Just a Minute

JUST A MINUTE

‘It is Monday today. It is cloudy today. Last night I went to the pictures, ‘ wrote number forty-two on the register in her clear rounded hand. Polly Widdowson. The seven year old from hell. Or so her family believed. At school it was different. Polly loved school, devoured the challenges, escaped into her fantasy world. But why did every day have to start with writing this rotten diary? Everyone knew what day it was, it was written on the blackboard. Everyone knew what the weather was like, walked to school in it hadn’t they? Precious waste of pencil lead, not like writing stories.

         For Polly every previous night had been spent at the pictures, more precisely the local cinema where her mum worked as an usherette. Elegant and slim in her green uniform with the golden epaulettes on her bony shoulders, she directed people to their seats with her torch and Polly thought she looked stunning.

         They thought she didn’t understand why they sent her up to the cinema every night to join her mum. Said the exercise would do her good and it would be a change of scene. Or scenes. She didn’t mind the films really, got to see them all free of charge and enjoyed the excitement of being allowed to watch the ‘A’ rated ones. Yes, films helped her to stay safe in her fantasy world. She knew she was sent out of the way to give her dad, her grandparents, and her bloody sister a tantrum free break. A bit of peace and quiet.

         Teachers understand, parents often don’t, that children will go to any lengths to gain attention. At school glowing praise and approval equalled quiet, hard working angel. At home, comparison and criticism equalled brat. And the answer to that was to create a fuss. Little Polly Widdowson had perfected the art. She could never write in her diary what really went on. Take this morning.

         “Polly,” her mother had snapped loudly. “ Get up. You’ll be late. Your sister’s been ready for half an hour.”

         “Aw mum, just a minute.”

         “And stop doing that, you’ll go blind. Up!”

         Breakfast and ablutions completed the predictable last enquiry ensued.

         “ Have you been, Polly?” Sulky silence, hanging head, mother groping her backside.

         “Not again you stupid girl. I’m sick and tired of you wetting your knickers. I’ll have to start sending you to school in nappies. Why the hell didn’t you go?”

         “I’m not going in there after he’s been in, it bloody stinks!” The bog at the end of the yard. Even holding her nose didn’t prevent the invasive mixture of crap, fag smoke and newspaper that filled the cold, damp air.

         “Don’t be rude about your granddad. God, you are such a pain. I sometimes wish I’d never had you, I do. And stop bloody swearing.”

         “Aye, just a minute of pleasure and a lifetime of pain that one, “ agreed granddad, sucking a piece of well done toast. He’d left his teeth in the bedroom again.


‘It is Tuesday today. It is sunny today. Last night I went to the pictures.’ It had been a good one too. Doris Day in ‘The Pyjama Game.’ A real fantasy story. It had helped her to forget the teatime incident.

         Nobby greens. Polly’s worst nightmare. She had tried to sidle down from the table hoping no one would notice the green balls of poison hidden under the cold mash.

         “Just a minute, my girl,” her grandma had yelled. “You’re not leaving that table until you’ve eaten every one of those sprouts” What grandma lacked in stature she made up for in volume.

         “I can’t eat them I hate them. I won’t,” came Polly’s defiant reply.

         “Then you’ll stay there all night and I shall tell your mother when she gets in. She’ll give you one. Your sister’s eaten all hers. God, I don’t know what your mum and dad did to deserve one like you.” Polly knew what they’d done. She’d seen it in one of those ‘A’ rated films. Strange. Couldn’t imagine them doing that, they spent all their time trying to avoid each other.

         By seven o, clock they'd had enough of her. Given in. Sent her up to the cinema. But it was no victory. She would be deprived of her egg and chips on Thursday.


“It is Wednesday today. It is windy today. Last night I went to the pictures.
Disturbing scenes from ‘The Invisible Man’ still filled Polly’s head. Her mother had laughed at it but it had upset Polly. But how she wished she could be invisible sometimes and then it wouldn’t have happened. She hadn’t slept well last night.

         “Polly,” her mother had shouted up the stairs. “What are you doing now? You’re supposed to be brushing your teeth.”

         “Just a minute,” Polly had replied, trying to sound frothy.

         She was sitting on her parent’s bed. Taboo. She had crept in, quietly opened the wardrobe door and taken out the giant white Teddy, already christened Timothy, that they had purchased for the approaching Christmas. She was hugging him very close, stroking the soft pristine fur, rubbing her unwashed cheek against his gentle face.

         Footsteps. Too late. “Polly Widdowson, you evil little sod! We knew you’d been doing that. Just can’t wait can you? Spoil everything. In that bed now. Santa won’t be coming to you my girl, only your sister.”

         Santa Claus. Another illusion. Never believed in him anyhow. She knew they’d bought the bear from Nottingham after she’d swooned over it in the shop window.

         “What do you want with another teddy bear? Soppy kid, time you grew out of it. Why can’t you collect stamps like your sister?”

         But they had bought it. She knew they would. Their fault really, should have hidden it in a more imaginative place.


It is Thursday today. It is raining today. Polly Widdowson will not be writing her diary this morning. Registration is taking place in Class Three.

         “ Thirty nine, forty, forty one …” Silence.

         “Polly?” asks Mrs Giddens, lovely warm Mrs Giddens. “ Anyone seen Polly?”

         She had been walking home from school the night before with her friend Julia, clutching Teddy Robinson who always sat on Mrs Gidden’s lap while she read the class story. Knowing there was no egg and chips for tea, not relishing the prospect of going to the pictures. A western. Hated them, all that fighting; had enough battles in her own life. On impulse she decided to cross the road and visit her Aunty. Didn’t look right, look left, look right again.

         “Just a minute,” screamed Julia. Too late. The screeching of brakes, a loud thud. The last thing Polly heard was the familiar growl of her teddy bear as it landed in the road beside her now still, bent body.