We moved to a small Hertfordshire village, no more than three or four days before the end of the summer term, and to my mother’s surprise my brother and I both begged to be immediately allowed to go to the school which was immediately across the road from our brand new bungalow – I think we feared an entire summer holiday without knowing anyone, or maybe we wanted to get on with our new lives as soon as possible.
There were only three classes and, aged seven, I was sent to the middle one and told to sit at the end of a bench on which sat three girls, across a long trestle table from another four; with one accord they all turned to look at me, with one accord they all said “Cooo – ain’t she ugly!!!” At playtime, I stood alone, ignored and miserable (but pretending not to be) until Brenda came up and said “would you like to play with me?” – a gesture of friendship I never forgot.
She lived at the deepest, roughest reach of the council estate and during the next five weeks I occasionally went to call for her; we played in the street and she was always accompanied by (and responsible for) one, two or three of her seven younger siblings. In the sixth week her mother answered the door “Brenda’s not in” she said, clearly cross and, I sensed, lying, since where else would Brenda be at that time of day so, puzzled, I went home and told my mother “Brenda’s not playing but I don’t know why.”
“Because,” she answered “I told her mother I didn’t want you playing with her – you should be mixing with better people than that.” Admittedly, some ten years later, Brenda was frequently to be found in the pub wearing high heels, a white fur coat and nothing else at all – but I still don’t think my mother was right to interfere.
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