Read Online Don’t Tell Mummy by Toni Maguire - Free Book Online

small mirror so I could admire my reflection.
    ‘Antoinette,’ she said, ‘tell your mother to do your hair like this each day. It makes you look so pretty.’
    For the first time in several months I felt I was pretty, and excitedly showed off my new appearance to my mother. Her anger seemed to appear from nowhere as she snatched the ribbon from my hair.
    ‘Tell your teacher that I can dress my own child,’ she said, obviously furious.
    I was bewildered. What had I done wrong? I asked, but I received no answer.
    The next day my hair hung in its usual untidy style and was spotted by the teacher.
    ‘Antoinette, where is the ribbon I gave you?’
    Feeling that I would be letting my mother down in some way if I repeated her words, I stared at my feet. A silence fell as she waited for my answer.
    ‘I’ve lost it.’ I heard myself mumble, feeling my face flush from the untruth. I knew I appeared ungrateful and sulky to her, and felt her annoyance.
    ‘Well, at least tidy yourself up, child,’ she snapped, and I lost my one ally at that school because it was the last time she bothered to show me any kindness.
    I knew I was unpopular amongst my peers, as well as with the teachers. I also knew, young as I was, that the dislike was caused not only by the way I spoke, but also by my appearance. I noticed how differently the other girls looked to me from under their neat, shiny haircuts. Some had slides holding their hair in place, others had theirs tied back with ribbon. Only I had it falling in an untidy mess. Their school uniforms were neatly ironed, their shirts crisp and white and their jumpers were free of darns. Other children who lived several miles from school had bicycles, so their shoes had not become scuffed by the continuous damp that had removed all the shine from mine.
    I resolved to do something about my appearance. Maybe then, I thought, I would be more popular.
    Summoning up all my courage, I waited until I was alone with my mother to broach the subject of how I could look smarter. That evening, when I got home from school I nervously broached the subject.
    ‘Mummy, can I iron my gym tunic? It needs some of the pleats put back in it. Can I borrow some of Daddy’s shoe polish? Can I wash my hair tonight? I’d like to go to school looking smarter.’
    One after another my requests tumbled out of my mouth into a silence that became more strained with every syllable I uttered.
    ‘Have you quite finished, Antoinette?’ she asked in the cold voice I had come to know so well.
    I looked up at her then and, with a sinking heart, recognized the anger in her face. The anger I had seen in her eyeswhen I had first tried to tell her about my father’s kiss had returned.
    ‘Why do you always have to make such a fuss?’ she asked, her voice almost a hiss. ‘Why do you always have to cause trouble? There is nothing wrong with the way you look; you always were a vain little girl.’
    I knew then that any chance I had of being accepted by improving my appearance had gone, and I knew my mother well enough not to argue. Disagreeing with her would result in the one punishment I could not endure, that of being completely ignored.
    Every day, as I walked to school with my hands and feet equally cold, I dreaded the day ahead – the unfriendliness of the children, the thinly veiled contempt of the teachers – and I searched my brain for a way of making them like me.
    My homework was always meticulously done, my marks high, but somehow I knew that only added to my unpopularity. I noticed that on our breaks other children would have sweets, fruit pastels or sticky toffees. Sometimes these were swapped for marbles, always they were coveted as bargaining tools. Sweets I knew were something children liked, but how could I buy any with no pocket money? Then I saw my opportunity. Once a week the teacher collected the school-dinner money from both classrooms and placed it in a tin box, which she left on her desk. I hatched a plan.
    I