27 27 When I arrived at school that cold December morning to watch the rehearsal for the Nativity play, I came across a small girl of about seven or eight, surrounded by a group of much bigger girls. The child was wailing in the most pitiful way and rubbing her little eyes to stem the tears. My first thought was that she was being bullied.
‘Whatever’s the matter?’ I asked.
‘We’re not supposed to talk to strangers,’ a large frizzy-haired girl told me sharply. ‘If you don’t clear off, we’ll tell Mrs Holbrook.’
‘Stranger danger!’ shouted another child.
‘I’m the school inspector,’ I told the group quickly. ‘I’m here to see Mrs Holbrook and to see the Nativity play.’
At the mention of the Nativity play the distressed child gave a great howl.
‘Have you any means of identification?’ the frizzy-haired girl demanded.
I produced my official details which she scrutinized.
‘My gran says you can’t be too careful,’ she told me before thrusting them back to me.
‘Why is this little girl crying?’ I asked.
‘I can see that,’ I told her, ‘but why?’
‘Because her name’s Mary,’ I was told by another child.
‘And why should that make her cry?’ I asked. ‘Mary is a lovely name.’
‘She was all right until we started doing the flipping Nativity play,’ explained the frizzy-haired girl. ‘Then the lads started to call her names.’
The centre of all the attention suddenly stopped crying. She snivelled and whimpered and took a deep breath. Then she told me, ‘They keep calling me virgin, and I’m not.’
