Painted teal blue on the outside, with crisp white doors and window sills, the dollâs house sat contentedly in Daisyâs room, honoured to know that it was as much a crucial design feature of the house as it was a toy. Its grand size of three storeys demanded immediate attention from all who entered. Â The interiors, on the other hand, often remained unobserved. This was much to the chagrin of Cherise Baker who had designed the interiors with the meticulous creativity and budget usually reserved for a home. Daisy was totally enamoured with the house, not because of the electric colour scheme or the impeccable attention to detail, but simply because she enjoyed the act of sitting cross legged in front of it and musing about what she would make each doll do that day.
On the ground floor a miniature grand staircase was preceded by a hallway of closed doors. The first door on the left led to a lounge painted violet, with sofas circling a coffee table laden with tiny magazines in which tiny, unsmiling women struggled to breathe in tiny corsets. A little porcelain boy and girl sat on two sofas adjacent to each other sitting so stiffly that any of their porcelain neighbours looking in through the diamonded windows would think that the breath had stopped cold in their mouths. On the right of the corridor was the kitchen, its walls adorned with sparkly monochromatic tiles. Black bar stools sprang from the ground like wild flowers, offering a seat to the empty room before it. Next to the kitchen was the emerald dining room but there was no door to connect the two. If anyone were to visit the house, theyâd get the sense that they were always in the corridor, always travelling, always separate from everything else.
The roomâs windows looked out onto a rather eccentric feature that had been specifically requested. On a platform of painted grey wood perched the accessories of a park, each perfectly functioning. Cherry red monkey bars, fuchsia pink slide, turquoise roundabout with coral handle bars, acid green swings; all roughly the size of a finger. A painstakingly crafted playground where no child could play.
*
Daisy clung to the monkey bars as waxen sweat dripped off her palms. The boyâs hand gripped her leg, imprinting the shape of his fingers into her calf. Taunts buzzed by her ears like mosquitoes in the summer but, her focus on the bars above her, the individual words failed to penetrate. Her head dully ached and her palms hurt. She felt sticky. The boyâs hand grew clammy upon her leg, echoing the moisture of her own. He had been tugging at her, pulling her lower and lower but now even he seemed tired, and instead of the incessant tugging, he just clung to her, making it impossible for her to come down, his short nails digging into her, small bruises that her mum would notice. Wet beads filled her eyes and she frenziedly tried to blink them away, too stubborn to show sign of her weakness; not wanting the tears to drop upon her persecutorâs head.
Suddenly, the hand dropped from her leg. Mrs Brasier, who had been teaching them about the Aztecs only half an hour before, waddled towards the path behind the monkey bars. Bobbyâs now-free hand waved at her and she nodded towards him in friendly recognition. She shot a perplexed look at Daisy. Daisyâs face reddened. Her arms let go and she dropped, forgetting to remind her legs to catch her, landing in a crumple. Her knees grazed, her dignity lost, Daisy felt a pointed sense of injustice. Mrs Brazier shuffled towards her at a slightly increased pace but, when she arrived, her questions regarding her well being were interpolated with questions about why she had failed to land on her feet and why she had been hanging so lamely in the first place. Daisy clenched her hand behind her back and thought about how there were many people at this school who needed to be taught a lesson.
*
In the dollâs house upstairs the woman and man sat stiffly facing each other in the green dining room, with unoccupied chairs hedging them in on either side.
âItâs not okay David. Thereâs a bruise on her leg and sheâs different recently. Not as bubbly. Far more anxious. Like sheâs worried that she canât walk into school safely, like sheâs scared,â Cheriseâs voice broke as she envisioned her daughter as she had seen her that afternoon, both upset and angry, refusing to talk to her except for sulky hints.
David looked up from his phone. Heâd been checking emails. They sat, empty tables before them, in the room directly below their daughterâs bedroom.
âIâm sure sheâs fine. Girls are emotional creatures. If you got involved every time a girl cried, youâd never have time to do other things.â
âDavid! This isnât sobbing after one harsh word. Sheâs shutting herself off. From us, from her friends. All she does now is play upstairs as if itâs safer to play on her own…â, Cherise reached for a tissue, âthan, than with others. As if itâs better to move people about than to move about the world yourself.â She looked at her husband, big tears forming in her blue eyes.
David sighed. Cherise had acted in some amateur plays whilst young and now regularly read thrillers, all of which combined, in his personal opinion, to create a rather inaccurate sense of reality. âIâll call the school tomorrow. See what I can do.â
*
Rolls of blue opaque tights were tucked into Daisyâs paisley pillowcase. A crucial piece of homework was hidden in a drawer of her desk. Her forehead had been an unnatural temperature upon waking. It had been a long morning, full of stops and starts, and problems suddenly remembered, and searching for things that Cherise was sure had been there the night before. The car approached the final roundabout one more time, and, even as Cheriseâs muscles tensed in anticipation of yet another hurdle, there was silence from her daughter in the back. By some miracle, at 8.40, only ten minutes late, the car was parked and Daisy was ready.
She breathed in deeply and bent to untie her shoe laces, before retying them again. The bow was carefully left slightly loose so that they might fall apart in the twenty step walk round the corner to the gates. She pulled her rucksack towards her and, in response to her motherâs worried look, remarked with fake joviality, âIâm just checking I have everything this time!â
Cherise sighed but didnât look any calmer. She considered talking to Daisy, telling her that she was sure sheâd washed and put away at least three pairs of tights only a couple of days ago, that it was odd how quickly her fever had dissipated. She didnât know how to. She felt awkward about the whole topic. Even if they did discuss Daisyâs anxieties, she was at a loss as to what help she could offer. Sheâd called the school and theyâd responded that, if Daisyâs self-isolation continued or if they witnessed this boy âterrorising Daisy as she claimsâ, they would consider splitting the two into separate classes but as of right now, it seemed premature and, really, a little bit too accusatory for their liking.
