The house was fusty from being shut up; milk smelt in a saucepan we forgot. We ate the chips without a cloth. Already I missed my grandmother. It was strange to be there with my mother — the two of us alone.

My mother came with me to the Primary School. I was late, and we saw the deputy headmaster, who looked like Humphrey Bogart, and he smiled at my mother and told her it didn’t matter. And I felt proud, for I wore my mother’s scarf, and the other girls would know I had been on holiday.

The next day Tinker came back from the dogs’ home. He is thin and has fleas and his turds are white.

The next day I climbed the ladder to the roof and my box. And I only see ants; and the frail bodies of moths — their wings all eaten away, trying to rise from the silky cages that bind them.

At the end of the week Nan and Reece came back from the sea.

TWENTY-TWO

Miss Monk the Grade Seven teacher is funny looking — face like a walnut or a peach stone, hair in a bun all crinkly and it falls out and goes round her face like cobwebs. She looks almost like a witch, although it’s not a nice thing to say — but the little hairs are like the down on a nettle (all along her lip) and even a moustache as well and false teeth and orange gums that aren’t real and crooked body. She also looks something like the lady on the ship, but with her clothes on, and when she runs for the basketball her front goes up-and-down, but you never see anything because she can’t bend over — too stiff. And her legs — thick stockings, not quite lisle and funny dresses — long, nearly to her ankles (one with daisy-chains and one just plain) and buttons and a pin like a clover and a wrist watch but not very fancy — not diamanté, and hat like a Scottie’s.

Miss Monk stepped stiffly from the tram clasping her worn black handbag and the leatherette school-case that contained the exercise books she had marked the night before. (And all those little ticks and crosses made me miss Lux Playhouse, and no Milo even, before I went to bed — but then, after all, I am the Lady Deputy, and take the basketball — not bad for a lass from Berri, even if I say it. But sometimes I even think of Berri and all the oranges and the river even and wish I were back. For Holy Trinity Methodist by the lilac and the Variety Concert by the scholars that was very nice, and also Rev. Blackett. But not now — it was actually quite some time ago and I haven’t been back since, nor eaten the oranges. They are still there though — not too many pips, not too thick a skin.) And her sponge-bag (plastic with a draw-string and Pear’s soap worn down very thin and a flannel that’s a bit dirty but I’ve my white towel in the drawer, and lavender on my hanky — that’s all — no lipsticks or eye-stuff for me — anyway, too old — mutton dressed as lamb), and her lunch in brown paper (egg sandwich and queen cakes and an apple, tea provided by the School — and don’t we need it), and a handkerchief (hem-stitch border with E.M. and the lavender). She walked down the Beach Road and in at the gate (lolly papers about), in at the door — into the classroom. She hung her coat on a peg behind the door, examined her face in the mirror, hurried into the yard as the bell rang, and blew her whistle.