Out of the Blue by Ros Jones
She opened the door with difficulty, the shopping bags dragging on her arm, and looked at the small pale face staring up at her from the fur-ringed hood. “She says she has a headache.” Jack raised his eyebrows over their daughter’s head.
“Well,” Ruby let the shopping slide to the ground and encircled the little sheep-skinned body, “She’s been saying she felt a bit poorly for a couple of days. Why are you waiting on the doormat?”
“We just got here. The school couldn’t reach you.” He looked at his watch, “Got to go back to work.” He kissed Jess quickly on the top of her head, smiled at Ruby and edged past her out of the door. She pushed it shut with her foot.
“Come on, Jess, I’ll find you a blanket and you can lie on the sofa. Do you want to watch a DVD?”
Jess nodded slowly, “Peter Pan.” She shrugged out of her coat and let it slide to the floor. Ruby picked it up without comment. She arranged Jess on piles of cushions, covered her with a blanket, and went in search of Peter Pan, buried in the pile of DVDs that had fallen out of favour. “Here we are.” She slotted the DVD into the machine. “How are you feeling now? Any better?”
Jess’s eyes were solemn, fixed on Mr Darling’s efforts to tie his bow tie. “I’ve got a headache and a bit of a sore throat.”
“I’ll get you a drink.” As she handed her the beaker, Ruby said casually, “It’s a shame you’re feeling ill, now Molly won’t be able to come and play.”
Jess was watching Nana hauled downstairs by an irate Mr Darling. “She could still come. I’ll probably be all right by then.” She looked at her mother hopefully. Ruby put an arm around her.
“No, you can’t really have friends to play when you’re poorly. It’s best to rest and get better. It’s a nuisance being unwell, isn’t it?” Another nod, fractional.
As Wendy descended over Neverland, her nightgown flared about her, heading straight for the mermaids sitting on the rocks, Ruby gave her daughter a squeeze, “Jess, I promise I won’t be cross, but I do need to know. Were you really ill, or did you just want to come home?”
Jess’ face stayed fixed on the screen but her body tightened, “Wanted to come home.”
“Okay. Can you tell me why you wanted to come home?”
A shrug. “Don’t know.” The mermaids laughed and shoved Wendy into the pool.
“Something must be worrying you,” said Ruby, gently. “Come on, tell me what it is.”
The little girl leaned forward, her fair hair hiding her face, “I was scared.” Her voice was faint.
“Uh huh. Why were you scared?” Ruby could wait all afternoon.
“I was scared Lily would hit me in the playground.”
Ruby swallowed her astonishment. “Lily? But Lily’s lovely, why would she hit you?”
At last Jess sat back up and looked at her mother, “People won’t let her play so she hits them.”
Ruby nodded slowly, and thought fast. “Have you seen her hit anyone?”
Jess shook her head, “No, but everyone says she does.”
Ruby glanced at the screen; Wendy was wet and cross, dripping on a rock. Peter Pan was laughing. “Why won’t people let her play? It must make her feel very sad.”
Jess wove her fingers between her mother’s, “She wants to play with Anna and Jas and Tia, but they tell her to go away. They don’t like her. They don’t like people her colour.”
Ruby hid her horror. Seven year olds. “I think,” she said, calmly, “You and me had better have a quiet chat with your teacher about all this.” She felt Jess relax against her, the worry released out into the world, no longer her responsibility. As Ruby digested what Jess had said, the television screen came abruptly and sharply into focus, Captain Hook’s ship was sailing into view, dark and ominous against a cartoon blue sky.
That ship. It had started with just such a ship, towering and elaborate, tall-masted with jutting prow and spiderweb rigging, sailing across the vast white acreage of the largest wall in the school hall. That, and the gallons of electric blue paint, lined up in pots, waiting to surround the ship with sea and sky. The Whole School Painting, introduced to Ruby’s primary school by the new headmaster, a gentle and otherworldly man, with progressive views on the importance of art, was intended to involve every child in its collective creation. On that morning, Ruby and her best friend, Jackie, were thrilled to be told it was their turn. “You’re eight now, girls, Year Fours,” said Miss Turner. “Old enough to be trusted. You are to put your overalls on and go to the hall. The paint is there already. I want you both to do your best painting and be particularly careful around the edges of the ship.” Ruby and Jackie nodded, proud and excited.
