Part 23 (2/2)
The girl shook her head. ”Sold,” she replied, 'subject to contract.”
”What about this one?” I said, picking up a photograph of another large residence. It had turrets and big bay windows, a great sweeping drive and tall iron gates.
She leaned forward and in a confidential voice informed me that ”Big houses cost a lot of money, you know. Why don't you buy a little one?” She thrust a picture of a small red-bricked terraced house into my hand. She clearly thought that big houses were way out of my league. ”This one should do you.”
I recall the time during my first year as an inspector when I had found a Home Corner set out as a baby clinic and a small girl clutching a large doll to her chest. She had been surrounded by scales, towels, feeding bottles, a plastic bath and a toy cot.
As I approached she had looked up alarmed. ”Go away!” she had cried. ”I'm breast feeding!”
The most memorable and dramatic incident in a Home Corner had taken place in a large infant school in the town of Crompton. It had been set out as a little post office and there were two small girls, clutching shopping bags, waiting to be served by a small pixie-like boy with enormous gla.s.ses that made his eyes look larger than ever. Suddenly a bruiser of a little boy had burst in brandis.h.i.+ng a large plastic gun.
”This is a stick up!” he had shouted. ”Get them 'ands up in the air and let's be 'having yer cas.h.!.+”
The two little girls had looked unperturbed and had readily obliged and the child behind the counter had emptied various bits of paper, representing the takings, into the paper ; bag which had been held out to him. The little bank robber had s.n.a.t.c.hed the papers that the two little girls had been holding and made a quick get-away.
”Isn't it terrible?” one little girl had complained, shaking her head. ”He's gone and nicked mi family allowance.”
”Ne'er mind, love,” the other child had consoled her, 'we'll call at t'Social on t'way 'ome and you can get a credit . note.”
As I left Fred's Cafe that morning, I met another customer. ? It was Shane, the cheeky-faced youngster whose mum had : telephoned the bobbies about me. There was a small plastic i policeman's helmet on his head.
”Mornin',” he said. ”I wants a word wi' you.”
Oh dear, oh dear! I thought, and beat a coward's retreat to the staff room for coffee.
It After morning break, I joined Mrs. Wilson in the junior cla.s.sroom and began by hearing the children read. The first ; child, Janine, was a strikingly pretty little black girl with long beaded hair and a bright, open smile.
i ”I love reading,” she announced in a matter-of-fact voice.
I'.”. ”Do you indeed?”
”I read all the time at home, you know.” ”Do you?”
”And Mummy reads to me and Daddy and Grampa and Grannie.”
”Really? You are a lucky girl.”
: ”And I get books for my birthday and at Christmas, and jl; we go to the library every Sat.u.r.day morning.”
”So you read a great deal?” i ”My daddy calls me a bibliomaniac. He says it's because I'm mad about books. And I am. I love books.” I smiled and looked into the s.h.i.+ny open face. ”And you probably have a lot of your own books, do you?”
I 277.
”Enough to start a library. That's what my mummy says.”
”Will you read to me, then?”
”I'd love to.”
She was indeed a very good reader: clear and expressive and with all the self-a.s.surance and high self-esteem of the achieving child who has experienced nothing but encouragement throughout her short life.
”Do you think I'm a good reader?” she asked when she had finished.
”No,” I replied, 'you're not a good reader.”
The child's sanguine expression disappeared in an instant, and she looked quite startled instead.
”You are a brilliant reader!” The smile returned, in triplicate. ”You are one of the very best readers I have ever heard.”
Later in the morning I came across Sam. He was a small rosy-cheeked boy with wiry blond hair, a round little biscuit barrel of a body and a doleful expression. He was not lively and interested and full of questions like Janine, and was unwilling to come with me into the Reading Corner with his book.
”I can't go on t'carpet,” he announced flatly.
”You can,” I replied.
”No, I can't. I can't go on that carpet.”
”Did Mrs. Wilson say you couldn't go on the carpet?”
”No, but I'm not goin' on!”
”Why?”
”Because I'm not!”
”Is there some reason why you can't go on the carpet?” I persisted.
”Aye, there is.”
”Well, why can't you go on the carpet?”
”Because I've got s.h.i.+t on mi shoe.”
”Oh no!” I exclaimed dramatically. ”You must not say that word.”
The child maintained his carefully blank expression. ”What word?” he asked casually.
”That first word.”
”Why?”
”Because it's not a very nice word for a little boy to use.”
”Why?”
”Well, it's just not a nice word to use, that's all.”
<script>