Yes, I’d made my decision. I’d accepted Robert’s proposal, I’d worn the big white dress and walked up the aisle – however, if Ben had spoken up, if he’d even coughed suggestively, then there’s a possibility I’d have stopped the wedding.
Even at that point.
But, as the service got underway, as the congregation was asked for any reasons why we should not have been joined in matrimony without a peep from Ben, it started to sink in that he was not about to start fighting.
He was letting me go …
Maddy caught my attention on the very first day I clapped eyes on her. She looked adorable with her scruffily wild bob and red cheeks. She also looked as though she was going to burst into tears at any minute. I’m not sure what she made of me and my wingman, with our chubby faces and overly keen ways – well, actually, I think she was pretty terrified. But we won her over eventually. We’re still not sure how we managed to pull that one off …
Ben
Nine years old …
It was during the arduous task of deciding whether a red or green felt tip pen was best for the snake hair of my Medusa drawing (a very important decision and not one to have been made lightly) that I noticed her – looking around the class with her big blue eyes. Her cheeks and nose were rosy from her walk to school in the frosty February air and the ends of her not-so-perfect auburn bob flicked in and out uncontrollably in a careless fashion. Her school uniform, the same as every other girl in the class (which was the same as us boys, but we wore trousers) – grey pleated skirt, white t-shirt and green jumper with our school logo of the local church – was far too big for her. The skirt hung way past her knees and the sleeves of the jumper were gathered at her elbows to stop them from covering her hands, both of which were clutching hold of her green book bag so tightly that her knuckles appeared to whiten with the strain. Her lips were clasped together as though she was trying to stop herself from crying. She was visibly squirming in her new surroundings – which wasn’t too surprising seeing as the majority of us had stopped what we were doing and were gawping at her.
Our form teacher, Mr Watson, who always looked like he was in a foul mood as he glared at us through his wire-rimmed spectacles, took her to her new desk. It was the spot none of us had wanted – facing the wall and the class toilet – a double whammy of depressiveness. Not only did you have to sit looking at the sick-coloured wall that was thirty centimetres away from your face, but every now and then, if someone decided to go for a number two in the loo, you’d get a whiff of it – occasionally the smell lingered for a couple of hours too. It was pretty gross.
I’d wanted to go to her then. I wanted to make her feel welcome so that she didn’t feel so alone. But nine-year-old boys didn’t do things like that. So I resisted the urge. I just continued to sit and stare like everyone else who’d spotted her.
‘Have you got the green pen?’ asked Robert, my best friend who sat to my right every day. We were inseparable. Had been since our mums met in the local park when we were still in our prams and sucking on dummies – prompting them to meet up daily for tea, biscuits and some light relief from baby chatter. They’d revelled in having another adult to talk to after months of just Robert or me for company while our dads were out at work. According to my mum, Robert handed me a single raisin from his Sun-Maid box on that first day, and that was it – firm buddies for life. Well, they say it’s the simple things …
Sat at our desk, I flustered at his question – I hadn’t decided which colour to use for the snakes yet, but ended up handing him the green pen anyway. It no longer mattered – I was more focused on the new arrival. Medusa could wait.
‘What you staring at?’ Robert asked, brushing his blond hair out of his eyes.
I said nothing but his beady green eyes followed the direction of my gaze.
‘Oooooh … nice,’ he giggled.
Robert lowered the newly acquired felt tip pen back onto our desk and joined me in staring at the newbie. We didn’t say a word. We just sat and watched. She really did look quite nice, I decided, agreeing with Robert.
‘Okay, everyone,’ boomed Mr Watson, scratching the side of his rounded tummy that threatened to spill out from beneath his white shirt, as he demanded our attention. ‘I’d like you to say a warm good morning to your new classmate, Maddy. She has just moved to the area from London.’
‘Good morning, Maddy. Good morning, everyone,’ we all chorused together in unison – a trick we’d been trained to do since our first day there at Peaswood Primary School. I wonder when, as a society, we grow out of things like that – you don’t get grown-ups barking at you in the same manner when you start new jobs. If I walked into a new place of work and had everyone turn to me and shout, ‘Good morning, Ben Gilbert,’ with sickly sweet smiles, I think I’d run a mile. It’s quite cult-like. But, I have to say, I thoroughly enjoyed saying good morning to Maddy Hurst on her first day.