Daisy reached for the door handle and on opening it, stepped down to the kerb. As she started to walk away, her motherâs voice called out to her. Perhaps she had a large stain on her clothes that would require going home and changing. Or perhaps she really had left something behind that her mum had just remembered. When she got back to the car, however, Cherise just got out and hugged her tightly.
Cherise said softly, âIt will be okay darling. Boys can be mean and horrid and we canât always control them or what they do. If he does something else, I will try my very very best to stop him, but until then, youâve just got to make sure he doesnât control what you do. You are far too smart and brilliant to be missing school.â
She smiled and kissed her lightly on the head.
As she walked away, Daisy felt a renewed sense of hope. With each step it faded slightly. When she reached the little brick wall that surrounded the schoolâs entrance, the queasiness that had plagued her that morning came back. It felt like someone was pulling gently at ropes inside her tummy. As if someone was trying to puppet her intestines. She resisted the burning desire to lie on the ground and roll herself into a protective ball and instead forced her feet to move forwards. She also felt like she needed the toilet. For the whole journey her skin felt tight and her ears rang. She clung to her rucksack, which she held in her hand as if having something to hold onto made the clenching of her knuckles more natural.
The playground was grey and barren but, to Daisy, it seemed to become like a forest, full of trees where people could hide and from behind which wolves could pounce.
*
Tears stung her eyes, her mouth was full of spit and she could feel snot bubbling in her nose. She was trying to prevent the tears becoming sobs but her breath was catching in her throat and she was struggling to bring herself back from the edge of hysteria. Her hands were stinging from digging into the rough ground, but to turn around would mean facing the people around her. She didnât want anyone to see her cry.
She had been playing on âthe new playgroundâ, as everyone always referred to it although it had been there for at least two years now. It consisted of wooden ships on which you could sit or climb surrounded by a blue sea of tarmac. When it had been opened, the pupils had all been allowed to dress up as pirates or sailors and run amok with their swords for the day whilst the headmistress at the time, Mrs Davison, cut the rope with an extravagantly large pair of scissors.
There was a particular boat, a rather small one towards the entrance of the extended playground, in which Daisy most liked to sit. It was the furthest away from everyone else. She was reading Matilda, her back to the kids on the other side of the boat. Bobby walked over and started talking to the others, deliberately placing himself as close to Daisy as he could, looking at her occasionally. The words on her page started to wiggle and her focus turned to the tightening ropes in her stomach and the dryness of her mouth. It was then, whilst she was preoccupied with remaining outwardly calm, that he turned to her. He said something which she could not remember even when her teachers and parents asked about it later. His form veered towards her, getting larger and larger until he was all that she could see. His hand outstretched, he shoved her hard onto the ground. She landed on the blue tarmac, shocked by the sudden pain and movement. Daisy recoiled as he leaned towards her again and then, moving away from her face further down her body, he leant over her arm, gathered all the spit in his mouth and spat on her blazer.
He laughed and walked away without looking backwards.
*
âWell theyâre going to have to be separated obviously. If that stupid kid isnât suspended.â
âIâm glad youâre finally paying attention,â Cherise snarled at her husband. âThe school have already agreed to that. Itâs too little too late if you ask me.â
Cherise was facing her bedroom wall, as she did sometimes in conversations with her husband. She placed her forehead on the cool white surface. It had been a hard week. There is perhaps nothing more frustrating than having your gut feeling, the one you dismissed and ignored, proven right. Chocolate had been bought and cuddles had been given and promises had been made but she still felt that she had failed in some crucial way.
*
The dejection had turned into rage now. Daisy sat on the edge of her bed and thought. Her brain was her biggest talent. She often got full marks on spelling tests and did very well on her homework even when she didnât try but, more than that, she could trust her mind. If she really focussed, she knew that she could wish what she wanted into being. She didnât do it often because it made her head hurt and she didnât usually know what she needed. Once she had dreamed and dreamed of a My Little Pony set for Christmas but on tearing open the wrapping paper she realised that the horse figurines were rather ugly and then she cried all afternoon.
But today her palms were sore from a combination of the hard playground floor and the way that her nails had been digging into them and her head pounded from the blaring anger and as she sat on the white bed, she felt her sense of injustice flood over her. She envisioned what she desired which, today, she knew with blinding clarity.
When she was done, she walked over to her dolls house and started to play. She picked the little boy figurine up and stared at him with intent.
*
Sweat dripped down his skin. Skin that felt different from usual, skin that felt breakable. Almost as if he should be wearing a sticker with the word âFragileâ stamped upon it. It wasnât just the feel of his skin; when his eyes flicked from left to right, his body was so pale that it was almost reflective, a glossy white rather than his usual soft flabby beige.
The only things that he could move were his eyes, which mainly stared upwards. Above him were thick bars. He tried to wiggle his toes but his body refused to bend to his whim. He wanted to run, or at least sit up, to find a way out of the casing that his soul had been forced into. Instead he simply had to stare at the bars above him, painted a vivid cherry red.
Bobby woke suddenly, gasping for water. As soon as his eyes opened, he cautiously twitched his little finger. He was relieved that his paralysis did not apply to his waking state but his bodyâs creeping unease did not leave him. For a bizarrely immobile dream, Bobby felt out of breath and terrified.
He didnât know why but he felt a pointed dread about going into school the next day. He wondered if his mum would see through him if he pretended to be ill.
***
Eleanor Mair