Bill's New Frock (6 page)

As soon as the bell rang for the end of the lunch break, the sun began to shine again. It sailed out from silvery edges of cloud, and blazed over the playground.

The puddles on the tarmac steamed gently, and then disappeared. The damp stains on the nursery wall dried. Sunlight reflected brightly off the rooftops.

Mrs Collins stared out of the window, shaking her head in quiet disbelief. Then
she turned to the class.

‘Pack up your work,’ she said. ‘I don’t care if lunch break is over. We’re going outside before it starts raining all over again.’

The class was astonished. It wasn’t often Mrs Collins ignored the timetable on the back of the door. It was hard enough to get her to let them take time off to make decorations at Christmas and all the other festivals, or paint the back-cloth if they did a little play. Now here she was offering an hour or so in the sunshine without being asked.

Nobody argued. They slid their books into neat piles, and put their pens and pencils and rubbers away.

‘Races!’ said Mrs Collins. ‘We’ll have a few races. We haven’t had races for
such
a long time.’

They spilled down the steps out into the playground, and Mrs Collins led them
quietly round to the back of the nursery where there was grass. Races were pleasanter on grass, and this patch was not even overlooked by classes still imprisoned in front of their work books.

Out here they could have a really good time.

The races came in every size and description, one after another, as fast as Mrs Collins could think them up. The light haired raced against the dark haired. The straight haired against the curly haired.

‘Those in frocks against those in trousers!’ roared Mrs Collins.

She looked round. Only Bill had a frock on.

‘Forget it!’ called Mrs Collins. ‘That race is cancelled. Think of something else!’

Someone did. Those wearing red raced against those wearing no red at all. Those who liked cats better than dogs raced
against those who preferred dogs to cats. The first five in the class (in alphabetical order) raced against the next five, and so on and so on.

The first few times he ran, Bill slowed himself up, trying to keep down the flapping sides of his dress. Then he stopped bothering. If he were in shorts, he wouldn’t mind, he decided. So why risk losing a good race just because he was haunted by a silly pink frock. He might be right back to normal tomorrow – but you could just bet there wouldn’t be races again!

Soon everyone, not just Bill, felt much better. Their bodies unstiffened, their heads felt clearer, their spirits rose. Even Paul, who had a serious illness when he was a baby and could hardly run, scampered about, enjoying coming in last in the races.

Mrs Collins had cheered up enormously too.

‘Those who have wheely-bins against those whose families put rubbish out in large plastic bags!’

Everyone has rubbish. So everyone stood in line.

‘There are far too many again,’ said Mrs Collins. ‘We shall have to have heats.’

As usual she divided them in fives, with one left over. This time it was Paul, so she sent him off in a heat of his own. He pranced along in his curious, loping fashion, and threw himself merrily over the finishing line.

‘I’m in the finals now! I won my heat!’

Mrs Collins pushed the hair back from her face. She was hot.

‘Small break before this final,’ she called. ‘All of you stay here quietly while I slip inside for a moment.
Whispering only!
’

And she hurried off to fetch a quick drink.

Bill tucked the pink frock in tightly
around his legs and lay back. The grass felt tickly under his arms and his neck. Above, the fat clouds sailed over an enormous sky. The cool breeze fanned his face. He felt perfectly happy.

He heard Astrid whispering in his ear:

‘You’re in this final, aren’t you? You won your heat. So did I. So did Talilah and Kirsty.’

‘And Paul,’ Bill reminded Astrid. ‘He
won his heat, too.’

He narrowed his eyes against the sunlight to make them water and form rainbows between his eyelashes.

‘Kirsty will win,’ said Astrid. ‘She’s the best runner in the whole class. And I only won my heat because Nicky tripped.’

‘Races aren’t nearly so much fun,’ said Talilah, ‘when you know exactly who’s going to win.’

‘It must be much worse,’ whispered Kirsty, ‘if you’re someone like Paul, and know you’re going to lose.’

‘Paul can’t have won a race in his whole life!’

Bill blinked the rainbows away. Now he was seeing shapes in clouds – a pig, a jug, a serpent with three heads, a wigwam.

Beside him, the girls were in one of their huddles, still whispering away.

‘What if Paul
did
win, though?’

‘He’d be so
thrilled
.’

‘Wouldn’t his mum be pleased? She’s so nice. She sees me over Blackheath Road every morning.’

‘She’d think we fixed it so her Paul won, though.
And
so would Paul.’

