Playground

I walked past the school playground today. Don't know why I bothered, to get away, I suppose. I wanted to get away from the horrid, sheltered flat, my flat.

It can hardly be called sheltered. There's a hole in the roof, and graffiti all over the walls. Someone's been in and vandalised it, no doubt. Paddy didn't like it either, died the first day I moved in, he did. Died in my arms, he did. I heard his last purr, like a steam engine. He's deserted me and so have they all. Who can be bothered with old Peggy any more? Peg leg Peggy, they called me. Don't know why. I still have two legs to stand on, not like some of those poor soldiers. I needed to escape.

I walked out. Nobody noticed, even though the care workers were meant to watch me. Watch me? They haven't come to clean for days. So I walked out, and down the road.

This place used to be beautiful. Daddy would take us for walk here, when we came up to the country.

"See that?" he'd say, stopping dead to gaze at something ahead, like a rabbit, hidden in the grasses, "tis the beauty of nature."

They shoot rabbits now.

There's no grass any more. It's all been trampled, no doubt. Those violent teenagers have probably skated all over it, on their stupid machines, and thrown a glass bottle or two in there, no doubt.

I'm better than you think, you know. They all think I'm retarded in the shelter.

"How are we today, Margaret? Would you like your shoesies putting on, hmm?"

If only they knew what I'd seen and done. Bet they haven't seen their house being destroyed. Bet they haven't tried (and failed) to save their sister's life.

Then, in to the little village. It's quiet now, too quiet. When I was younger, people would stand and talk for ages, even in the war. Sometimes, Daddy would meet one of his friends, and they'd talk for hours. Muriel and I used to get so tired of all that talking. Dear Muriel. But at least they were cheerful, it was cheerful chatter. And little birds would flutter on to the walls, their eyes bright and daring. Sometimes, they'd even fly down for crumbs, their heads cocked on one side, and vanish in a puff of feathers when they saw you looking.

It's not like that any more. There's noone about. I think even the river's stopped, because it certainly wasn't talking to me today. It used to whisper. Muriel thought it held enchantments. But there's no sound now. The doctor says my hearing isn't too good these days. But I would hear the river, wouldn't I? Of course I would.

The school playground isn't far away, and the walk isn't hurting my legs at all. I'm as fit as a fiddle, see? The sign's new. It's bright yellow plastic, and there's a wrapper stuck to it. How disgusting. Our sign was old and wooden. It used to creak as it swung in the wind.

"It is just as tired of school as we are," Mags used to say.

But the school is just the same. I can see it now, that same old plain grey building, with the two side doors-one for girls, and one for boys. Even the play ground is the same. I can see the hop scotch grid, and the painted snakes and ladders. I thought they were chalk, when I was there.

The doors are opening. Out come the boys. Boys first, of course. Girls were always inferior. What's happened? Why are the girls coming out? Naughty girls! Miss Robins will tell them off. She'll march them all back inside, and give them a good whipping. Serve them right! We were never disobedient when we were there!

Who's this? What's she doing here? She isn't Miss Robins, or Mr Thwait. She's too young, and swinging her arms as if she's pleased. Teachers shouldn't do that. She doesn't look the least bit cross, she's smiling. The younger children have come out now, through the girl's door. Some are boys. Boys shouldn't go through the girl's door.

The fun we used to have in the playground. Mags, Muriel, Hannah and I used to play marbles. Hannah always had the most marbles, it was so unfair. She always managed to find them down drains, or in the cracks of walls, where they'd rolled from people's pockets. If the weather was cold, we'd join Ginny and Esra at hop scotch. We never spoke to the boys.

Sometimes, we'd seek out the younger girls, and rub their poor, cold little fingers. They were so thin, the younger ones, never had enough energy to fight for food, I expect. You were lucky to get it plentiful in those days, especially if you were small.

I wonder who plays marbles now? Strange, I can't see a marble anywhere. Some boys are playing hopscotch! some big boys! Disgraceful! And that teacher hasn't turned a hair! They're not playing hopscotch, just running about like raving lunatics. There's a group of children over there, big boys, and big girls. I can see a little girl in amongst them and... they're hitting her. They're shouting in her face, and that woman still hasn't punished them. We would never consider such abomination.

Where is my playground, with the chalk grids, and the marbles? Where are the skipping ropes, whirling round and round, making lashings in the air? Where are the spinning tops, and the yoyos. Where are the little model aeroplanes the boys used to fly from one side of the playground to the other? Where are the boys? Where are Ginny and Esra? Where is Mags, and where... where is my sweet Muriel?

It is too loud, and too cold. I wrap my shawl around me, but it makes no difference. My knees buckle. Noone has noticed, am I invisible? I try to turn, to touch myself, perhaps to pinch myself awake, but I can't. I can't feel myself any more. Peggy, where are you? This is my playground no longer.

I struggle to my feet, and turn to walk away. I look back, just once. The little girl is standing by the wall, her eyes are red and swollen, but they are pretty, big and blue, like Muriel's. Her eyes are on me; she's looking straight in to my face.

She has blonde hair in plaits, just like Muriel did. She is so thin, her face so pale. I look in to her face, and we share a single tear, before I walk away.