Bill's New Frock

by Anne Fine

  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.

  3

  Pink, pink, nothing but pink

  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.

  After half an hour or so, Mrs Collins came by, carrying a fresh jar of water over to table two.

  ‘Do try not to look quite so gloomy, dear,’ she murmured in Bill’s ear as she walked past. ‘You’re spoiling people’s paintings.’

  And Bill was too miserable and defeated even to bother to scowl at the back of her head as she moved off.

  4

  No pockets

  Perhaps Mrs Collins noticed how fed up he looked. Perhaps she was grateful to him for sitting so still for so long, and being so pink. Or maybe it was just Bill’s eye she happened to catch first. But, whatever the reason, it was Bill Simpson she chose to take her spare key back to the office.

  ‘That’s helpful of you,’ she said, pressing the key into his hand. ‘Just give it to Mrs Bandaraina. She’s expecting it. And hurry back.’

  Everyone else looked up from their maths books and watched enviously as he left the classroom and shut the door firmly behind him.

  Outside, in the deserted corridor, one thought and one thought only was in Bill Simpson’s mind: lavatories! Silently he crept along. Should he turn left, into the BOYS, and risk hoots and catcalls of astonishment if anyone caught him there in his pretty pink frock? Or should he turn right, into the GIRLS, where for a boy even to be found hanging around the doorway was to risk terrible trouble?

  Girls’ lavatories were more private. At least he could struggle with the frock in peace . . .

  Bill made his choice. Peering back over his shoulder like some spy from an old black and white film, he scuttled hastily into the GIRLS.

  When, two minutes later, he stuck his head back out through the swing doors, the corridor was still empty. Sighing with relief, Bill stepped out. He took his time now, dawdling along towards the school office, swinging the key from his fingers and stopping to peer at each painting on the wall. After his heart-stopping rush in and out of the girls’ lavatories, Bill reckoned that he’d earned a break.

  But just as he turned the corner, who should he see backing out of a cupboard but the headteacher!

  Bill Simpson started looking sharp. Lifting his chin, he walked a lot faster. He was almost safely past the headteacher when he was stopped.

  A hand fell on the top of his head.

  ‘You look very sensible and responsible,’ the headteacher said. ‘Not dawdling along, peering at all the paintings, taking your time. Are you going to the office on an errand for your teacher? Would you do me a favour and take these coloured inks to Mrs Bandaraina?’

  And he held out a handful of tiny glass bottles.

  Bill put out his free hand, and the headteacher tipped the tiny glass bottles on to his outstretched palm.

  ‘Whatever you do, don’t drop them,’ he warned. And then he dived back in his cupboard.

  Bill went on. He’d hardly reached the short flight of stairs when the school nurse came up them the other way, carrying a pile of yellow forms in her arms, and walking faster than most people run.

  ‘Ah!’ she said, spotting Bill. ‘Just what I need! Someone who can take these medical forms to the office for me, so I can rush straight across to the nursery before the bell rings.’

  She didn’t exactly ask. And she didn’t exactly wait to see if Bill minded. She just thrust the stack of yellow medical forms into his arms, and hurried off.

  ‘And they’re in perfect alphabetical order,’ she called back over her shoulder. ‘So, whatever you do, don’t drop them!’

  Problem, thought Bill. One false move and everything would fall to the floor – spare key, little glass ink bottles, medical forms in perfect alphabetical order – the lot.

  The key and the coloured inks would just have to go in his pockets.

  Pockets?

  Carefully, Bill squatted in the corridor and lowered the pile of yellow medical forms to the floor, taking care that he didn’t lose the key or drop the little glass bottles of coloured ink.

  Then he felt all round the pretty pink frock for a pocket. He pushed and shoved at frilly places here and there, wherever he thought one might be hidden. But though he heard the material rip once or twice, and felt his hands go through the holes he’d accidentally torn, there were no pockets there.

  No. Not one pocket. Acres of material. Masses of it. Pleats, frills, bows, scallops, fancy loops. But not one pocket. Whoever designed the dress had gone to all the trouble of matching the imitation lace round the hem with the imitation lace round the collar, and fitting a zip in so neatly that it was practically invisible, and putting comfortable elastic around the little puffy sleeves.

  But they just hadn’t bothered to put in a pocket.

