<\/p>\n
Paper<\/strong><\/p>\n The secondary modern was further down the road from my school. Our playground was sunken below the level of the road. Passers by peered through the black railings while we played tennis, pitched netballs, hung around at break time. The Army Cadet Force from the equivalent boys\u2019 school opposite marched up and down the road weekly in their baggy khaki trousers and clacking boots. Boys from the secondary modern would stop and chat to girls through the railings.<\/p>\n I was leaning with one leg bent and my foot flat against the black stone wall.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat\u2019s your name?\u201d asked a boy with thick chestnut and olive skin.<\/p>\n \u201cChris.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAren\u2019t you going to ask me what mine is?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI suppose.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cPaul.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOh.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWanna go out?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAlright.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDon\u2019t sound so enthusiastic.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWell I don\u2019t know you.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou soon will. Meet me at youth club at 7.30 tomorrow night.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOK.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou\u2019d better turn up.\u201d<\/p>\n Paper<\/em><\/p>\n <\/p>\n The bell rang for lessons to start again.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n The youth club was dark and dingy; the walls and ceiling were painted in rust-coloured gloss paint. There was a coffee bar, table tennis, pool, strip lights and low ceilings. Uncomfortable wooden seats like church pews lined the walls.<\/p>\n Paul nodded to me when he saw me. I walked over and stood by him, not knowing what to say.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat\u2019s that?\u201d I asked, pointing at a walking stick he was holding.<\/p>\n \u201cYou\u2019ll see. Want a coffee?\u201d<\/p>\n He told me he was a catholic and he wanted to be a butcher.<\/p>\n \u201cThat way there\u2019ll always be meat to eat.\u201d<\/p>\n He showed me how to twist a sweet wrapper into a cup shape, spit in the base, and throw it up to the ceiling. The ceiling was covered with dozens of sweet-wrapper cups suspended on spittle.<\/p>\n \u201cWhere do you live?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n \u201cOn the council estate by the canal.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019ve been there on my bike.\u201d<\/p>\n He tore off a blank section of paper from one of the notices on the noticeboard and wrote down his address. I folded it carefully and put it in my jeans back pocket. Walking home he made sure he was on the outside of the pavement. His warm hand slid into mine.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Each time we passed a bus stop he lifted his walking stick and thwacked the bus stop sign. Each time we passed a row of railings he swapped sides and rattled his stick along their length.<\/p>\n It was almost dark as we rounded the corner to my avenue. A vast peach moon slipped in and out of the clouds. We stopped opposite at the beginning of my row of houses. Paul enveloped me and pressed his cushion lips against mine. He tasted good. We explored each other\u2019s cheekbones with our lips, the corners of our mouths, the silk of our eyelids. I heard footsteps marching along the opposite pavement. It was my father.<\/p>\n \u201cChristine! Get in! Now!\u201d he shouted. We sprang apart. My father crossed the road.<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019ll see you tomorrow,\u201d he said. \u201cAt school.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThe hell you will!\u201d my father said.<\/p>\n As I walked to our house beside my father I looked three times over my shoulder at Paul. He waved. I didn\u2019t dare.<\/p>\n \u201cWho\u2019s he?\u201d said Dad as we stood in the morning room.<\/p>\n \u201cHe goes to the school near me.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThe grammar school?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThe secondary modern?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n \u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n My mother stood silently by.<\/p>\n \u201cDoes he have any brothers and sisters?\u201d<\/p>\n Paper<\/em><\/p>\n <\/p>\n \u201cFour brothers and three sisters.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSo he\u2019s catholic?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYes.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u00a0<\/em>\u201cA left footer. I might have known.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIf you get pregnant,\u201d said my mother, \u201cyou can tell your headmistress.\u201d This was the nearest we ever got to a conversation about birth control.<\/p>\n \u201cDon\u2019t worry, she\u2019ll not be seeing him again,\u201d said Dad. They went upstairs.<\/p>\n I took the piece of paper with Paul\u2019s address from my pocket and unfolded it. His handwriting sloped forward in faint pencil loops. What if my father found the paper and went round to his house? I opened the door of the central heating boiler. The burning coal smelled dry and acrid. I thought that if I threw the paper in the low flames Dad could still get the ashes out and identify Paul\u2019s address.<\/p>\n I went upstairs, tore the paper into twelve small pieces and lined them up on my bookshelf. One by one over the next few hours I put them in my mouth. I chewed and chewed then swallowed hard. I never saw Paul again.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Chrissie Gittins<\/strong>‘ poetry collections are ‘Armature’ <\/a>and ‘I’ll Dress One Night as You’<\/a>; her short story collection is Family Connections<\/a><\/em>. Her three children’s poetry collections are Choices for the Children’s Poetry Bookshelf. Chrissie writes radio drama and her work features on the Poetry Archive. www.chrissiegittins.co.uk<\/a><\/p>\n <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Paper The secondary modern was further down the road from my school. Our playground was sunken below the level of the road. Passers by peered through the black railings while we played tennis, pitched netballs, hung around at break time. The Army Cadet Force from the equivalent boys\u2019 school opposite marched up and down […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":4,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[7],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-3652","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-prose-poetry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3652","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/4"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=3652"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3652\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":3654,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3652\/revisions\/3654"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=3652"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=3652"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=3652"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}Paper<\/h4>\n