The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 2359 by Angharad Copyright© 2014 Angharad All Rights Reserved.

Driving them home I didn’t have time to think about Bugs Bunny or his ecology, what’s up doc? The two geniuses on the back seat were still basking in their triumph of the test results.

“I expect you’d have them all right, wouldn’t you, Mummy?”

I was trying to work out if that was an actual question or a rhetorical one.

“Wouldn’t you, Mummy?”

“Wouldn’t I what, sweetheart?” said my mouth but I was well aware of the question.

“Got all the answers right.”

“I don’t know, sweetheart.”

“Duh—wrong answer,” said Trish laughing.

“No it isn’t,” argued genius number two. “Mummy doesn’t know everything.”

I did know I’d heard enough about this quiz and changed the subject smartly. Once safely at home I was able to look up the disc we did of BB clips, about twenty minutes which I had arranged with headings on the computer, looking at such things as habitat, food, predators and so on. Hopefully, the computer would act as my prompt so I’d only need to work on an introduction. It could work if I was in good form, if it didn’t, they could always go back to boring old farts reading them their laundry lists or two chapters of their biographies.

I remembered sitting through several speech days trying to stay upright while sleeping on the stacking chairs we had in the hall, metal ones with wooden seats and backrests. Listening to some old fool harp on about his mother’s cooking or how he won the war single-handed, was so boring to a teenage girl—yeah, I acknowledge I was one—well, there’s photographic evidence to prove it.

In some ways, I was astonished not to be asked to wear my best dress to present the speaker with a bunch of flowers or bottle of wine. That was left to the head boy, while I of course was head girl of the boy’s school. I chuckled at my silliness.

Speech day was usually boring for me because I wasn’t clever enough to win prizes for academic subjects and certainly wasn’t for sports unless it was for running away from bullies. Then I remembered that day in the lower sixth, about a week before speech day, Murray sent for me. I wasn’t aware that anyone had accused me of propositioning them that week, the usual defence for those caught actually hitting me, so I was completely ignorant of why he wanted to see me.

“Ah, Watts. You’ve been awarded a prize.”

For a nanosecond, I felt elated, but by the expression on his face, I knew I wasn’t going to enjoy it. I said nothing.

“The Evening Post want to give you an award for your portrayal of Lady Macbeth and as their editor is our guest speaker at speech day, you’d better borrow that girl’s uniform again to receive it.”

I blushed. I’d already done the standing in front of the whole school in a skirt while he tried to humiliate me bit. It wasn’t much fun. “Is that a good idea, sir?”

“No it isn’t, Watts, but as he wants to give this prize to Charlotte Watts, she’d better be there—and, Watts, any messing about by you will result in serious consequences, so clean and tidy like a good school girl.”

“I don’t think my father will approve, sir.”

“I already have his agreement, albeit reluctantly for his girly-boy son to receive the award.”

“What if someone tells the paper, sir?”

“That you’re not what you appear to be?”

“Yes, sir.”

“We’ll have to deal with that if it arises, otherwise you’ll be the perfect schoolgirl, so no over the top makeup or silly hairstyles—got it?”

“I’m not really happy doing this, sir.”

“D’you think I am? Putting the reputation of this great school in jeopardy because of one little fairy? However, they want Tinkerbell, so she’d better show up and don’t mess it up.”

I was dismissed and fretted for days, my father’s sulking showed he was aware of what was coming. I assumed I’d go home at lunchtime and change—but no, I had to wear the skirt, blouse and tights together with a cardigan and shoes all day. We only had three women members of staff and they were prepared to allow me to use their toilet for the day if I was desperate. This was because I’d nearly been raped in the boy’s toilets on a previous occasion when I wore the girl’s uniform. My dad got to hear of it because my skirt was damaged and had to be repaired and he complained to Murray. Mum made me sew it myself. The two perpetrators were suspended for the week.

On the day I duly turned up in girl mode and was told to sit in the front row in assembly with the first formers—did wonders for my credibility, except one of them who was sitting next to me told me he thought I was very pretty. I blushed and tried to ignore him.

As soon as I’d walked in there’d been a buzz and at the end of assembly, Murray made his usual announcement. “You’ll be aware we have Miss Watts with us again today. She is to be treated with the same courtesy as any visiting young woman to this school would receive. If I hear of anything untoward happening to her, there will be consequences. I hope I make myself clear.”

I’d done this dressing up lark so many times, I now had foam inserts to wear in my bra—yeah, my bra. I had two bras and a five-pack of panties plus tights and shoes to go with Siân’s old uniform then discovered my mother had bought me all new stuff, including the school skirt and blouse. Apparently, no daughter of hers was wearing cast-offs for an official occasion. My dad thought it was an extravagance but she insisted and he coughed up the necessary. I thought it was crazy but part of me liked the idea of having my own girl’s uniform.

I was taunted by teachers and the boys but allowed to stay in during the morning break—normally kids were made to leave the school building during break times to try and reduce vandalism and to encourage exercise.

After lunch—I had very little appetite for food—I checked my makeup and hair. I renewed my lip gloss and gave myself a squirt of cologne to try and hide the smell of fear I was sure every predatory boy could detect.

Once again I was made to sit in the front row and sit there in fear and trepidation while the speech day progressed. I felt quite sick by the time my presence was required, a teacher with a clipboard approaching me and pointing to the stage, the steps of which were at the back, so you actually went out of the hall and through a door which led on to a walkway behind the stage with the odd room for costumes and dressing rooms and so on.

I was made to wait as I was announced. “Next we have a special award. Miss Charlotte Watts was invited to play the part of Lady Macbeth in the school play, which she did to wide acclaim. At the behest of the Editor of the Evening Post, who sponsored our programmes for the play, we’ve invited her back to receive this award. Please, therefore, welcome our guest pupil, Miss Charlotte Watts.” I suspected the words were sticking in Murray’s craw, not that I was feeling any better for them.

I walked onto the stage to a reasonable amount of applause blushing like a stoplight. The editor bloke, a Mr Cosgrave shook my hand and pecked me on my glowing cheek. I blushed even more furiously and a trickle of sweat ran under my bra clip and down my back.

Oh no, he was going to say something. “Charlotte, it gives me great pleasure to present this award. I saw your performance on the last night and was greatly impressed. I feel that if you wanted to, you could do really well as an actress. I wish you well in your future career whatever that is.” With that he shook my hand again and handed me a plate size engraved piece of stainless steel while I was aware camera flashes flickered below us. My picture would likely be in the paper again—oh joy.

I don’t know what happened to the ‘plate’, probably in one of the boxes under my bed or up in the attic—in my parent’s house. Thank goodness nothing like that will happen again to any child.