Mother was livid with me after my hearing. Not only have I been found guilty of reckless vandalism, we’ve also got Social Services on our back which means regular visits from a welfare worker. I’d been grounded indefinitely by my mother, and aside from having to attend Sunday School, I’m also subject to an official curfew. This means that I’m not allowed out of my house between 6 pm and 7 am; Monday to Friday and between 6 pm and 7 am Friday to Monday unless I’m accompanied by my mother or a named minder.
Despite my name being kept out of the local newspaper, all of my teachers and seemingly most of the kids at school knew it was me that’d been caught vandalizing Cooper’s Quarry and all of them frowned on me… all apart from the kids I was with on that fateful night. They praised me for not grassing and that made me feel a bit proud, but only a bit. The prospect of attending Sunday School seemed so mundane that I didn’t bother telling any of my mates about it. I’m currently ranked quite highly for not grassing them up and they’d only think it was some sort of boring bible class and take the piss. I did tell them about my curfew, however… and that if I break it then all the police and PCSOs would be out looking for me. It’s highly inconvenient for my social life but it does carry some kudos amongst my circle… and I can still see my mates at school.
A couple of days later, Mother mentioned something about a Sunday School uniform. “A uniform?!” I retorted. “Why do we have to wear a uniform? It’s only Sunday School, it’s not like it’s school.” I sneered.
“You’ll have to wear a uniform because that’s the rules,” Mother replied. “You remember the last time you went to Sunday school and each week, there’d be a handful of children who’d just been Confirmed?”
“Yeah.” I cautiously replied.
“The boys always wore smart trousers and a white shirt and tie,” Mother said.
“And the girls always wore white dresses with white tights.” I reminisced.
“They did,” Mother replied.
After a short silence, I asked what that’s got to do with the Sunday school I’ll be going to, reminding my mother that it’s not a bible study group for happy-clappy youngsters. Mother told me I was correct, then added that the uniform is similar to what the children who’d been Confirmed wore. “So it’s just trousers and a white shirt?” I asked.
“Not quite,” Mother replied.
“Shirt and tie?”
“Nope,” Mother said.
“Well, what then?”
“Guess,” Mother said. She was enjoying this.
“I dunno.”
“Well… I mentioned the boys in their smart trousers and white shirts…” Mother said, and after a long pause she added, “…and you mentioned…”
“The girl’s wearing dresses.” I shrugged.
The penny still hadn’t dropped. Mother’s lingering expectant expression turned to one of exasperation. “Sometimes Perry you’re so dim that I wonder where I got you from.” she impatiently sighed. “Everything needs to be spelt out for you.” she gasped. “Right…” she began. “The Sunday school you’re being sent to is a correctional school. Yes?”
I gulped and nodded and meekly said “Yes.”
“Being a correctional school, it’s very strict and has plenty of rules… rules by which you must abide. Yes?”
“I guess,” I mumbled.
“And one of those rules is that you have to wear a uniform.”
“Er… if you say so.”
“I do say so, Perry.” Mother snapped. “No one expects you to like the uniform but being a correctional school, you have to wear it, like it or not.”
“Yeah… I get that.”
“Good. Now bear that in mind… because everyone at this Sunday School, regardless of whether they’re a boy or girl, has to wear a dress.” she clearly stated. My jaw dropped a little. I may have even shook my head. Mother assured me with a slow shallow nod and a pursed smile.
“I’m not wearing a dress,” I stated.
“Well, you just said that you understood that you have to wear the uniform whether you like it or not.”
“Yeah but… that was before you said it was a dress… it’s not a dress is it?… they can’t make us wear dresses… not the boys anyway…” all the while my mother sat nodding. Eventually, I said, “Why?”
“I guess it discourages the boys from wandering off if they’re bored.” my mother replied. “Put them in a dress and they should stay put,” she added.
I can imagine that working, not that it makes the prospect any more palatable. “You’re not going to make me wear a dress are you Mother?”
“It’s not up to me Perry… I don’t make the rules.” she reminded me.
I dropped my head. “So I have to wear a dress every Sunday for the next eleven months.”
“At least,” Mother replied. “You’ll probably get used to it after a couple of weeks.”
“I won’t!” I retorted.
“Well maybe you won’t and maybe you will… you’ll just have to wait and see,” she said.
A couple of days after that, on a Friday I recall, I returned home from school and Mother enthused, “There’s something in your room for you.”
“What?” I expectantly asked.
“Go and have a look.”
