Bad Stereotypes - 2. Monday 4th September 2000

I was five. It was the first day of school.

The prospect of going to school with my big sister did not make me happy. Two years older than me she was just grown up enough to know everything and there was enough sibling rivalry between us to ensure that if she could put me down to make herself look good, she would do. I cried at the gate, wanted to stay with mum and clung to her skirts. It was something that would get me teased, so my mother tried her best to prise me off with the promise of sweets afterschool. That didn’t work.

“Can I help?” This amazingly deep voice spoke from behind me, and I turned round to see who owned it. Men had deep voices, but this guy’s voice was full of rich notes in a timbre I didn’t recognise. It was not synonymous with the growling anger of my father.

“Please…” My mother, who at some point had looked well turned out to drop her only son of at school was frazzled.

The man with the voice hunkered down in front of me. He had blue eyes. I can remember very little about how he actually looked, but he had really blue eyes and very white teeth. When he spoke his voice was low and soft and sent chills crawling over the back of my skull.

“So little man, what’s your name then?”

“I…” my voice got stuck. My mother tells me that I blushed when he spoke to me.

“Bayer Trewell.” My mother answered.

“Well then Mr.Trewell,” the man with the blue eyes and white teeth smiled softly at me, “I bet there’s plenty of people who want to come and meet you. Why don’t you come with me and I’ll show you where you’re going to sit huh?”

His voice was soft and lovely, and right then I couldn’t remember why I hadn’t wanted to go into the school, so I simply held out my hand for him and walked away into the school.

Mister Terry turned out to be our class’s teaching assistant and he quickly became my favourite adult in the whole wide world. He was interested in everything about us, would ask about our families and pets and hobbies and actually remember what you said to him which was awesome. Whenever he read for story time his voice would go really low and soft and I would get shivery tingles up my spine. I had no idea why I liked it. Mister Terry used to do little one to one session with us and I used to fake being bad at drawing, though I wasn’t good, purely so that he would come and sit with me and talk in his low multi-toned voice.

I used to talk about him all the time. Used to sit down to dinner with my parents and sister and tell them verbatim what we’d said. I loved to be near him.

Then one prime evening my sister had leant over the table across lasagne and peas, winked conspirtorilaly and said in her precocious seven year olds voice.

“I think Bay fancies Mister Terry. It’s not like he has any friends his own age.”

My mother scowled at my sister, then glanced across at my father. He was head of our household in every sense. My father looked black with anger.

“Don’t be stupid.” He had snapped, but the following week, I started at a new school.