A game of chess
It is the last meet this year of the school’s afternoon chess club, so apparently they are having a party. I weave through the normally crowded school buildings. My son isn’t in the corridor, so I follow the low sounds of occasional conversation; nothing like what you would expect if you handed a dozen ten-year-olds a bunch of snacks and some fizzy drink. They have commandeered the staff tearoom for their celebration, and there are ten kids lined up across chess boards, two by two, their intense focus only broken every sixty seconds by detours to the table of party food. Little intellectual pinballs. Grab a party pie, king to queen’s bishop five. Cracker biscuit, pawn to king’s knight four. Slice of apple, knight takes rook!
I briefly stare at enormous helium balloons being stored in the room for the school disco that is on tonight, then look around. I know many children here. I notice the usual portion of curious glances from some, while others are completely oblivious.
Some finish their games. More food, while others are silent except for the tap of their chess clocks.
One of the boys has a recovering buzz-cut of bright red hair. He’s a cricket-obsessed, bike-riding kid with a Paralympic medallist father and can-do-anything mother. Our lives intersect when our families gather and drink gin as we lazily observe the boys play cricket on Friday evenings.
Now, chess game dispensed with, food in hand, he strolls over, having given an appraising glance, and says just “you look good in the skirt and high heels”.
That’s it.
Me: “thank you”. Then, stupidly thinking maybe a little self-deprecation is called for, I venture, “You know, that’s a relief. Because skirts and high heels are my favourite clothes. It would be a shame if I looked terrible in them”. The boy looks blank, nods and heads back into the gaming fray.
I slap my forehead (not literally: that would be weird). Such an adult behaviour, to complicate a compliment. Grown-ups can treat conversation like a chess game sometimes, when really it could just be a bowl of crisps. Take some, enjoy them, grab some more.
I am certain that party is the only time a child has complimented my outfit. It was unusual and deeply appreciated. You can trust children.
Later I message his mum, and tell her what transpired. “I just want to say you have a lovely generous boy,” and add, “he’s great and if he is half the adult that he is as a kid, he will find his way very well in the world”.
