Starting School, September 1976 by Clair Wright

There was a funny smell in the long room; a meaty warm smell, like gravy.

“Mummy, I’ve got tummy ache.”

“It’s just butterflies. They’ll go away in a little while, when you settle in.”

It didn’t feel like anything as pretty as butterflies. I felt as though my stomach was full of snakes, writhing in a great tangle and threatening to escape up my throat.

I sat on my mother’s knee, waiting.  I looked down at my new shoes, brown and shiny like a conker. I had been desperate to wear them for weeks, but they had to be kept “for starting school”. Now the day had come.

I smoothed my blue pinafore over my knees, and bit my lip.

“Look! There’s Lizzie!” My mother stood up, waving to catch their attention. Lizzie and her mother joined us at our table on low plastic chairs.  I smiled at Lizzie, and she smiled back, but she looked as though she had the snakes too, and she had been crying.

“We are going to be in the same class, aren’t we, Lizzie?” I said.

“That would be nice, wouldn’t it?” said my mother. I detected doubt in her tone, but she smiled back at me brightly.

“Have you got a satchel?” I asked Lizzie. “I’ve got an apple in mine, and my Grandma sent me five pence to buy a biscuit at playtime.”

“I’ve got new pencils,” said Lizzie, opening her satchel.

I admired the pencils, and felt a little cheerier at the prospect of the biscuit.

Two ladies wearing flowery blouses and pleated skirts came into the room, and called out names.

“Nicola Smith. Josie Stewart. James White.”

A group of children and mothers followed the flowery ladies through a swinging, green door.

“Mummy, I’ve still got tummy ache,” I whispered.

“Shh, you’ll be fine.  I wonder when it will be our turn?” My mother looked around, shuffling on the awkward, low chair.

A few minutes went by.  The mothers chatted across the table, but I didn’t feel like talking. I was still struggling with the snakes.   

Lizzie was the first to be called in the next group, and I jumped up and grabbed my satchel, sure my name would be next. I watched her disappear through the green door, dismayed.

“What about me?” I could feel the tears coming and I sniffed them back.

“Let’s wait and see,” My mother patted my knee. She smoothed down my ponytail, fastened another button on my cardigan, then unfastened it again.

At last, my name was called and we shuffled through the green door with the other children and their mothers.

“And here’s your classroom!” exclaimed my mother.  There were more low tables and chairs, and a red carpet over by the window, where some children were already sitting. Lizzie wasn’t there.

“Look, crayons!” Mum was saying, and her voice seemed very loud. She took a red crayon from a tin and squiggled on some paper.

The other children were looking at us from the carpet.

I tugged at my mother’s arm.  “Oh! Do you want to go and sit with the others?” She dropped the crayon and led me over.

“Mummy, where’s Lizzie?”

“I’m sure you’ll see her at playtime, don’t worry. Now, sit here...” She pushed my shoulders and I sat down reluctantly.

The other children who had come in with me were already sitting, cross legged. The teacher perched on a chair, knees together, tapping her finger on the book in her lap.

“Well, Mothers,” she said brightly. “We are going to read a story now. We’ll see you at home time!”

“Oh. Right then,” my mother said. “Well, have a lovely time.” She patted me on the head and turned to follow the others towards the door. I panicked.

“Mummy!” I scrambled up, sobbing and hiccuping after her.

A firm grip caught my wrist. “Now, now dear, we don’t want any ‘Vinegar Joes’ in this class, do we?” The teacher steered me back to the carpet.  I sat, sniffing and gulping, staring at my shoes. The carpet prickled my legs and I squirmed, trying to keep still as the teacher read “The Three Little Pigs”.

A bell rang. It was play time. I remembered the five pence and the biscuit, I thought of Grandma and felt a little better.  I found my satchel, hanging on a peg with my coat, and retrieved the coin from its zip pocket.

I hovered by the teacher’s elbow as she sent the children out to play. As she turned to close the door I held out my coin.

“Can I buy my biscuit now?” I asked.

“Biscuit? What do you mean, dear?” she looked impatient again. “We don’t have any biscuits!”

I stuffed the five pence back into my satchel. I felt the bulge of the apple.  I pulled it out and took a big bite as I headed out for the playground.

“Oh no dear, no snacks allowed at playtime!” The apple was whipped from my hand, and I was thrust outside.

I gazed round the bleak playground. No Lizzie, no apple, no biscuit. And it wasn’t even lunchtime.