Bill's New Frock Read Free Page A

pink, it’s practically
impossible
. What is there in the world that’s all pink?’
    ‘Yes. What’s all pink?’
    Everyone gazed around the room, looking for something that was all pink sothey could paint it. Some of them stared at the pictures and posters pinned on the classroom walls. Other gazed out of the window, across the playground to the street and the shops. One or two of them glanced at one another –
    And Kirsty looked at Bill.
    ‘No!’ Bill said. ‘No, no, no! Not me! Absolutely not! You can’t!’
    Now everyone turned to look at Bill.
    ‘No!’ Bill insisted. ‘I am
not all pink
!’
    Now Mrs Collins, too, was inspecting Bill closely.
    ‘Pink frock,’ she admitted slowly. ‘And fiery hair. Rich rosy freckles and a nice deep blush. Yes, you’ll do beautifully, dear. You’re all pink.’
    ‘I am
not pink
.’
    But he was getting pinker by the minute. And by the time everyone had wandered back to their seats clutching theirlittle plastic tubs of paint, you wouldn’t have needed any other colour to do a really fine portrait of him.

    ‘Perfect!’ said Mrs Collins.
    And taking Bill Simpson firmly by the hand, she tried to lead him over towards a chair in the middle of the room, where everyone would be able to see him clearly while they were painting him.
    Bill tried to pull back. Mrs Collins turned in astonishment at his unwillingness, and let go of his hand quite suddenly. Bill staggered back – straight into Nicky who had just prised the top off his paint tub.
    A huge glob of pink paint flew up in the air and landed on Bill Simpson’s frock. As everyone watched, it gathered itself, all fat and heavy at the bottom. Then, slowly, it slithered down between the folds of material, leaving a thick pink slug trail.
    Bill Simpson watched in silence as a small pool of pink paint appeared on the floor, beside his left foot.
    Grubby fingerprints round the hem; a huge muddy smudge on the front; a great slimy paint smear down the side. What next?
    Mrs Collins inspected the damage, and shrugged.
    ‘Well, never mind,’ she said. ‘It’s onlyposter paint. I’m sure the frock will wash out beautifully.’
    And, once again, she took his hand.
    There was no fight left in Bill Simpson. Meekly, he allowed himself to be led to the middle of the room.
    Mrs Collins arranged him neatly and comfortably on the little wooden chair.
    ‘There,’ she said triumphantly, placing a cherry-coloured exercise book in one of his hands as a last touch. ‘All pink!’
    She stepped back to admire her handiwork.
    ‘Perfect!’ she said again. ‘Now is everyone happy?’
    Bill Simpson could have tried to say something then, but he didn’t bother. He reckoned there was no point. He knew that, whatever he said and whatever he did, this awful day would just keep sailing on in its own way, as in a dream. A curse was onhim. A pink curse. He was, of all things, haunted by a pretty pink frock with fiddly shell buttons. He might as well give up struggling. Like poor Rapunzel trapped in her high stone tower, he’d just sit quietly, waiting to see what happened, hoping for rescue.

    Meanwhile, the rest of the class had begun to complain.
    ‘If we’ve only got pink to paint with, how are we supposed to do that great big football-shaped smudge on the front of the frock? It’s
brown
!’
    ‘I can’t paint all those grubby little fingerprints right round the hem of the dress, because they’re
grey
.’
    ‘Those shell buttons are a bit fiddly to paint!’
    ‘I’ve done far too many freckles. What shall I do?’
    ‘Wait till they’re dry, then chip some off!’
    Bill ignored everyone. He just sat there, waiting for time to go by. Even a bad dream couldn’t last forever. His torment had to end some time, surely.
    After half an hour or so, Mrs Collins came by, carrying a fresh jar of water over to table two.
    ‘Do try not to look quite so
gloomy
, dear,’ she murmured in Bill’s ear as she walked past. ‘You’re spoiling