Escape From Evil - Cathy Wilson [58]
Rough kids aside, it’s a peculiar thing about school life that you rise to the top of one system then get moved back down to the bottom of the next, like a game of snakes and ladders, but with more at stake. I’d gone from teacher’s pet at primary to the bottom of the pile at secondary. And when I say ‘bottom’ I mean the very bowels.
Kids have an instinct to attack anyone who stands out. The gang mentality takes them all over at some point. Sound different, look different, act different and you can expect grief from the masses.
And I looked different. A couple of years earlier I’d been so proud of the beautiful dresses Granny had run up for me on her sewing machine. Even when she said she’d knit my school jumper and crochet a skirt, I was touched. And then all the other kids saw my uniform was different to theirs and that was it. I was a marked girl – especially with Granny’s latest old-fashioned hairstyle for me. But at least I didn’t have to wear that stupid top-knot anymore!
The only saving grace was that there were two girls who were considered weirder than me. They were twins to start with, which would normally have been enough on its own, but they also had a surname that was just asking for trouble: Pratt. It was horrible really, but at least while they were being picked on, the older girls ignored me. It couldn’t last, of course. ‘Nice jumper’ would be one of the least harmful insults to come my way, however sarcastically it was said. It was horrid, a really unhappy time. A lot of kids never recover from bullying at school. It affects their whole lives. As bad as it seemed at the time, however, I knew I’d be all right. When you’ve felt the cold steel of a knife blade pressed against your cheek, a few names and a bit of bullying isn’t a problem at all.
Maybe, though, I would have been better off being scarred by the bullying. The threats and abuse I’d already suffered had, I think, dulled my attitude to violence. It had been such a large part of my life already that I didn’t notice my reactions to it weren’t as extreme as other kids’. I wasn’t as scared, I wasn’t as prepared to change my behaviour to please the bullies. At the time that worldliness protected me.
But that was also why I couldn’t spot the signs when the greatest threat of all was staring me in the face.
My grandparents weren’t too much help when it came to getting through my new school ordeal. ‘Just concentrate on your work and the bullies will go away.’ Nice in theory . . .
But that’s what I did. Head down, I really applied myself to lessons and was soon in the top class for every subject. I won lead roles in school plays and decided to take my guitar-playing more seriously. I’d always enjoyed evenings spent noodling with Mum’s old six-string. Soon, once I’d put my mind to it, I was in the school band on acoustic guitar. Our teacher was a great inspiration: his band, the Piranhas, had a hit record in 1982 with ‘Zambesi’.
Being a swot didn’t make me any less likely to be bullied, of course, and in fact I got dog’s abuse. But as I grew older, I persuaded Granny to stop making me dress like a doll and confidence soon followed. With self-belief came a rekindling of my desire for independence. I enjoyed being at Granny and Grandpa’s, but I really wanted my own space. And, to be honest, they couldn’t wait to have their retirement back for themselves.
In those days young people would collect bits and bobs for their ‘bottom drawer’ – things you would need for your first home – so that’s what I decided to do. In order to do that, however, I needed money. At fourteen years old, it was time to get a job.
Typical me, though, I thought, Why get one job when you can have three?
The local fish shop took me on for two evenings a week, which was nice, although it made my clothes and hair smell like a chip pan. Then, on Thursdays and Fridays, I would go straight from school to help out at Saltdean’s florist shop. But best of all was getting a Saturday job at Robert Dyas. You had