13. THE PLAYGROUND INCIDENT

More deaths marking Judie's journey through life

There was a loud clang on the stone flags of the porch as Judy dropped the knife she had been threatening the two of them with.

“That’s what you do with a Judy,” she said, her voice quiet, almost timid, so different from the arrogant tones she’d used mere moments before that it was difficult for Chantelle to think it was the same person.

“What do we do with a Judy?” she asked, unable to stop herself.

“Punch us. Punch us all the time. That’s why we were born, us Judies, to be taken down, accused of lying and punched again and again and again. Punch the Judy, that’s what the children all cry, Punch the Judy until she’d dead, mop the blood around her head, eat your sweeties up instead...”

And they had, once upon a time, in a ring in the playground, boys joining in with the girls, the other girls but not her, all of them gathered round her and punching and kicking her for all their worth because she wasn’t now and never would be one of them. They knew that and she knew that. Mummy was a crack head. Mummy was a s**t else why would there be no daddy anywhere near?

Then the teacher on playground duty came along and stood, watching as the weeping child was being battered by a crowd of angry ten year old bullies before shouting “STOP” in a stentorian voice, and the battering slowly stopped.

“Now what’s going on here?” she asked.

“It’s Judy, miss,” piped up one of the boys, a smaller creature who Judy was sure wouldn’t see the day out if she had anything to do with it, “she smells.”

“Of course she does,” agreed the teacher, “she’s a wretched creature, and no mistake. But she’s a fellow human being and we should love her.”

“Then you love her,” scoffed a voice from the middle of the crowd.

“Was that you, Margaret Hatch?” asked the teacher fiercely.

“Sorry miss,” the same voice said.

“I’d rather love the Headmaster, and he’s not the best man in the world,” she told the girl, and she turned to Judy.

“Go indoors and we’ll straighten you out,” ordered the teacher, what was her name, it was gone. It had been so long ago. But she’d taken Judy indoors and asked her what all the fuss had been about, and the horrible truth was Judy didn’t know. They’d just set on her, two girls to start with, then the others had joined in. It was fun, a playground scrap with a hated victim at the centre of it.

“You must know what you’ve done to upset them,” admonished the teacher, “it’s not natural for gangs to form and set on one pupil if she’s not done anything to upset them.”

“But I haven’t...” and she was crying. She didn’t like showing weakness, not when she was ten, but this time she couldn’t help it. And she had bruises to excuse it

“Maybe without thinking?”

“I’m a Judy. It’s what kids do, they punch Judies.” She sounded sullen, but couldn’t help the tone of her voice.

The teacher looked at her. Was that sympathy in her eyes and on her face? Or was the like the kids outside, a person who detested Judies?

“Well, dry your tears, dear, and sit in the library until break is over, and think about it...”

And that was it. She thought about it. She thought hard, but she’d not upset anyone. She couldn’t have, sitting on a step by the door, all on her own, no friends to interact with or run and chase, no boys to tease. Just herself, and she was a Judy who needed to be put straight. Needed to be punched.

“They punched me,” she muttered, “but one boy didn’t get home that night after school. It was sad really, and I couldn’t help him when he ran out into the road under that bus...”

“Was it you?” asked Chantelle, frightened of hearing the answer.

“I wasn’t anywhere near him, so don’t you go saying I was!”

“No daughter of mine would behave in such a way!” put in old Braxton, “it isn’t in my genes.” He waved his pistol in front of her.

“I can’t help who I am.” She was sullen again, just like in the old days. Sullen and in denial.

She’d never been able to help who she was, and here she was, a sad, middle-aged woman with nothing in front of her and very little more than misery behind her. Life had a wonderful array of weapons, and had punched her with most of them. Even in prison there had been Lisa who had said she loved her and tried to prove it. Lisa was nice really, in an ugly way she’d been pretty, but her love had been one-sided and painful. It was sad, really, how Lisa had fallen in the showers and sustained a head injury from which she never recovered consciousness. Maybe it had something to do with love. Her death certainly had, Judy knew that much.

“I can’t help who I am,” she repeated.

But Braxton was clearly disturbed. His face was pale, his eyes glazed, the gun in his hand wavering until he had all on the keep his hands on it and not let it fall to the concrete floor.

“Say you’re not! Deny the lies you’ve told about yourself, you evil girl!” he said, trying to sound authoritative, but his ancient voice was cracked and he sounded nothing of the sort.

“I’m going home,” said Chantelle. “And if I’m late home my dad’ll come looking for me. And he’s a wrestler when he’s not a policeman,” she added. He wasn’t either a wrestler or a policeman, but Chantelle thought the combination might add kudos and safety if she said that he was.

And maybe rightly. She was unchallenged as she slipped through the still open door and onto the orchard path. Two sets of eyes followed her, and then she was out of sight. But before she’d gone, “You never answered me,” Braxton called after her.

“What about?” she asked, pausing as she approached the gate.

“I did ask you, more than once I seem to remember, but will you marry me?” he asked, his voice croaking and his tone almost desperate.

“I couldn’t marry anyone, not yet, not with my life in front of me and my dad ready to beat up anyone who asked,” she shouted from the gate, but he didn’t hear her.

It was all too much for Chantelle, and she ran off, towards the orchard gate and down Durnley Bottoms, as swiftly as she could.

But Braxton hadn’t heard her refusal because suddenly for him the world was silent.

He was dead, and Judy was wringing her hands in confusion.

© Peter Rogerson 12.12.19