They climbed up on to the stage that ran along the big wall, examining the four outsize tins of dazzling blue that shone promisingly at them from the back of the platform. Choosing a couple of paint brushes from the large pot alongside, they dipped them into the blue and wiped them carefully on the sides of the tin before beginning on the endless blank space that stretched in front of them. It was strange to be alone in the big, quiet hall. A faint smell of school dinners, spam fritters and brown sponge with sickly pink sauce, drifted from the door to the kitchens. A vest lay forgotten over one of the gym bars that hung on the opposite wall. They painted slowly and seriously at first, until Ruby painted a smiley face onto the white, “Look!” Jackie gasped and giggled and painted one too. Soon they were painting faces and cats and funny body parts, competing to be the most outrageous. Eventually, inevitably, Ruby flicked her brush at Jackie. A thin trail of blue speckled her overall. She flicked back. Ruby dipped her brush into the paint and without wiping it sloshed it at Jackie. Jackie smeared Ruby’s face with soaking blue bristles. They both dipped and sloshed and flicked and threw, breathless with effort and laughter. Finally Ruby picked up the half empty tin of paint and with a roar hurled it over Jackie.
In the absolute silence that followed they stared at each other. Horror crept through them, leaving them sick and shaky. They were blue. The stage was blue. All the wrong bits of the picture were blue. As if hypnotised they walked slowly back to their classroom. Miss Turner screamed, “What has happened?” The class gazed in silent amazement. Ruby and Jackie stared at Miss Turner and then at the floor. They shuffled their feet.
Ruby spoke, “It wasn’t us.” She felt Jackie startle, very slightly, next to her.
“It wasn’t? Who was it then?” The whole class continued to stare, astonished by the two blue girls.
“It was a Year Six boy,” said Ruby.
Miss Turner blinked, “A Year Six? Who? What did he do?” Jackie was still dumb.
“We were just painting nicely,” said Ruby, “And a boy walked through the hall and just came up and threw all this paint over us. Didn’t he?” She nudged Jackie who gave what could have been a nod.
Miss Turner stared at them, “Go into the cloakroom and get cleaned up. Put your overalls in the bin and wash yourselves as best you can.”
Standing at the sink, scrubbing with cold water at the blue, they nudged each other and giggled quietly. They had got away with it. Ruby almost believed it had happened. Going back into the classroom, still smeared with blue, they saw the headmaster standing with Miss Turner. He smiled at them kindly. “Ruby,” he said. “I am sorry this has happened. I have the whole Year Six lined up in the hall and I want you to come with me and show me who it was.” Ruby’s stomach rolled over; cold shimmied down her spine. She didn’t even think to ask why Jackie wasn’t coming. She followed the headmaster back to the hall where a long row of Year Six faces stared up at her from the floor, legs and arms neatly crossed. “Now,” said the headmaster. “Please show me who it was.” Ruby looked at all the faces, mostly winter white and thin. There were one or two fat ones and hardly any brown. Slowly, she pointed a blue finger at a round, brown face bearing a thick black fringe sheared straight across the forehead.
“Him,” she said.
The boy was aghast, “I didn’t, it wasn’t, I never...” He was red and tearful, spluttering.
The headmaster looked at her, “You may go back to your class, Ruby.”
Captain Hook stood on the deck, all bluster and swagger, his hook winking in the bright sunlight. “He’s not a very nice man, is he, Mummy?” said Jess, deep in the conflicts of Neverland, far from the conflicts of school.
Ruby sighed and hugged her daughter to her tightly. “No,” she said. “He isn’t. But you know what? Maybe people weren’t very nice to him when he was little. Maybe people picked on him because of his hand. Maybe they called him names and left him out of their games. People can be horrible to people just because they’re different, can’t they?”
Jess looked at her, frowning slightly. Ruby was pleased to see that her cheeks had returned to their normal colour of pale rose. “Mum, the crocodile ate his hand when he was a grown-up.” She smiled kindly and patiently at her mother, “It’s not real, it’s only a story, you know.” She wriggled and patted her mother’s leg, “Can you get off? You’re squashing me. Are there any biscuits? I’m quite hungry now, I’m feeling a bit better. Can Molly come?”
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