The day of reckoning

I was nine years and five days old when my family moved to Newcastle. My parents wanted a new start, away from the problems they had in London. I wasn't aware that was the reason at the time. In fact I wasn't aware at all of the fact that my dad had lost his job. The recession took care of that one.

It was towards the end of the summer when we left for our new home. I was actually excited about the change in spite of the fact that I was leaving all my friends behind. One thing I wouldn't miss though was the lunchtime rounds of 'British Bulldog' in the playground. By the time that dinner bell struck two I had more bruises on my arms, legs and body from playing that game than a heavy weight boxer.

But despite my optimism my early days at Summerfield Primary were not rosy. Most of the kids were nice to me. I mean they'd say hi or talk to me if I sat next to them in class, like ask if they could borrow a pencil or rubber from my case or ask me where I got my pen top or stickers from. That kind of stuff. I made one really good friend there. Her name was Marina. She was the daughter of the local policeman. We would hang out and go to the cinema and stuff. She was really cool and lived in a really big house. I particularly liked the fact that she had a brother. That was something I didn't have. I just had a sister who was five, and annoying. She did stuff normal annoying sisters do, like painting all my dolls faces with felt tips pens or breaking the legs to my plastic horses. But the school was completely different to what I was used to; it was smaller and with fewer students in each class, which was where the problems began. I stood out a mile from everyone else, not least because of my clipped southern accent. It made me an easy target for two girls in particular: Kara Robinson and Vicky Oxenblade.

At first Kara and Vicki teased me. They called me names on my way home from school, like 'southerner' or 'posh'. It was mean and I didn't like it. I didn't want to be singled out for being what they considered different. I was the same as them. I told my mum what happened and she told me to tell them, "sticks and stones may break my bones but names will never hurt me". I did what she said but Kara and Vicky just laughed in my face. My attempt to deal a blow just bounced off them, like a bullet off armour plating. I felt a shudder of terror as I realised what I was up against. Instinctively, I tried to appear as though I wasn't affected, that I was impervious, but in truth their name-calling had already nicked me and their laughter was now cutting open the wound. I was bleeding.

Over the weeks the torture got worse. It had, as I feared, graduated from harmless name-calling to harmful pushes, which in turn became slaps, then punches, then kicks, then full blown fights. Every day I stumbled home in tears with scratches and bruises and torn clothing. My mother was beside herself. She made every attempt to stop the bullying but despite petitioning the school to get involved they simply said that because it was happening outside of school grounds it wasn't their responsibility to deal with. The local policeman tried having words with Kara and Vicky's parents but that didn't work either. Nothing was going to get through to those girls. It was as though they knew exactly how to get round everyone that could come to my aide. It was as though they had done this before. Wisdom through experience.

Every day I was terrified to go to school, not knowing if I was going to get a kicking before, on the playground during lunch or on my way home, or worse still not knowing what state I was going to go home in. I took to spending most of the school day inside the school building. I felt like it was my own sanctuary until the dreaded the 3 o'clock bell signalled my doom.

One overcast early summer day, not long after the final bell, I noticed Vicky was waiting for me. She had amassed a small army outside the school gates beneath. They were huddled in a semi circle, waiting for me, watching me pass out of the school grounds. Vicky was sneering at me from the centre of the crowd with her hands on her hips and a sneer on her face . Knowing that running would only delay the inevitable, and give Vicky more power and more reason to continue torturing me I decided to stand up for myself. I decided I was not going to hide away, despite my trembling mind filling with images of what was about to happen. As I stood there facing her, my enemy, I remembered the last thing my mum said to me that morning. "If they hit you, you hit them back."

"Come on then," Vicky goaded. "Think you can tell my parents on me, do ya?"
"No," I said trembling.
She charged toward me and swiped a hand across my head. The blow caused me to stumble backwards and twist my ankle. I winced from the pain that shot up my leg, but gritted my teeth. All around me the kids were shouting and cheering, not for any particular side, they were cheering for a bust up.
With my mum's words ringing in my head I lunged forward and shoved Vicky hard in the chest. I caught her off guard and she fell backwards and landed with a thump on the tarmac. Her face contorted with rage, turning a darker shade of red with every passing second.
"You cow!" she yelled and launched herself at me. She kicked my legs, swung her fists wildly delivering random but precise punches to my arms and stomach before unclenching them and grabbing big handfuls of my blond curly hair. She pulled it so hard she got enough momentum to swing me round in circles. The pain was searing through every fibre of my body. I was screaming in pain and terror. Tears poured down my face. I just wanted it all to stop. To stop. To stop.
Then out of nowhere my little sister barged through the crowd with her flask in her hand and marched up to Vicky.
"Leave my sister alone!" she bellowed before she walloped Vicky across the head with her flask.
I don't know whether it was from shock or pain but Vicky let go of me and clutched her head. She screamed and burst into tears. The crowd were silent. They looked at Vicky, then at me, then at my pint-sized sister. As I stood there, puffing, my heart racing, my hair dishevelled, my grey school jumper hanging like a loose sack over one shoulder, my legs bloody and dirty, my face stinging from salty tears trickling over scratches, I watched Vicky run away. I was dumbfounded.
When the crowd dispersed, their entertainment over, I trudged over to my sister and gave her a big hug. She had managed to do what no other had done. She stopped those girls from bullying me, ever again.