Flour Babies - Anne Fine [20]
His footfalls faded down the corridor, punctuated only by Mr Cartright’s resonant snort of contempt as he took off in the other direction. Simon crept out. The pile of flour baby reports, he saw, had been dumped on the radiator shelf. Unwilling to go straight along to the detention room and risk his reputation by arriving on time, Simon lounged against the wall, leafing through them.
He found Sajid’s the easiest to read because he’d already heard the story in the cloakroom, several times, and that gave him a good start.
DAY 3
I took my flour baby on the bus today. It was shoved under my arm, out of the way, till some interfering old trout forced me to sit down and put it on my lap. All the way down the Foleshill Road she kept poking it and nattering to it. I thought she was a loony. But when we reached the bus stop at the Eye Centre, she got off.
I hope my eyes never go that bad.
Russ Mould’s was underneath. Simon did have a stab at trying to decipher the first few words. But it turned out to be harder than one of those ‘Unscramble these letters to find the names of five vegetables’ quiz books his mum used to waste her time and money buying him before the long bus journey to Gran’s house.
In the end he gave up, and turned to Rick Tullis’s effort. He found this one surprisingly easy to read, perhaps because he and Tullis obviously shared a trick or two, both in handwriting and in spelling.
DAY 1
I said J wasn’t coming in if we did babies, and if Mr Henderson hadn’t spotted me down the shops I wouldn’t be here today. I definitely shan’t be here tomorrow. Or the next day. Or –
Suddenly recalling that the minimum number of sentences for the daily entry was three, Rick Tullis had broken off promptly at this point, considering duty done.
Simon ran his eyes a second time over Tullis’s brief and sullen report. Perhaps he was still warmed by Dr Feltham’s generous praise. Perhaps the glimpse of insight came spontaneously. But, staring at Rick Tullis’s niggardly and mean-spirited scribblings, Simon saw for the first time why teachers showed such scorn for those who did as little as possible. He understood why lesson after lesson was shot through with their howls of exasperation and anguish.
‘Believe me, George Spalder, it’s not me who’s the poorer for your not bothering to do your homework. It’s you.’
To me, Tullis, this blank page signifies just one more piece of paper I don’t have to take home and mark. To you, on the other hand, it signifies yet another blank patch in your brain.’
‘I know I didn’t specifically say you had to do it, Luis. I’m not in the habit of saying “Everyone has to do the work, and that also goes for Luis Pereira”.’
Suddenly it all meant something to Simon. He was struck by the sheer grit of teachers. Their stout hearts. Their unflagging fixity of purpose. Determinedly they bashed on, term after term, trying to make their pupils give of their very best. And with what results? With what thanks? Simon was appalled to think how often he (and so many others) had insulted these dedicated saints in human form by handing in such shoddy work. How could he have been so ungrateful? How could he?
There and then, Simon vowed to make amends. He would begin by fulfilling Dr Feltham’s fond hope that he’d make the best use of his time in the detention room. Resolutely, he shovelled the pile of flour baby reports back on the radiator shelf, scooped up his book bag and strode off down the corridor, not even stopping to draw one or two tiny cartoon figures on this week’s wall display, as usual.
Hearing the door shudder horribly on its hinges, Miss Arnott looked up. When she saw it was Simon Martin she couldn’t help sighing. She’d had him in detention often enough before, and, unacquainted with his change of heart, all that went through her mind was that his arrival presaged, as usual, a farewell to quiet marking, an end to peace.
She leaned back in her chair and waited for the performance. What would it be for starters? A swipe at Hooper with the book bag, of course, just to