As predicted, Vincent was over the moon with her new dungarees. I was less keen on mine as Mother put us side by side so she could have a good long look at us. “I do like it when you match.” she grinned, “…and you really suit this shade of blue Andrew.” she added as she placed her fingers on the girlie pin-tucked sleeve of my new t-shirt. I might be dressed in blue and wearing long pants, but there’s no avoiding the fact that I’m wearing girl’s clothes. However once I’d put a jumper on to conceal my t-shirt and the bib of my dungarees, I looked and felt like more or less like a boy again.
As we walked to the Coronation Field where the bonfire and firework display was held, Vincent told me how good it feels to be wearing pants at long last. “Are you wearing tights too?” I asked, having borrowed a pair of Vincent’s to fend off the chill. Vincent said he wasn’t. “Are you not cold?”
“No… I’ve got pants on.” he replied, clearly chuffed with the novelty of not wearing a dress or a skirt for once. I told Vincent that even I felt a bit chilly in the leg department. Vincent suggested that since his daily defence against the cold is either knee socks or tights, he’s more accustomed to the cold than ‘normal’ boys are. I listed a few names of the girl’s at school who seem to wear knee socks all through winter and wonder how they cope. “They’re just used to it.” Vincent reiterated.
We saw plenty of familiar faces at the Coronation Field. There was the usual baked potato stall, a burger van, a toffee apple stall, parkin, roasted chestnuts, parched peas and a stall selling glow sticks and sparklers. We mingled and chatted whilst we waited for the big display to begin, and before too long it kicked off with it’s usual fanfare and a foray of rockets that burst into a canopy of brightly coloured sparks above our heads. Oohs and woos echoed around us as the display progressed. I found myself needing the toilet, but hung on as I didn’t want to miss a single moment of the fireworks.
The firework display ended as it had begun, with a huge ba-ba-boom of rockets above our heads. I darted towards the temporary toilet block and spent a few desperate minutes in the queue. I thought I was going to burst as I finally got inside, but to my dismay I realised that the fly on my dungarees is only for show… there’s no actual zip! If I wasn’t so desperate, I’d have got myself into a cubicle and gone through the rigmarole of removing my jacket and jumper, undoing the straps on my dungarees and finally relieving myself… but time was well and truly against me. I wet myself there and then, right in front of the urinal. Almost in tears I ran from the toilet block as the dampness engulfed me. I hung my head and looked down to see a very noticeable dark wet patch. Sheepishly I approached my mother and brother. “Can we go now Mother?” I asked.
“Already?” Mother replied. Noticing his distraught expression she asked what the matter was. I just hung my head, unable to speak.
“Oi Jackson!” A yobbish voice shouts. “Have you pissed yourself?!””
I turned to see a group of kids from my year all pointing and starting to jeer in my direction. I felt my mother grab my hand, “Come on Sonia… we’re going home.” she said as we were quickly marched away from the fire and festivities. “Oh dear Andrew.” Mother said empathetically. “What happened?” she asked. I fought back tears of embarrassment as I tried to explain. When I told Mother that it was almost too late by the time I’d realised my dungarees don’t have a proper fly, she said. “Oh I didn’t even think to check.”
Even if Mother feels partly responsible, it doesn’t help me. We raced home and I was stripped and plonked in the bath within minutes. “Everyone’s going to know!” I said as my tears began to flow.
“If I was you I’d tell them that you spilt a can of cola over yourself.” Mother advised. “All they saw was a damp patch… they can’t know what happened for sure.” she said.