‘Not if we were clever.’

‘Not if we thought it out first, and made it look
good
.’

Bill barely listened. He was distracted by the clouds still. He watched his three-headed serpent float over the wide sky overhead, and turn, slowly, slowly, into a giant wheelbarrow.

The whispering at his side went on and on.

Then:

‘Right,’ Kirsty said. ‘That’s
settled
.’

She turned to Bill.

‘Now don’t
forget
,’ she whispered sternly. ‘Just as you’re reaching the finishing line,
you get a really bad attack of stitch. You can’t go on. You let Paul go past you. You let Paul win, is that understood?’

Bill took a last look at his cloud wheelbarrow. One of its handles was just floating away.

‘Right-ho,’ he agreed. It wasn’t exactly his idea of a really good race – letting Paul win. But that was girls for you, wasn’t it? Put them in a group and
order
them to whisper, and they’d be bound to come up with something like this.

And what did it matter on such a lovely afternoon? If it would make Paul happy, let him win the race.

‘
On your marks!
’

Mrs Collins strode round the corner. They jumped to their feet. Astrid looked horrified.

‘The back of your dress is
covered
with grass stains!’ she said to Bill. ‘
And
they’re
the sort that never come out!’

Bill shrugged, and made for the starting line. Paul was already there, hopping about with excitement. Astrid, Talilah and Kirsty took their places.

‘
Get set!
’

Kirsty turned to Bill.

‘Bad luck, then,’ she whispered, and grinned.

Bill winked back.

‘
Go!
’

Talilah, Kirsty and Bill set off running. Paul shot away from the line in one of his extraordinary leaps. And as soon as he was a few feet ahead of Astrid, she fell tidily sideways and rolled on the ground, clutching her foot.

‘Oh, my ankle!’ she groaned – but softly, so that Paul would not overhear her, and turn back to help. ‘My ankle’s gone all wobbly. I can’t run at all.’

Then, cheerfully, she picked herself up and, limping heavily on the wrong foot, returned to the others waiting around the line.

‘Bad luck!’

‘Never mind, Astrid!’

Up at the front of the race, Kirsty and Talilah seemed to be battling it out for first place. Now Kirsty had the edge, now Talilah. Then Kirsty was in front again. But just as she might have pulled ahead of Talilah, the two girls’ bodies seemed to become entangled: ankles wrapped round ankles, legs wrapped round legs.

Together they fell, rolling over and over on the grass, giggling loudly.

As Bill ran up, they managed somehow to roll in his way and bring him to a standstill. Twice he tried to get round them, but they rolled the way he was going. Paul was catching up behind, so finally Bill just
jumped over their wildly flailing arms and legs. As he did so, he saw Kirsty wink.

Of course! He’d almost forgotten! Let Paul win!

And now there were only himself and Paul left in the race. So he would have to fall back and let him pull ahead very soon. The winning line was not all that far away. He was already halfway round the circuit.

Right, then.

Bill tried to slow his pace. He couldn’t do it. It was remarkable, but though he could pound along like a well-oiled machine, and leap over tufts of rough grass without thinking, and even do a fancy sideways hop when he saw something glinting like broken glass beneath his foot, he couldn’t slow down. He just couldn’t do it.

He couldn’t let Paul win.

And it wasn’t as if who won the race
was important. He knew that. A race might start with those who walked to school running against those who came on a bus or by car, but by the time someone had won, no one could even remember what the race was about.

So it wasn’t important.

But still he couldn’t slow up and let Paul win. It would look quite ridiculous, he thought. Everyone would guess, and Paul would be really embarrassed.

And then he remembered that he
wasn’t
supposed
to slow down. The girls had sat in their huddle and worked all this out before the race began. They’d
known
he wouldn’t be able to slow down. They’d thought it all out – weren’t girls
amazing
?

He was supposed to pretend to have a stitch.

Right, then.

But he couldn’t do that either! And time was running out so fast. He’d almost completed the circuit. There was the finishing line, looming up only a few metres ahead. And there was the whole class, watching.

And he could not stop and double over, grimacing and clutching his stomach as though in the grip of a fierce spasm of pain, pretending he had a stitch.

It wasn’t that he couldn’t act. It wasn’t that he would feel embarrassed about it. It was simply that he could not bring himself
to do it. There was the finishing line, and here was he, and there was Paul, a really long way behind him now. He wanted to reach the line first, that was all. He didn’t want to let Paul win.

He wanted to win
himself
.