The Wrong Coloured Coat, a True Story

The Cruelty of Bullying

The Wrong Coloured Coat, a True Story

I sat on the train home very happy with both myself and my purchase. A lone trip out from North Wales to Manchester, to the semi-famous underground market where I parted with my hard-earned money, my wage packet from my father’s factory slightly bulging with overtime, but soon to be emptied in exchange for my return ticket, a small coffee and my new pride and joy. A leather jacket, the type I had had my eye on for some months and now, this sixteen-year-old, sometimes lonely, always anxious youth could finally afford it.

There was no hesitating, no haggling with the stall owner over the price. I knew a good deal when I saw one, and, in any case, I was just in a hurry to get back on the train, reach my hometown, and finally put the jacket on, ready to meet the only friend I had these days.

Of course, she was late. She was always late, but it didn’t matter to me. I stood on the corner and, when I knew no one was watching, glanced at myself in the off-licence window, checking the coat was the right fit. It was, and I was pleased with myself in the way a shy kid like me could be. Others saw it differently.

I think I sensed them before I saw them; either way, it didn’t matter. The three of them are now behind me, lads I had noticed recently as they shouted abuse at me when I rode past them on my bike. Whatever. The backstory didn’t matter; what lay ahead did.

“State of that coat,” the ringleader said, closing in on me and blocking me between a wall and a phone box. “What the f**k are you wearing that for?” And then, in another totally unprovoked gesture, he shouted, “Whoa, boys, he is taller than me!”

And as I heard their laughter, I felt the first punch. It only took one to put me in the ground, cramped and bloodied as he leaned down and offered more punishment.

“It’s even a shit colour,” he whispered, apparently enraged by my fashion sense. I offered nothing back. Not a punch in return or a word in anger. It would be many years before I became capable at the physical. 

He ran out of steam, and with sneer and more cruel words, rounded up his buddies. They left the scene just as my later-than-ever friend came around the corner. Seeing me lying on the floor, bloodied and battered, she let out a gasp.

“Christ Simon, what has happened?” she shrieked as she ran to my aid. “We need to get you help!”

“I don’t want to go home,” I told her, and she knew this. She knew I could not face the shame of yet another disappointed father, but she also knew what to do.

“Come on,” she said. “I’ll get you to your sister.” And with her arms supporting me, I limped the half a mile to my sister’s house. She was equally shocked at my condition, as she rushed to help me into her house, cleaning me up, washing the blood from my coat and supplying endless cups of tea for the shock. She was furious, but I just wanted to forget the whole thing. Revenge wasn’t on my list of priorities.

Eventually, the shakes subsided and the blood was cleaned up enough so that I could probably go home, sneak past my parents and hide in my room. It was becoming a habit.

My brother-in-law was to drive me home, and on the way, he offered me advice about standing up for myself. It would be some time before I had the courage to do so, but when I did, well, some say I did more than alright, but that night, as I left my sister’s house, she shouted to me. “Your coat, Simon,” and when I looked back at her, she was holding it up. “You forgot your coat.”

“Keep it,” I told her. “It’s the wrong colour anyway.”