Maroon
I had always hated the colour, even if my mother referred to it as ‘wine’. It was still yuck.
Changing schools was a frightening enough experience, but even worse were the pleated skirts. I watched from the top deck of the bus as the bigger girls swished and sashayed with skill beyond their years as they migrated towards the boy’s fence. Hemlines shrank. Girls danced. Boys showed off.
It was the colour of congealed blood. Some bright spark thought blue trim helped.
My worst day began before I’d stepped on the premises. The day I opened the crumpled plastic bag.
‘It will save money, ’Mum said.
Someone had cast off a hand knitted V-necked jumper. It sat limply at the bottom of the bag. It was a boy’s jumper. A woollen jumper. It sagged. It had pulls. It was too big. It smelled. It was mine. And it was maroon
Changing schools was a frightening enough experience, but even worse were the pleated skirts. I watched from the top deck of the bus as the bigger girls swished and sashayed with skill beyond their years as they migrated towards the boy’s fence. Hemlines shrank. Girls danced. Boys showed off.
It was the colour of congealed blood. Some bright spark thought blue trim helped.
My worst day began before I’d stepped on the premises. The day I opened the crumpled plastic bag.
‘It will save money, ’Mum said.
Someone had cast off a hand knitted V-necked jumper. It sat limply at the bottom of the bag. It was a boy’s jumper. A woollen jumper. It sagged. It had pulls. It was too big. It smelled. It was mine. And it was maroon
