Dear Diary,
Today I thought back to my old school in the outskirts of Birmingham, where a quiet orphan girl attended my class. She lived with her greatgrandmother, a frail, devout old lady who paced the lanes to StMarys church every Sunday, both of them slender as reeds, wrapped in pristine white kerchiefs. Rumour had it that her grandmother banned her from watching the telly, eating sweets, or even laughing out loud, fearing that the devil would swoop in, and she forced her to splash her face with icy water each morning.
We used to tease her mercilessly. She would stare at us with grey, mature eyes and whisper, Lord, have mercy on them; they know not what they do. No one befriended her; the other pupils whispered that she was a bit odd. They called her Poppy, a name that seemed as foreign to us as a stranger in town.
Back then the school canteen was nothing to write home about, but on Fridays we were treated to scones with tea, or a sausage roll with a cup of hot chocolate and a tiny chocolate bar. One day, after someone gave Poppy a hard push, she flew straight into me. I knocked over a tray laden with cocoa cups, and the whole chocolate river spilled over two senior pupils.
Whoa, they said, wiping the brown mess from their jackets.
Weve got to get out of here, I shouted, grabbing Poppys hand and bolting toward our classroom.
For a moment I imagined a pack of hunting hounds and a herd of cattle thundering after us. The last two periods were maths, and behind the glass door at the end of the corridor two tall silhouettes loomed. Occasionally the door cracked open and two heads peered in, then vanished with a soft rustle. I sensed that a formal inquiry, a judgment, perhaps even a punishment lay in wait.
Main thing is to slip out unnoticed, I whispered, I know a back stair that leads to the attic. We can hide there till dark and then make a dash home.
No, Poppy replied, lets go the proper way, like decent girls, quietly and calmly.
But there are those theyll?
What? Theyll pour kefir over our heads? Beat us up? What are you on about?
Even if they whack us, itll be a single blow. If you stay, youll live in fear every day.
We left the classroom with the rest of the class, as proper girls shouldquietly. Two senior boys were propped against the wall.
Hey, little ones, lost something? one of them said, holding my Mickey Mousedecorated wallet with ten pounds insideenough for the swimming pool fee and the art studio.
Here you go, he tossed it into my hand, and dont run off again.
Walking home, bag swinging, I felt a strange lightness. Everything had turned out alright, and I was grateful for my new friend. Shall I ring my mum? She could call your gran, ask for a day off, and we could pop over to my place for cartoons. Or is that a nogo? I asked.
Poppy rolled her eyes. Lets go get the waffles with condensed milk that your gran baked today.
We stayed close for many years, until life scattered us across different continents. Yet I still recall that one incidentjumping from the high school tower into the blue mirror of the swimming pool. It was terrifying, but terrifying only once.
Fear of the unknown is a bitter pill. Will they call you foolish? Perhaps once. If you let it linger, the dread will visit you every day. You win over fear the first time you face it, or you let it linger like a shadow over your whole life.
There is a choice, dear diary: confront the fear once and move on, or let it rule you forever. I choose the former.
