Bill's New Frock (4 page)

After half an hour or so, Mrs Collins came by, carrying a fresh jar of water over to table two.

‘Do try not to look quite so
gloomy
, dear,’ she murmured in Bill’s ear as she walked past. ‘You’re spoiling people’s paintings.’

And Bill was too miserable and defeated even to bother to scowl at the back of her head as she moved off.

Perhaps Mrs Collins noticed how fed up he looked. Perhaps she was grateful to him for sitting so still for so long, and being so pink. Or maybe it was just Bill’s eye she happened to catch first. But, whatever the reason, it was Bill Simpson she chose to take her spare key back to the office.

‘That’s helpful of you,’ she said, pressing the key into his hand. ‘Just give it
to Mrs Bandaraina. She’s expecting it. And hurry back.’

Everyone else looked up from their maths books and watched enviously as he left the classroom and shut the door firmly behind him.

Outside, in the deserted corridor, one thought and one thought only was in Bill Simpson’s mind: lavatories! Silently he crept along. Should he turn left, into the
BOYS
, and risk hoots and catcalls of astonishment if anyone caught him there in his pretty pink frock? Or should he turn right, into the GIRLS, where for a boy even to be found hanging around the doorway was to risk terrible trouble?

Girls’ lavatories were more
private
. At least he could struggle with the frock in peace . . .

Bill made his choice. Peering back over his shoulder like some spy from an old
black and white film, he scuttled hastily into the GIRLS.

When, two minutes later, he stuck his head back out through the swing doors, the corridor was still empty. Sighing with relief, Bill stepped out. He took his time now,
dawdling along towards the school office, swinging the key from his fingers and stopping to peer at each painting on the wall. After his heart-stopping rush in and out of the girls’ lavatories, Bill reckoned that he’d earned a break.

But just as he turned the corner, who should he see backing out of a cupboard but the headteacher!

Bill Simpson started looking sharp. Lifting his chin, he walked a lot faster. He was almost safely past the headteacher when he was stopped.

A hand fell on the top of his head.

‘You look very sensible and responsible,’ the headteacher said. ‘Not dawdling along, peering at all the paintings, taking your time. Are you going to the office on an errand for your teacher? Would you do me a favour and take these coloured inks to Mrs Bandaraina?’

And he held out a handful of tiny glass bottles.

Bill put out his free hand, and the headteacher tipped the tiny glass bottles on to his outstretched palm.

‘Whatever you do, don’t drop them,’ he warned. And then he dived back in his cupboard.

Bill went on. He’d hardly reached the short flight of stairs when the school nurse came up them the other way, carrying a pile of yellow forms in her arms, and walking faster than most people run.

‘Ah!’ she said, spotting Bill. ‘Just what I need! Someone who can take these medical forms to the office for me, so I can rush straight across to the nursery before the bell rings.’

She didn’t exactly ask. And she didn’t exactly wait to see if Bill minded. She just thrust the stack of yellow medical forms
into his arms, and hurried off.

‘And they’re in perfect alphabetical order,’ she called back over her shoulder. ‘So, whatever you do, don’t drop them!’

Problem, thought Bill. One false move and everything would fall to the floor – spare key, little glass ink bottles, medical forms in perfect alphabetical order – the lot.

The key and the coloured inks would just have to go in his pockets.

Pockets?

Carefully, Bill squatted in the corridor and lowered the pile of yellow medical forms to the floor, taking care that he didn’t lose the key or drop the little glass bottles of coloured ink.

Then he felt all round the pretty pink frock for a pocket. He pushed and shoved at frilly places here and there, wherever he thought one might be hidden. But though he heard the material rip once or twice, and
felt his hands go through the holes he’d accidentally torn, there were no pockets there.

No. Not one pocket. Acres of material. Masses of it. Pleats, frills, bows, scallops, fancy loops. But not one pocket. Whoever designed the dress had gone to all the trouble of matching the imitation lace round the hem with the imitation lace round the collar, and fitting a zip in so neatly that it was practically invisible, and putting comfortable elastic around the little puffy sleeves.

But they just hadn’t bothered to put in a pocket.

Bill was
amazed
. How was a person in a frock like this supposed to
survive
? How were they expected to get along without any pockets? It can’t have been the only dress of its kind that was made. Other people must wear them. Where did they put
their money, for heaven’s sake? Did they keep it, all damp and hot and sticky, in the palms of their hands all day? Where did they put the sweets their friends gave them if they wanted to save them for later? What did they do if someone returned their pencil sharpener to them outside in break?

How can you
live
without pockets? How can you? How
can
you?

Bill put his head in his hands, and groaned.

Then he tried to pull himself together. This couldn’t last forever. This couldn’t go on. No boy could turn into a girl and stay that way without anyone – even his mother and teacher and schoolfriends – noticing any real difference. It must be a bad dream. It
felt
like a nightmare . . .

He’d just keep calm and steady and wait till the horror of it was over. He’d just get on with the job in hand.

And the job in hand was to get all these things safely to the school office.

Bill gathered up the yellow medical forms. On top of them he put the coloured inks, right in the middle so they would not roll over the edge and smash on the floor. He wedged the key between the inks so it would not slide off the side. Then, very carefully, he started down the corridor again, towards the office.

Before he’d gone a dozen steps, he heard a rapping on the nearest window.

He turned to look. It was the caretaker.

The caretaker leaned through the window.

‘Off to the office, are you?’ he asked. ‘Do me a favour. Take these tennis balls with you. Ask Mrs Bandaraina to lock them away.’

And before Bill could argue, the caretaker tipped seven tennis balls onto the
carefully stacked pile in Bill’s arms.

Bill stood for a moment, steadying his load. He let the medical forms dip a bit in the middle to make a sort of hollow to keep the balls together and stop them rolling off over every side. Then, even more carefully than before – step by tiny, gentle step – he made for the office again.

When he was only a short way away he saw Mrs Bandaraina lift her head from her computer, glance through the open doorway and notice him shuffling towards her.

Each step seemed to take forever. Everything in his pile seemed to be wobbling dangerously. Everything in his pile seemed to be sliding closer to the edge.

‘My!’ Mrs Bandaraina said, watching his snail-slow progress. ‘Aren’t you the careful one, taking such care not to spill coloured ink on your sweet little frock!’

It wasn’t Bill’s fault. It was because she said the words ‘sweet little frock’. A shudder of pure fury rose through his body and made his hands shake. He didn’t know the yellow forms were going to slip from his grasp and slither out of alphabetical order across the floor. He didn’t know the little glass bottles would fall and smash. He didn’t know the seven tennis balls would bounce up and down in the bright coloured pools of spilt inks. He didn’t know the spare key would end up submerged in a puddle of purple.

Bill Simpson tried very hard not to narrow his eyes at Mrs Bandaraina and blame her for everything as she slid off her office chair to help him. He tried very hard to look grateful as she swept a handful of tissues out of the box on her desk and helped him mop and wipe, and gather rainbow-spotted tennis balls. And he tried
to look pleasant while she tipped the slivers of shattered glass in the waste basket, and helped him shuffle all the medical forms back into alphabetical order.

But once back in the corridor again, and alone, he couldn’t help muttering something quite rude, and quite loudly, about the sort of person who would design a pretty pink frock with no pockets, and expect other people to go around wearing it.