danger! Squawk!
Now I’m sitting at the table by my window in my room. And it’s time to tell the tale of the Corinthian Avenue Pupil Referral Unit.
When Mum said she wanted to take me out of school and educate me herself, a man and a woman from the council came to the house. I don’t remember their names. Ms. Palaver and Mr. Trench, perhaps. They sat together on the sofa and drank tea and nibbled biscuits and tried to look caring and oh-so-concerned. Ms. Palaver (who, I noticed, kept well clear of the fig rolls) watched me out of the corner of her eye. I sat very prim and very proper on a piano stool. They said that legally, Mum was of course well within her rights to make this decision. Did we understand the implications, though? Educating me at home would be quite a drain on Mum’s energy and time. We would not have the facilities of school. I would not have the benefit of company of children of my own age. Mum said we realized those things. We were quite prepared for them. She said we were quite happy about them. And our plan for home education might not last forever.
“Though it might,” I said quickly.
Ms. Palaver looked at me in surprise. I looked back at her. She was wearing a black suit with a white blouse and silver earrings. Mr. Trench was also in black and white. I was about to ask them if they were off to a funeral but I thought perhaps not. So instead, somewhat to my own surprise, I said,
“Ms. Palaver.”
“Yes, dear?”
Mum gave me a look.
“I’m not certain I understand,” said Ms. Palaver.
“Never mind,” I said.
I sat up straight again. I looked past Ms. Palaver into the street.
Mum started talking about how Mina had an adventurous mind. She said she’d be able to commit lots of time to Mina. She talked about Mina’s dad and about Mina being an only child and about how she had no objections to St. Bede’s itself, but …
“And as for facilities,” I said, “we have a very nice tree in the front garden in which I have many thoughts. And the kitchen is a fine laboratory and art room. And who could devise a better classroom than the world itself?”
Mum smiled.
“As you see,” she said, “Mina is a girl with her own opinions and attitudes.”
Ms. Palaver peered at me closely. I could see her thinking that Mina was an impertinent girl with her own pompous crackpot notions.
“To be quite frank,” I said, looking straight back at her, “We feel that schools are cages.”
“Indeed?” said Ms. Palaver.
“Yes,” I continued. “We feel that schools inhibit the natural intelligence, curiosity and creativity of children.”
Mr. Trench rolled his eyes.
Mum smiled and shook her head.
Ms. Palaver said again, “Indeed?”
“Indeed,” I said.
“Before you make your final decision, Mrs. McKee,” said Mr. Trench, “you might find it worthwhile to have Mina spend a day at Corinthian Avenue.”
“Corinthian Avenue?” said Mum.
“It’s where we send children who don’t …”
“Or who won’t …,” said Ms. Palaver.
Mr. Trench brought out a leaflet from the inside pocket of his black jacket. He held it out to Mum.
“Can’t do any harm,” he said.
EXTRAORDINARY ACTIVITY
Read the Poems of William Blake.
(Especially if you are Ms. Palaver.)
The thought of Corinthian Avenue makes me edgy, so I pick up my book and my pen and head downstairs. This is something that needs to be written in the tree! Mum’s on the phone in the living room. I get an apple from the fruit bowl and bite into it. I put some trainers on. It looks chilly outside so I put a jacket and scarf on. She’s still on the phone.
“I’m going outside!” I call.
She doesn’t answer.
“I’m going out, Mum!” I call again.
I listen. I shrug and head for the door.
Then she’s there, coming out of the living room.
I point to the book and pen.
“Going into the tree,” I say.
“OK.”
“Who was that?”
“Who was what?”
“On the phone.”
“Oh, on the phone? Colin.”
“Colin?”
“Colin Pope. Remember? You met him when we went to the theater the other week. In the interval.”
“Oh, him.”
She folds her arms and tilts her head and looks at me.
“Yes. Him.”
I think back. Colin Pope, a skinny tall man with a pint of beer in his hand.
“He was nice, wasn’t he? Remember?”
I shrug. I don’t remember if he was nice. I hardly remember him at all. Why should I? And anyway, what’s nice? He shook my hand and said he’d heard a lot about me. I don’t think I said anything to him. I read the program while they prattled and drank and nibbled peanuts. The play was Grimm Tales. I do remember I thought about talking about whether wolves really were as savage as they’re made out to be in the fairy tales. But I didn’t, and they prattled on.
“Remember him?” Mum says again.
“Not sure if I do,” I say.
She grins.
“I’ll be off to the tree,” I say.
“Go on, then.”
I head for the door. I hesitate there.
“What did he want?” I say.
“Just to say hello.”
“Took a long time to say hello.”
I go out and close the door.
Huh! Colin Pope!
I’m in the tree. The leaves are thickening fast. I check the eggs. Still there, still three of them, still beautiful.
Squawk squawk, go the blackbirds.
“OK,” I whisper back.
I sit on my branch, surrounded by thickening leaves. Soon I’ll be quite hidden away up here. I turn my mind back towards the past.
