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Authors: Jane Costello
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devoured a bowl of Pedigree Chum.
Fortunately, with excellent timing Tom Goodwin appears at my side. ‘Miss!’
‘What is it, Tom?’ I ask.
‘Is “twit” a swear word?’ Ben Havistock and Jacob Preston come trundling up behind him. Edwin and I share a smile as I steel myself to deal with this with smooth
authority.
‘Hmm . . . well, it’s not a nice thing to call somebody, but it probably isn’t an actual swear word,’ I decree.
‘What about “wally”?’ Jacob asks.
‘Well, again, not a swear word exactly but—’
‘Nitwit? Numbskull? Plonk—’
‘Yes – we’ve all got the idea,’ I tell him. ‘Your best bet is to not call anyone those names. Far better to be nice, don’t you think?’
‘Well, my mum says I need to think of something to call my brother other than “bellend”,’ Ben explains. ‘So all those things should be brilliant, shouldn’t
they?’
‘That is
definitely
a swear word, Ben – and you mustn’t use it.’
‘Brilliant?’ Jacob asks.
‘No! Look, why don’t you all run along. Your playtime will be finished soon.’
When I turn back, Edwin is striding across the playground to check on a suspiciously quiet group of Year One children building a den. I watch as they all stop what they’re doing to have a
conversation with him – enraptured as ever by his words – before he heads back.
‘Is everything all right?’ I ask, realising he looks upset about something.
He stiffens his lip and nods. ‘I’m just going to miss them.’
My brain struggles to process the words. ‘What do you mean?’
He flashes me a look. ‘You can keep a secret, can’t you, Lauren?’
One of my defining qualities, I like to think, is my utter refusal to break a confidence. I honestly never have. The only downside is that lots of people feel the need to burden me with
absolutely bloody every secret they’ve got. Including, it now seems, Edwin. And I’m getting a sudden horrible feeling that I might not want to know this one.
‘Of course,’ I hear myself say.
‘Well, don’t tell anyone at school yet . . . it’s not official. But I’m leaving.’
My mouth suddenly feels too dry to speak, swallow, breathe or do any of the things it was designed for.
‘Don’t look so shocked Lauren. It’s not for ages.’
I attempt to compose myself. ‘Sorry,’ I manage, trying to think of which of my 200 questions I should plump for first. ‘When are you going?’
‘The end of term,’ he says.
Horror rises in my throat. ‘But that’s only four months away.’
‘Exactly – ages.’
The playground starts spinning and my limbs feel as though they’re made of marshmallow.
‘Which school are you moving to?’ I whisper, remembering that I’d heard that a primary in Hawkshead was looking for a deputy head. ‘Are you staying in the
Lakes?’
‘Not exactly.’
I am engulfed in a sensation that my worst fears are being realised . . .
He’s moving to Manchester!
‘I’m moving to Singapore!’ he announces. For a second I convince myself I can’t possibly have heard him right.
‘Miss! My nose is bleeding!’ interrupts Jordan Carter. ‘They’re not allowed to play tennis with a football, are they?’
But I can barely answer. ‘I . . . I . . .’
I don’t get to finish my sentence anyway. Instead, I look up to see the offending football hurtling directly at my head. The thump – square between my eyes – is surprisingly,
shockingly painful. But even accounting for that, the yelp I let out is less like a Jane Austen character swooning gracefully, and more like the noise a rubber duck would make if you stood on it in
the bath.
And although I can hear a whistle and see thick drops of blood seeping into my favourite Oasis blouse, all I can do is pray that I’m so concussed that I imagined the entire conversation
which preceded this event.
Edwin steps forward and takes me by the arm, leading me to the sick bay, before darting back to the playground. There
Fortunately, with excellent timing Tom Goodwin appears at my side. ‘Miss!’
‘What is it, Tom?’ I ask.
‘Is “twit” a swear word?’ Ben Havistock and Jacob Preston come trundling up behind him. Edwin and I share a smile as I steel myself to deal with this with smooth
authority.
‘Hmm . . . well, it’s not a nice thing to call somebody, but it probably isn’t an actual swear word,’ I decree.
‘What about “wally”?’ Jacob asks.
‘Well, again, not a swear word exactly but—’
‘Nitwit? Numbskull? Plonk—’
‘Yes – we’ve all got the idea,’ I tell him. ‘Your best bet is to not call anyone those names. Far better to be nice, don’t you think?’
‘Well, my mum says I need to think of something to call my brother other than “bellend”,’ Ben explains. ‘So all those things should be brilliant, shouldn’t
they?’
‘That is
definitely
a swear word, Ben – and you mustn’t use it.’
‘Brilliant?’ Jacob asks.
‘No! Look, why don’t you all run along. Your playtime will be finished soon.’
When I turn back, Edwin is striding across the playground to check on a suspiciously quiet group of Year One children building a den. I watch as they all stop what they’re doing to have a
conversation with him – enraptured as ever by his words – before he heads back.
‘Is everything all right?’ I ask, realising he looks upset about something.
He stiffens his lip and nods. ‘I’m just going to miss them.’
My brain struggles to process the words. ‘What do you mean?’
He flashes me a look. ‘You can keep a secret, can’t you, Lauren?’
One of my defining qualities, I like to think, is my utter refusal to break a confidence. I honestly never have. The only downside is that lots of people feel the need to burden me with
absolutely bloody every secret they’ve got. Including, it now seems, Edwin. And I’m getting a sudden horrible feeling that I might not want to know this one.
‘Of course,’ I hear myself say.
‘Well, don’t tell anyone at school yet . . . it’s not official. But I’m leaving.’
My mouth suddenly feels too dry to speak, swallow, breathe or do any of the things it was designed for.
‘Don’t look so shocked Lauren. It’s not for ages.’
I attempt to compose myself. ‘Sorry,’ I manage, trying to think of which of my 200 questions I should plump for first. ‘When are you going?’
‘The end of term,’ he says.
Horror rises in my throat. ‘But that’s only four months away.’
‘Exactly – ages.’
The playground starts spinning and my limbs feel as though they’re made of marshmallow.
‘Which school are you moving to?’ I whisper, remembering that I’d heard that a primary in Hawkshead was looking for a deputy head. ‘Are you staying in the
Lakes?’
‘Not exactly.’
I am engulfed in a sensation that my worst fears are being realised . . .
He’s moving to Manchester!
‘I’m moving to Singapore!’ he announces. For a second I convince myself I can’t possibly have heard him right.
‘Miss! My nose is bleeding!’ interrupts Jordan Carter. ‘They’re not allowed to play tennis with a football, are they?’
But I can barely answer. ‘I . . . I . . .’
I don’t get to finish my sentence anyway. Instead, I look up to see the offending football hurtling directly at my head. The thump – square between my eyes – is surprisingly,
shockingly painful. But even accounting for that, the yelp I let out is less like a Jane Austen character swooning gracefully, and more like the noise a rubber duck would make if you stood on it in
the bath.
And although I can hear a whistle and see thick drops of blood seeping into my favourite Oasis blouse, all I can do is pray that I’m so concussed that I imagined the entire conversation
which preceded this event.
Edwin steps forward and takes me by the arm, leading me to the sick bay, before darting back to the playground. There
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