Loudmouth Louis - Anne Fine [1]
“No, thanks,” I told her. “I have a brilliant idea of my own to make some money. And it’s private”
“That’s nice,” she said. (You could tell she was pleased that I wouldn’t have to discuss it with anyone.) “And now it’s time for Maths.”
So, as I told you, it was all my own fault.
2 Fifty Different Ways to be Told to be Quiet
I AM THE world’s expert in being told to be quiet. Everyone has their own way of doing it. I know, because I get it all day.
In the morning, Mum stares at me blearily over her cornflakes. “There’s no point in talking to me yet, Louis,” she says. “Can’t you see that I’m still asleep?”
When we’re leaving the house, Dad claps his hand over my mouth. “Hush up, Louis. Just give me a moment to think if there’s anything I’ve forgotten.”
At the lollipop crossing, Mrs Frier says, “Louis Todd, you rattle on like a stone in a tin can.”
The big boys in the playground say, “Stuff it!” or “Shut your cakehole!” or “Belt up!” or “Stow it!” (In case you’re tempted, I should warn you that my mother says if she ever, ever hears me say any one of those again, all I’ll get for Christmas is a freshly spanked bottom.)
In Assembly, Mrs Heap says, “Is that Louis Todd I hear talking?” Or, sometimes, “I take it that what you’re saying, Louis Todd, is a whole lot more important than what I’m saying. So why don’t you come up here and tell it to everyone?”
(That shuts me up pretty sharpish.)
Back in the classroom, Miss Sparkes says, one by one, through the long morning:
“Stop talking, Louis.”
“Be quiet, please.”
“That’s enough, Mr Loudmouth.”
“Louis, I’m speaking”
“Do stop distracting other people.”
“I don’t recall saying you could work in pairs.”
At lunch-time, the dinner ladies stand right over me, and say things like, “Give over prattling, Louis Todd, and finish your sponge pudding.” Or “Stop rabbiting on and eat. Can’t you see that we’re waiting to get on and wipe this table?”
After lunch, back in the classroom, Miss Sparkes starts up again.
“Don’t start nattering.”
“I’m sick and tired of hearing your voice, Louis.”
“I think Ben was talking.”
“I’ll put on my timer, and see how long Loudmouth Louis can keep his beak buttoned.”
“Don’t interrupt me. Zip your lip, please, Louis.”
“On your own, please.”
When we’re learning about other countries, she sometimes says it in other languages.
“Tais-toif” (That’s French.)
“¡Cállater (Spanish.)
“” (Gujarati.)
By the end of the day, she’s usually digging in her bag for her aspirins. “Louis, you realize that you’ve given me another splitting headache.”
Once, she was so fed up, she even said, as I was going out of the door, “I shall know when you’re dead, shan’t I, Louis Todd? It’ll go nice and quiet.”
After all that, it’s lovely to get home to Gran.
3 Worry on My Mind
GRAN NEVER TELLS me off for talking. Well, she can’t. She’s just as bad herself.
Gran never stops. When we’re together in the house, it’s her voice stirring up the air, not mine.
Gran even talks when no one’s there to listen. I can walk home from school, push open the door, and hear her at it.
“… so I’ll just wash these dishes to get them out of the way, and then sort out that peg basket. Yes, here’s a couple of broken ones I can throw straight in the bin. And now I’ll have a look at this tea towel and see if it’s due for a wash yet …”
Mum calls it “chuntering”, and says that toddlers do it. Ask a small child to get dressed, says Mum, and suddenly there in front of you is a strangely bulging heap that’s trying to tell you things.
“… now I’m putting on my woolly and, whoops, got stuck, and it’s all gone dark, and I can’t find the hole, and now all the rest of me’s stuck too, and I can’t find my way out, and …”
Mum says that chuntering is useful practice if you’re learning to talk. But you ought to grow out of it. Obviously, Gran’s grown back into it again, because I’ve heard most of the things she’s said eight million times before.
“There! Now