Paul had always been interested in colours. When he heard on the radio of how such-and-such a racial group were protesting of their repression, he would listen intrigued when they explained confidently into the microphone that this was down purely to other’s hatred of their skin colour. However much he heard this line of reasoning, he always came to the same conclusion. It must be bollocks.
The route there would often be arduous. His keen interest in the use of colour co-ordination in a Macdonald’s restaurant, of how the intricate shading of a Rembrandt could uniquely convey certain human characteristics (or so his teacher had said a few days ago), and of how when he was littler he would look in innocence at the fat black lady on the bus and say, “Mummy, why is that lady a funny colour?” And then mummy would reply with, “Shhhhhhh! Don’t be so rude. Watch what you say!” with a vaguely amused, extremely paranoid emergency.
He wasn’t quite sure what he was going to do about Lucy, though.
Only yesterday he had been smacked in the head by a coasting soccer ball whilst watching her perform complex skipping manoeuvres. As he had been in goal at the time, and the ball had subsequently passed in between the coat-posts, he had become angry, and decided that he should ignore ’that stupid girl’ from now on.
Lucy was quiet in class. She rarely ever said anything. She’d sometimes get teased by the teachers - except in Maths, where she was top of the class. She never boasted when she achieved her hundred-percent test marks. She was asking for it, really.
Today, Lucy was quiet in class. Paul watched her come into the class-room with a few of her mates, the same ones she skipped with. As he followed her movements - the drop of the satchel, the straightening of the skirt, the descent to her chair… All the way to the opening of the pencil case and extraction of pen… His own desk had an exercise book and a pen. The pen, he had borrowed from a mate. The exercise book he had managed to remember today.
She had caught his eye, and he had looked down at his desk. He was not even blushing. He was not even gulping. Paul the boy was merely wondering what the fuck he was going to do.
The following play-time, she was late to the play-ground. A teacher had wanted her to stay behind to talk about her homework. She had looked quite unhappy, and Paul found himself wanting to stay behind. He found himself in the play-ground at his mates’ beckoning, and found himself in goal again.
A number of minutes passed. Paul needed to go to the toilet, so Paul shouted this to the seven or eight pack of possession-hungry boys and ran quickly down to the cloak-rooms before they had a chance to comment.
“Lucy!” He had almost knocked her over.
She looked unhappily, almost carelessly at him. She stopped, but said nothing.
He had nothing to say. He wanted to say something, but didn’t quite know what it was. “Do you want to come ‘round my house tonight?” emerged.
She was obviously startled, and Paul wanted to cry. “Yes.” She said. “Where do you live?”
He forgot. Then remembered again. “Marlesbrook Road. You know, near the ‘Rec. Number 34. Wooden door with a lion’s-head knocker.”
He gulped, nearly smiled and said, “Well… See you there, then” and rushed off to the toilets.
They were looking at each other quite a lot the following lesson. There were smiles, even the occasional giggle. He wondered what it would be like to touch black skin.
At 3.15pm, the final class finished. He felt a little bit nervous, and went out a bit after her. His mates had a lot to say.
“You know that Lucy girl?”
Of course he knew ’that Lucy girl’. He nodded, wondering why they should talk of her.
“Well Andy and his mates hate her, and they’re throwing her in the pond tonight. Do you want to come? Should be a laugh.”
And there she was in the distance, a little speck by the pond, and so many of his mates around her, all getting a look at her.
But they sounded strange, not laughing, not jeering. But something else. When he got closer, he saw Andy there, his fist clenched, arm drawn back, then her stomach and his fist met, parted, met and she was coughing, nearly crying, still standing! She was being pushed around, pushed around the messy ring, mates and girls, and there he was.
She fell towards him, and there he catched her. She felt warm and smooth, just like his sister when she’d beaten him up. Only….
It took all of him to let her go - to gently, but firmly, drop her.
- Simon Huggins, 23rd October 1992