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.