SOME BOYS ARE DIFFERENTA Poem by Terry CollettA BOY AND GIRL AT SCHOOL IN 1950S AND THE UNDERSTANDING OF FEARS AND ANXIETIES.
Shlomit (whom most
of the boys disliked) stood in the playground holding one end of the skipping rope while another girl held the other end as another skipped. Her wire rimmed spectacles stayed in place as she moved, her holey cardigan had seen better days, her grey dress had been handed down so often that it shone like steel. Naaman stood and watched her from the steps leading down to the playground. She sometimes smelt of dampness as if she’d been left out in the rain and brought in to dry over a dull fire. He looked at her dark hair held in place with hairgrips, the hair band of a dark blue remained unmoved by her motions. Some girl pushed her away from the end of the skipping rope and she walked to the wall and stared. That seemed unfair, Naaman said, you were doing your bit ok. Shlomit looked at him with her nervous eyes. They always do that, she said; never let me play for long. He stood beside her; he could smell dampness mixed with peppermint. Maybe you’re too good for them, he said. She smiled and pushed the hair band with her fingers. Her nails had been chewed unevenly, he noted, her fingers were ink stained. Would you like a wine gum? he asked. He held out a bag of wine gum sweets. She put her fingers into the bag and took one and put it in her mouth. Thank you, she mouthed, her finger pushing the sweet further in. Naaman walked with her up the steps that led up from the small playground and stood on the bombed ground and looked down. There used to be a house where the playground is now, he said, it got bombed out. The playground was once the cellar. Oh, she said, I didn’t realise that. The bombs missed the school, shame, he said, smiling. Daddy said I ought not talk with boys, she said, looking at Naaman then quickly around her. Why’s that? he asked. She looked at her fingers, the thumbs moving over each other. He said boys were rude and mischievous, she said. I guess some are, Naaman said. She looked at him. You seem all right, she said. But you are still a boy and he might find out I talked to you and then there would be trouble. How would he find out here in the playground? Naaman asked. Someone might tell from here that saw me, she said anxiously. Last time someone told him he beat me, she added quietly. She pushed her hands into her cardigan pockets. Best go, she said. I like you, Naaman said, you remind me of a picture I saw of a girl standing beside Jesus in that Bible in the school library. Do I? she said, did she have wire-rimmed glasses? No, Naaman said, but she had a pretty face like yours. She laughed and took her hands from her pockets He saw two reflections of himself in the glass of her spectacles behind which her own eyes gazed out. Maybe it was me, she said playfully. Oh, yes, he said, taking her thin ink stained fingers in his, no doubt. © 2013 Terry Collett |
StatsAuthorTerry CollettUnited KingdomAboutTerry Collett has been writing since 1971 and published on and off since 1972. He has written poems, plays, and short stories. He is married with eight children and eight grandchildren. on January 27t.. more..Writing
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