Molly Was a Good Girl
Number 2
I’ve always followed the rules.
When I was a little girl, I never once ran with scissors, or cut off my Barbie’s hair, or played with the children who lived in the bad estate. I stayed at home and played “mummies” with my best friend, Anna. We used to have these dolls that pissed when you poured water into their mouths, and we used to walk around our close, pushing these ugly little plastic things (that didn’t really resemble a human baby at all) in prams, playing pretend that we were real mummies who lived in London in high-rise flats that looked over the river. For some reason, there was never any mention of a daddy. I don’t think we’d quite twigged that you needed one to make the baby in the first place; personally, I didn’t know about sex until I was eleven years old.
A nasty, smelly, icky boy named Owen had lured me behind the oil tank at school under false pretences and showed me his tiny little acorn of a penis- he asked to see what was under my knickers, and I screamed and ran away and didn’t talk to a boy for weeks. I later asked my mother why he had done this, and we had “The Talk”. Of course, I acted in the usual way. That single incident with Owen put me off boys for years. It seems so stupid now, but back when I was in the younger years of secondary school it made perfect sense. Why would I want to talk to those horrible things who shouted and threw things and had horrible dangly bits? I turned into one of those giggly pre-teen girls who had a “best friend forever and ever!” who they walked arm in arm with while glaring at boys from behind long eyelashes.
This extended to home as well, to an extent. I was an only girl among many brothers. This thrilled my parents- my mother had a little baby girl to dress up and play dolls with, and my father was able to make up half of a football team with his sons. Well, almost- there were five of them, but one had other ideas. When I was 11, my siblings were-
Andy, 18
Marc, 17
Anthony, 15
Danny, 14
And Dury, who was only ten months older than me. As you can guess, I was a bit of a mistake. Both of us were, actually, and I guess that’s why we’ve always stuck together. Our parents could only just afford four children, but my mother is a deeply religious woman and doesn’t believe in either contraception or abortion... when you have beliefs like that, accidents are bound to happen.
Dury’s birthday is September 8th, and mine is July 3rd, which means we have always been in the same year at school. And, because we have the same second name and we are of the opposite sexes, we have always been sat next to each other in seating plans. At home we were put together as well, because of our age, so to be honest it was inevitable that we were to become very close. We shared a passion for music and art, a dislike for manly things like sport.
He was the one who punched Owen in the nose.
When I was a little girl, I never once ran with scissors, or cut off my Barbie’s hair, or played with the children who lived in the bad estate. I stayed at home and played “mummies” with my best friend, Anna. We used to have these dolls that pissed when you poured water into their mouths, and we used to walk around our close, pushing these ugly little plastic things (that didn’t really resemble a human baby at all) in prams, playing pretend that we were real mummies who lived in London in high-rise flats that looked over the river. For some reason, there was never any mention of a daddy. I don’t think we’d quite twigged that you needed one to make the baby in the first place; personally, I didn’t know about sex until I was eleven years old.
A nasty, smelly, icky boy named Owen had lured me behind the oil tank at school under false pretences and showed me his tiny little acorn of a penis- he asked to see what was under my knickers, and I screamed and ran away and didn’t talk to a boy for weeks. I later asked my mother why he had done this, and we had “The Talk”. Of course, I acted in the usual way. That single incident with Owen put me off boys for years. It seems so stupid now, but back when I was in the younger years of secondary school it made perfect sense. Why would I want to talk to those horrible things who shouted and threw things and had horrible dangly bits? I turned into one of those giggly pre-teen girls who had a “best friend forever and ever!” who they walked arm in arm with while glaring at boys from behind long eyelashes.
This extended to home as well, to an extent. I was an only girl among many brothers. This thrilled my parents- my mother had a little baby girl to dress up and play dolls with, and my father was able to make up half of a football team with his sons. Well, almost- there were five of them, but one had other ideas. When I was 11, my siblings were-
Andy, 18
Marc, 17
Anthony, 15
Danny, 14
And Dury, who was only ten months older than me. As you can guess, I was a bit of a mistake. Both of us were, actually, and I guess that’s why we’ve always stuck together. Our parents could only just afford four children, but my mother is a deeply religious woman and doesn’t believe in either contraception or abortion... when you have beliefs like that, accidents are bound to happen.
Dury’s birthday is September 8th, and mine is July 3rd, which means we have always been in the same year at school. And, because we have the same second name and we are of the opposite sexes, we have always been sat next to each other in seating plans. At home we were put together as well, because of our age, so to be honest it was inevitable that we were to become very close. We shared a passion for music and art, a dislike for manly things like sport.
He was the one who punched Owen in the nose.