At our school, there was a girla proper orphan. She lived with her gran, who was comically elderly and so devout shed probably bless the kettle before making tea. Every Sunday, theyd stroll past our house, identically spindly, heartbreakingly fragile, with immaculate white scarves tied under their chins like Victorian spectres. Rumour had it the grandma forbade TV, sweets, and even chuckling with a wide-open mouthfor fear, she said, mischievous spirits might fly straight in. She insisted her granddaughter wash with ice-cold water, which seemed more method than madness.
We used to tease the girl. Shed fix us with these unblinking, grown-up grey eyes and intone, God, forgive them, for they know not what they do. Nobody befriended her. We all figured shed gone a bit loony. Her name was Harriet. Just Harrietthats it.
Back then, school dinners were a culinary crime. Still, Fridays had their perks: a jam doughnut with tea or sausage roll with steaming cocoa, plus a mini chocolate bar. One Friday, while the usual gang was pestering Harriet, she was shoved and crashed right into me. I smacked my hip on the tabletray loaded with cocoa glassesand the sticky river cascaded straight onto two scowling sixth formers.
Right then said the sixth formers, ominously.
Leg it! I hissed, grabbing Harriets hand. We bolted for our classroom like a pair of fugitives escaping angry cowboysplus, say, a herd of stampeding cattle for good measure. The last two lessons were maths. Through the frosted glass door, those sixth formers lurked like sentriesoccasionally poking their heads in, whispering conspiratorially. I knew what awaited us: investigation, trial, and certain execution (lets quote the classics).
The main thing, I whispered, is to slip out unnoticed. Theres a secret exit to the atticIve used it before. Well hide there til its pitch dark, then make a run for home.
No, said Harriet, serenely. Well leave just like proper English girls. In broad daylight, quietly and politely.
ButHarriettheyll theyll
What? Tip buttermilk on our heads? Scream at us? Hit a couple of Year Fives? Whats the worst?
Well
Even if they do, it happens once. But if you dont face it, youll be scared every day.
So, we walked out with everyone else. Just as girls are meant todemurely. The two sixth formers were leaning against the wall, looking decidedly unimpressed.
Oi, littleuns, whose is this? One held out my Mickey Mouse pursewith a crisp ten-pound note inside (for swimming, and art club fees).
Here you go, he said, handing it over. Dont run off again.
I sauntered home, swinging my satchel and marvelling how everything had worked itself out splendidlyand how brilliant it was to have a new mate.
Shall I call Mum? She can phone your gran, ask permission, and you can come over to mine for cartoons? Or is that forbidden?
Harriet rolled her eyes, mock despair. Lets swing by grans for waffles with condensed milkshe baked them today.
We were friends for years, until life whisked us off to separate continents. Still, I always remember that one time.
Jumping from the top board into the blue mirror of the swimming pool? Terrifyingbut only terrifying once. Trying something new is frightening. Whats the worst thatll happen? Someonell call me an idiotonce. Better that than telling myself I am, every single day.
Fear only lasts one momentor it fills every day if you dont tackle it. You get to choose: let it win once, or let it boss you about forever.
