The boy and his red haired friend shared stale onion breath and would try to stand very close to girls in my class. At break time they would try to pick off those girls who were left on the edge of the playground. Poor Barbara tried to be nice to them,to speak to them, but their sweat and eager eyes made me feel sick. A friend Karen had an older sister called Christine whose cleverness was the talk of the school . One Friday, she invited me to play Treasure Island with her. She suggested we could ride white horses, very, very fast. The boys tried to watch us, but she shooed them away. They lowered their heads and sloped off behind the wall into the shadows.
They never bothered me again cowering before Christine’s power, that made them smaller; more furtive, defeated.
Even today I can conjure up that feeling of exhilaration again; the liberation of galloping around my playground, pretending to be a noble pirate! I would ride a fine, white horse, rescuing Karen from danger, elated at being a boy; knowing somewhere; everywhere – Christine was guarding us all.