chest, there was now an enormous brown smudge.

In silence, Bill Simpson turned and walked away. If all the girls had not been standing around the edges of the playground watching him, he would have cried.

After break, it was art. Everyone helped to unfold the large plastic sheets and lay them over the table tops, and spread old newspapers over them. Then Mrs Collins sent Leila into the dark cupboard at the back of the classroom to see what was left in the art supplies box.

‘Are there any coloured chalks left?’

‘No, they’re all gone.’

‘Pastels, then.’

‘They’re still too damp to use after the roof leak.’

‘What about clay?’

‘It’s all dried up.’

‘There must be crayons.
Every
class has crayons.’

‘The infants came and borrowed ours last week, and haven’t brought them back yet.’

‘Right, then. It will just have to be paint, as usual.’

So Leila dragged the heavy cardboard box full of paint tubs out of the cupboard, and everyone crowded round to choose their colours.

‘Here’s a pink.’

‘What’s that one?’

‘Pink.’

‘More pink.’

‘Pink.’

‘I’ve found some blue – no, I haven’t.
It’s empty.’

‘I thought I’d found some green, but it’s dried up.’

‘There’s no white. There’s never any white. We haven’t had white for years and years.’

‘There’s some pink here.’

‘And this one’s pink.’

‘Pink, pink, nothing but pink!’

Everyone stood up, disappointed. Kirsty voiced everyone’s disgust.

‘What can you do with pink?’ she demanded. ‘You can’t paint pink dogs or pink space vehicles or pink trees or pink battlefields, can you? If you can only find one colour, it’s difficult enough. But if you’ve only got pink, it’s practically
impossible
. What is there in the world that’s all pink?’

‘Yes. What’s all pink?’

Everyone gazed around the room, looking for something that was all pink so
they could paint it. Some of them stared at the pictures and posters pinned on the classroom walls. Other gazed out of the window, across the playground to the street and the shops. One or two of them glanced at one another –

And Kirsty looked at Bill.

‘No!’ Bill said. ‘No, no, no! Not me! Absolutely not! You can’t!’

Now everyone turned to look at Bill.

‘No!’ Bill insisted. ‘I am
not all pink
!’

Now Mrs Collins, too, was inspecting Bill closely.

‘Pink frock,’ she admitted slowly. ‘And fiery hair. Rich rosy freckles and a nice deep blush. Yes, you’ll do beautifully, dear. You’re all pink.’

‘I am
not pink
.’

But he was getting pinker by the minute. And by the time everyone had wandered back to their seats clutching their
little plastic tubs of paint, you wouldn’t have needed any other colour to do a really fine portrait of him.

‘Perfect!’ said Mrs Collins.

And taking Bill Simpson firmly by the hand, she tried to lead him over towards a chair in the middle of the room, where everyone would be able to see him clearly while they were painting him.

Bill tried to pull back. Mrs Collins turned in astonishment at his unwillingness, and let go of his hand quite suddenly. Bill staggered back – straight into Nicky who had just prised the top off his paint tub.

A huge glob of pink paint flew up in the air and landed on Bill Simpson’s frock. As everyone watched, it gathered itself, all fat and heavy at the bottom. Then, slowly, it slithered down between the folds of material, leaving a thick pink slug trail.

Bill Simpson watched in silence as a small pool of pink paint appeared on the floor, beside his left foot.

Grubby fingerprints round the hem; a huge muddy smudge on the front; a great slimy paint smear down the side. What next?

Mrs Collins inspected the damage, and shrugged.

‘Well, never mind,’ she said. ‘It’s only
poster paint. I’m sure the frock will wash out beautifully.’

And, once again, she took his hand.

There was no fight left in Bill Simpson. Meekly, he allowed himself to be led to the middle of the room.

Mrs Collins arranged him neatly and comfortably on the little wooden chair.

‘There,’ she said triumphantly, placing a cherry-coloured exercise book in one of his hands as a last touch. ‘All pink!’

She stepped back to admire her handiwork.

‘Perfect!’ she said again. ‘Now is everyone happy?’

Bill Simpson could have tried to say something then, but he didn’t bother. He reckoned there was no point. He knew that, whatever he said and whatever he did, this awful day would just keep sailing on in its own way, as in a dream. A curse was on
him. A pink curse. He was, of all things, haunted by a pretty pink frock with fiddly shell buttons. He might as well give up struggling. Like poor Rapunzel trapped in her high stone tower, he’d just sit quietly, waiting to see what happened, hoping for rescue.

Meanwhile, the rest of the class had begun to complain.

‘If we’ve only got pink to paint with, how are we supposed to do that great big football-shaped smudge on the front of the frock? It’s
brown
!’

‘I can’t paint all those grubby little fingerprints right round the hem of the dress, because they’re
grey
.’

‘Those shell buttons are a bit fiddly to paint!’

‘I’ve done far too many freckles. What shall I do?’

‘Wait till they’re dry, then chip some off!’

Bill ignored everyone. He just sat there, waiting for time to go by. Even a bad dream couldn’t last forever. His torment had to end some time, surely.