Dear William

Chapter Two: The Child Who Heard Too Much

"There's a monster that creeps into my bedroom at night when I'm lying in my bed", I whispered to my younger brother, James. "It's name is Grunt-Grunt. I know he's getting nearer when I hear the grunting noise."

My little brother looked impressed, "Is he a friendly monster?"

"I'm not sure," I answered thoughtfully, "I used to be scared of him, but he's never done me any harm."

September 1980. My first day at school.

I'm almost five years old. I'm walking to school holding onto the pushchair as Mummy pushes James along. I'm wearing my new school uniform. A grey silky pinafore dress, a white nylon blouse with an irritating collar, a yellow and blue striped tie, a grey knitted cardigan which Gran has lovingly made for me with the school badge sewn on, white knee high socks and brown buckled shoes.

My long brown hair is tied in two bunches and I'm carrying a red fabric satchel.

We enter the large classroom, and Mummy says goodbye, planting a kiss on my forehead.

Suddenly I am alone in a room full of unfamiliar children.

I had gone to playgroup in the village where my grandparents lived, but my parents felt it would be easier for me to attend the primary school in the town where we lived which was a twenty minute walk away. This unfortunately meant that I had left all my pre-school friends behind (they moved on to the village school) and I didn't know any of the children at this town school.

I look anxiously around the room. The ceilings are high with huge lights suspended by chains. They look like giant swings and as I gaze up at them I imagine sitting on the seat and swinging.

There are blue plastic topped tables, each set out with a pot of pencils in the centre, a box of wax crayons and a sheet of paper beside each wooden chair.

My teacher's desk is to the left. Mrs Porter has jet black curls, wears glasses and has sticky out teeth that cause her to spit with certain sounds. She is older than Mummy. She wears a huge necklace of blue plastic beads. 

Mrs Porter has a firm, no nonsense approach which I am not used to.

My playgroup ladies were gentle, motherly ladies who I could chat to with ease. I talked to them about anything and everything. I would clamber onto their laps as I completed jigsaws at the table or they would sit beside me in the book corner and we would read together.

They hardly ever got cross. Not even when I painted on the wooden easel when there wasn't any paper clipped onto it. I hadn't realised. I just thought it was an easel that was there to be painted. The lady just smiled and told me not to worry. She said it was her fault for forgetting to put the paper on.

There were rocking horses at my old playgroup. Not wooden like Bonny Sam, but two plastic black and white ones that were placed side by side and had springs attached to their metal frames. I would drift into my own world as I rocked back and forth. My best friend, Lisa would ride the other one. Lisa had long blonde curls and reminded me of Goldilocks. I missed her now I didn't see her.

School is different, and I have this sudden feeling of longing for my old playgroup.

As the weeks went on, I began to hate school with a passion.

My mother would drag me across the high street on route. I would be screaming and pulling back in resistance. Every step closer to school becoming more stomach churning. I felt sick. I wanted to run back home.

"No, Mummy!!", I pleaded through my tears, "Please don't make me go!!"

We always passed the old lollipop lady on the corner. As she prepared to cross us over the road she would look at me and shake her head. "Don't be such a baby!!" she would tell me sternly, "Every child has to go to school!!"