  Bill was amazed. How was a person in a frock like this supposed to survive? How were they expected to get along without any pockets? It can’t have been the only dress of its kind that was made. Other people must wear them. Where did they put their money, for heaven’s sake? Did they keep it, all damp and hot and sticky, in the palms of their hands all day? Where did they put the sweets their friends gave them if they wanted to save them for later? What did they do if someone returned their pencil sharpener to them outside in break?

  How can you live without pockets? How can you? How can you?

  Bill put his head in his hands, and groaned.

  Then he tried to pull himself together. This couldn’t last forever. This couldn’t go on. No boy could turn into a girl and stay that way without anyone – even his mother and teacher and schoolfriends – noticing any real difference. It must be a bad dream. It felt like a nightmare . . .

  He’d just keep calm and steady and wait till the horror of it was over. He’d just get on with the job in hand.

  And the job in hand was to get all these things safely to the school office.

  Bill gathered up the yellow medical forms. On top of them he put the coloured inks, right in the middle so they would not roll over the edge and smash on the floor. He wedged the key between the inks so it would not slide off the side. Then, very carefully, he started down the corridor again, towards the office.

  Before he’d gone a dozen steps, he heard a rapping on the nearest window.

  He turned to look. It was the caretaker.

  The caretaker leaned through the window.

  ‘Off to the office, are you?’ he asked. ‘Do me a favour. Take these tennis balls with you. Ask Mrs Bandaraina to lock them away.’

  And before Bill could argue, the caretaker tipped seven tennis balls onto the carefully stacked pile in Bill’s arms.

  Bill stood for a moment, steadying his load. He let the medical forms dip a bit in the middle to make a sort of hollow to keep the balls together and stop them rolling off over every side. Then, even more carefully than before – step by tiny, gentle step – he made for the office again.

  When he was only a short way away he saw Mrs Bandaraina lift her head from her computer, glance through the open doorway and notice him shuffling towards her.

  Each step seemed to take forever. Everything in his pile seemed to be wobbling dangerously. Everything in his pile seemed to be sliding closer to the edge.

  ‘My!’ Mrs Bandaraina said, watching his snail-slow progress. ‘Aren’t you the careful one, taking such care not to spill coloured ink on your sweet little frock!’

  It wasn’t Bill’s fault. It was because she said the words ‘sweet little frock’. A shudder of pure
fury rose through his body and made his hands shake. He didn’t know the yellow forms were going to slip from his grasp and slither out of alphabetical order across the floor. He didn’t know the little glass bottles would fall and smash. He didn’t know the seven tennis balls would bounce up and down in the bright coloured pools of spilt inks. He didn’t know the spare key would end up submerged in a puddle of purple.

  Bill Simpson tried very hard not to narrow his eyes at Mrs Bandaraina and blame her for everything as she slid off her office chair to help him. He tried very hard to look grateful as she swept a handful of tissues out of the box on her desk and helped him mop and wipe, and gather rainbow-spotted tennis balls. And he tried to look pleasant while she tipped the slivers of shattered glass in the waste basket, and helped him shuffle all the medical forms back into alphabetical order.

  But once back in the corridor again, and alone, he couldn’t help muttering something quite rude, and quite loudly, about the sort of person who would design a pretty pink frock with no pockets, and expect other people to go around wearing it.

  5

  The big fight

  It rained all through the lunch hour. The sky went grey, the windows misted over, and from overhead came the steady gunfire sound of huge raindrops pinging smartly on the skylight.

  And Mrs Collins slipped into one of her dark wet-break moods.

  Everyone knew the signs: the eyebrows knitting together over her nose; the lines across her forehead deepening to furrows; her lips thinning into tightened purse strings.

  Everyone knew it was not the time to cause trouble.

  So as the rain beat heavily against the window panes, everyone crept quietly around the classroom, trying to look as if they were up to something useful or sensible, or, at the very least, quiet.

  And out of the storeroom came the old comic box.

  Nobody meant to make a great noise and a fuss. All anyone wanted was simply to go to the box, dip in their hand, and pick out a couple of comics they liked. Nobody meant to end up in a scrum, pushing and shoving the others out of the way, using their elbows, desperate to get an arm in and whip out a favourite comic before someone else leaned over and snatched it.