Well Schooled

Celia Frances

The playground was bedraggle-bushed, flower splashed, coke can-ridden and chewing gum strewn. Apart from me, sailing-boat slow, as usual, crowds speeded out of all exits, like someone had cried 'Fire!' They reminded me of maggots I'd seen close up on a nature show, once: all squashed and pushed together with no sense of separateness, no sense of being one self. The sun, unusually strong for the time of year, had painted the Science block copper, and one or two of the leaves, that'd somehow managed to hang on to ransacked trees, a kind of gold. Occasional flecks of sweat formed like soft raindrops on heads, hands, faces. It was one of those September days that made you think the summer could last forever. It was 1982, I was thirteen, and it didn't. From my vantage point on the first floor corridor, I could see four or five little groups, waiting round; like me, in no particular hurry to go home. From the far end, where the buses were, I could hear cheerful shouts go high into the air, and squirts of laughter rise like balloons. No one could've known then, what was going to happen.

In the yard below, there was a first year girl, an even smaller one than me, who looked like she'd got into some sort of argument with Jen. I'd been at the school only a few weeks, but already I knew that wasn't a good idea. The smell of barley from the whiskey plant was strong that day; I was aware of it, even indoors. On other days, when the wind was different, it was burning carcasses from the glue factory you got: a smell that stuck in your nostrils for days; a smell that made you feel sick to your very stomach; a smell, that for weeks even, could make you retch again, every time you thought about it. But, it wasn't that smell today, today it was barley. Today was a day for staying, and playing.

I became aware of the groups down below slowly beginning to form one crowd. My bag slid off my shoulder onto the floor. My stomach dropped.

At first, it seemed like Jen was just looking at the girl, trying to frighten her maybe, while Katie, her larger, clumsier self stood behind, silently agreeing with everything being said. If there hadn't been a crowd, Jen might've left it at that, gone home to watch 'Magpie' or something. Instead, by way of a warm up, she got a hold of the smaller girl's cardigan and wrapped it, 'turban-like', round her own head. The crowd laughed. Jen smiled. But that wasn't enough, no one moved, just stood there looking expectant. So, next, Jen took the same cardigan and wrapped round its owner's head. Then, to get an even better laugh, she put it round her face as well. I was too far away to hear what was said, but when she took it away, that's when the mood changed. The girl must've said something cheeky, maybe, 'You should've covered your own face with it, it's so ugly', because there was laughter from the crowd, but now they were pointing at Jen. The taller girl stood still, her face set in a mask of anger. Excitement and fear rose up in my throat at once.

I heard a noise and looked up. There was Mr Moran, my English teacher, at the far end of the corridor. He was just a few yards from the window. Maybe he'd see what was happening, and stop it. Was he looking over? I couldn't be sure. Next he shook his head, and was gone.

When I looked down again, the first blow had landed. The first year hadn't expected it: her face, was like a 'Scream' mask, her mouth one long shocked 'O'.

After that, I couldn't see much, but I could sense the mood of the crowd. There was shouting and jeering, and a kind of moving together like a swarm of angry bees. But then, as quickly as the whole thing started, people began to move back, and all I could see was Jen kicking and kicking at the girl. The shouting had stopped, the ritual 'Oy, Oy, Oy' that everyone knew from primary school, though nobody'd ever been taught. One by one, people walked away. That's when I saw the girl clearly. She lay on the ground, twisted up like a foetus not making a sound, not even moving. Still Jen kicked at her legs, stomach, head. Couldn't she see she'd already won? Even so called 'hard cases' shifted uncomfortably, turned away or walked off. Still Jen continued. Finally, the girl's limbs flopped; she looked like a run-over rabbit on the side of the road. Jen's expression didn't change, even then.

The thrill had gone out of spectatorship yet somehow you just couldn't leave: I had a sicker taste in my mouth, than if the glue factory had burned a thousand carcasses, and a hundred mile an hour wind had blown their smell our way. There was, among those left, a collective inaudible cry for it to STOP, as Jen picked up the girl's arms, and began dragging her across the concrete playground floor. The girl's mouth was wide open, her skin, white as a chicken's.

I'll never find out what she intended to do next, because I Katie mouthed, 'Come on, Jen.' 'Let her go,' someone else said, just loud enough for me to catch.

The last word I heard was 'ambulance' before finally everyone was gone; everyone except the limp figure, beside the 'OUT OF BOUNDS' sign, next to a red, school cardigan.

Soon the yellow jackets of the paramedics buzzed round her.

All sign of Jen gone.

All sign of the crowd gone.

Soon, there'd be teachers who themselves had seen nothing, telling us we had to say what we'd seen, telling us God could see everything.

No one would 'grass'.

Well schooled.