B B

Beth Builder

At ten years old I knew her name was alliterative
But that’s not why she’d give
Me thrills when she passed my classroom windowsill
Pink faced, laughing, stained socks shrill
Shriek whenever she bolted home from school
Beth Builder was dangerous, unruly and had a beauty
Deceptive in a way that you just can’t score it
Gorgeous in a way Tony Hart would draw it

And the primary school rumour mill
Was worn but in full grind
Beth Builder said she fancied me,
She told Liz Windell behind the Cadbury’s factory
And it was only a matter of time until she
Would maybe even

Talk to me

I had blushed at her company for weeks
And as Liz recounted Beth Builder’s speech
Of yearning fancy
I felt colossal
My pride resplendent,
Cheeks aflame
I was reeling during break time
Thinking ‘Beth Builder feels the same!’
And after school I raced back home
Played my computer games
She became every princess I did rescue
I was every hero she did tame

But over the following days I began to grow dismayed
See, Beth Builder didn’t come and talk to me
She stayed with her mates
She played by the gates
And when I smiled and waved
She laughed
Pointing at my rather long mistake
Of a hair cut, then filling me with dread
Her voice of tender glass cried out

“Piss of Cabbage head!”

See back then my hair was
…well much like it is now
Bouffant, frosted, strange and unruly
I had no concept of hair products
So during primary school she
Didn’t want to know me
Regardless of personality
Purely because of my tight-knit curls
And so that whirl
Of pride and strength
Liz’s lies had unfurled
Blew up inside

And I came to realise
That our relationship
Might be more complicated
Than I had first dreamed
And achieving the day when Beth Builder would beg
To hang her silver backpack next to my peg
Was farther off than it had at first seemed
And so I schemed,
I would show her how clever I was, the depth of knowledge I did command
In a lined jotter I scribbled out our courtship meticulously planned
And on the last page I drew success, us playing stringy onions, smiling
Her holding on my hand

And I was so engrossed that I failed to understand
Her lack of interest in the English or maths work
That I thought was oh so grand
Beth Builder’s main hobby was preserving dresses in plastic bags,
While I stuck around for chess club
Comparing stickers and White Dwarf mags
And the fact that Miss Morton’s face sagged
When Beth handed in her work
Didn’t register
I wanted so badly to impress
That’s the stupor I was in
I read like a demon, passed the purple section
Till I was the first kid allowed to read
Anything
In my school
I whizzed my way through to maths class just to show her the league I was in
Certain after tests that the grades would get the girl
Call it Freudian but they always made my Mum grin

So I worked
And worked
And worked
throughout lessons, lunches, break times
While Beth played, squeeled, jerked
into handstands, her form invading my mind
You could often find me scribbling in the window, going red at the sight of those knickers
My aims to impress those legs was at least scoring loads of smiley stickers

And one weekend after passing all my classes I plucked up the courage
Phoned her, receiver slipping in my palms
And then Beth picked up I said ‘hi’ in a tone that I hoped sounded calm
She said
“oos that?”
I said “Mark”
“She said, who?
Cabbage head?”
Here I attempted a feeble laugh
Then she said ‘hang on’ and left

I waited

For ages

And ages

And then eventually

A voice came back, younger than hers
Gurgling and murmuring

Her baby sister

I said
“Hello”
A pause, a hesitation
then a babyish declaration
‘Cabbage Head’

I was…I don’t know what I was
But those words had a scalpel effect on me
I dropped the phone to Beth’s laughter
Ran, tripped on the directory
Apparently it was the first time that baby had said two words consecutively
But I didn’t care
I had offered her my heart
Beth had ripped all that was me apart
And I promised myself that I would forever walk the path
That had no girls, no handstands, no stringy onions
For ever and ever and ever

But I got over it…

And now I’m a teacher, a writer and happy with both
And I thought I’d done pretty well with the scope
Of ability at my control
But even so something deep within me swells at the thought of Beth Builder
And I figured maybe it’d be karma is she worked in a shop
Cleaned chicken ovens in Tesco or had to clean people’s sick up
But I bumped into her brother Tom and I asked her what she was up
To...

She’s an image consultant,
Very successful
As much as I hate it I’m kind of impressed. Well,
I figured,
That’s probably more fitting than any fiction I could create
For what she was like in school the profession seems just great
And maybe it’s not those experiences you love but more the ones you hate
That make you who you are
Not just the times you got picked for the team
But rather times you didn’t measure up by far
And so for me, Beth Builder's name holds some relevance
When I look at old photos and see
That curly haired boy who hadn't met her yet,
with no idea what he’d grow up to be
Maybe my gift to Beth Builder was that first fashion consultancy
Because a part of the man that I am today is what she gave to me.