Open Writing

The second time I was bullied I must have been about twelve. I know I was in the senior school. I have read that bullies sense that a particular type of child won't hit back, and that bullied children tend to be emotionally mature for their age, having grasped the fact that conflict is best dealt with by negotiation.

There was certainly no room for negotiation with these two bullies. Harold Brandwood was a well developed thirteen-year-old and his partner-in-crime was a skinny, buck-toothed boy called Teddy Skelland. I never did discover why they took such an active dislike to me. They never said a word to me throughout the punishments. As my father had been a policeman, perhaps they thought that by giving me a good hiding they were somehow getting at him, considering it a blow against a figure in authority.

Anyway as far as I was concerned it was all becoming a bit of a pain, literally - and I knew that I was going to have to do something constructive about it. All of these punch-up's occurred in the back lane behind the houses.

This particular day I came into the back lane from school and it was empty. As I walked past the Skelland's gate I heard whispering and realised that they had been waiting for me. The Brandwood boy ran out and pushed me up against the wall and punched me on the side of the head. 'This is it,' I thought and I pretended to faint. I didn't just fall flat on the floor; I gave a little groan, sighed, closed my eyes and slid gracefully down the wall to the ground.

Although I say it myself it was a magnificent performance. If Sarah Bernhardt had been alive and kicking and living in Warrington, she would have been proud of me.

I distinctly heard a gasp from someone. Then Teddy Skelland said in a nervous voice: "What have you done? Do you think she's dead?"

Harold Brandwood replied: "Don't be daft! I only gave her a bit of a tap. I'm going home." I heard him walk quickly away.

Thinking my effort had got a good result I moaned quietly, and opened my eyes, just as all the heroines did in stories, I faintly breathed: "Where am I?"

Teddy Skelland, looking very worried, asked me if I was feeling alright. I looked him straight in the eye and said: "If I am, then it's no thanks to you."

He tried to help me up but I pushed him away, stood up and started walking home. Behind me I heard him say: "I'm very sorry" and I gave him a sharp: "And so you should be!"

This belied the look on my face, for I was grinning from ear to ear. 'I've done it,' I thought, 'and without having to fight anyone or scream or shout. I've really done it!'

And I really had. There was no more trouble from either of them again. In fact after that Teddy Skelland went out of his way to be particularly nice to me offering me comics and sweets. My girl friends insisted that he was 'sweet' on me. They couldn't understand why I repulsed all his efforts to be nice. They liked him. I thought he was creepy.

Things went wonderfully well at school. I was top of my form, and had played Gepetto in Pinocchio before we broke up for the summer holidays. Then one day as I was going shopping for my mother I passed a gang of boys. I recognised most of them, except for one sturdy, red headed, freckled-faced boy, who was staring at me. I heard someone say: "Go on Roy, go on then. Do it."

My antennae quivered. I had a feeling something was going to happen. I had increased my pace when suddenly he landed a punch on my back and my hair was pulled.

I felt an overwhelming rage well up inside me directed at this ugly, bumptious creature, who I didn't know from Adam. I didn't speak. I pulled violently away from him and turned. He came at me again with his fists flying. As I grappled with him, I put my arms around his middle and with a surge of energy lifted him off the ground and threw him violently away from me. I heard him cry out and then he landed with a satisfying thump on the roadway.

I don't know where I got the strength from to do what I did. I didn't care. At that moment I wouldn't have cared if I'd killed him. For me it felt stupendous. I didn't even look back to see if I'd injured him. I marched down to the shops with an air of joyous abandon - Boudicca, Joan of Arc and Edith Cavell rolled into one.

Experts on bullying say that bullied children are more emotionally aware and have strong personal integrity, which means they often want to spare their parents the pain of their suffering. This sometimes leads to suicide. I didn't feel any of that. I hated the indignity of being bullied for nothing other than giving a perverted passing pleasure to some warped individual, and I have never been bullied since.

Years later when my children and I were staying at my old family home, prior to flying out to Malaysia to join my husband, I met an old girlfriend who used to live a few doors away from me. As we reminisced about school and childhood fun and games, I asked if she had kept in touch with anyone.

Teddy Skelland's name came up. I wondered how he was getting on and she said: "Poor old Ted. He's married to an awful woman. She really bullies him."

I laughed and she looked aghast: "Oh, Betty, it's not funny. She gives him a dog's life!"

I felt a sudden wave of pity wash over me for poor, weak Teddy trapped in a miserable marriage. "No," I said, "it's not funny. Nobody deserves that."