‘You’re the shrink,’ Pimples said.
‘I am. I’ve worked with a wide range of people over the years.’
‘Nutters,’ Gordo ground out.
‘Not just nutters. But one of the things I have learned is that we can improve the life chances of our kids with one simple thing. And that’s reading to them and with them.’
‘You got kids, then?’ Tattoo Boy spoke. It didn’t sound like a challenge, more of a genuine question. But in prison, making assumptions could get your face rearranged.
‘I don’t. But I was one once. Here’s what I know about kids and reading. If they have bedtime stories, if they discover the magic of books when they’re tiny, they do better at school. They concentrate better, they’re more interested in learning, and they find it easier to look at the world through someone else’s eyes. But the best thing, from your point of view, is that it builds a bond between you and your kids. Reading stories with them is something they’ll remember for the rest of their lives.’
Silence. Gordo looked bored, the others, blank. Tony persevered. ‘I’m guessing none of your dads ever read you a bedtime story.’
‘You’ve got to be joking,’ Pimples confirmed. ‘He was too busy getting off his face.’
‘Never saw him,’ Tattoo Boy said.
Gordo snorted. ‘Only thing my old man read me was the riot act.’
‘No father,’ the Lithuanian said. ‘And my mother not read.’
Nothing from Wispy Beard.
‘We’re going to get some kids’ books delivered soon, so we can work with those. Right now, all we’ve got is this.’ Tony picked up the Hans Christian Andersen. ‘It’s old-fashioned fairy tales. Some of them you might know from Disney movies. But I thought we could make a start on these today.’
‘Make a start, how?’ Wispy Beard was paying attention now, chewing at his bitten fingernails.
‘I want to help you develop your reading skills.’
Gordo unfolded his arms and slammed his hands on the table. ‘Are you saying you think we’re thick? That we can’t read?’
‘No. There’s a difference between being able to read on the page and being able to read aloud.’ He gestured at the Lithuanian. ‘Like your friend here who can read, but wants to improve his English reading aloud. You want to give your child the best possible experience when you share a story. Something to cherish. That’s what we’re aiming for. But even if some of you can’t read very well, there’s no shame in that. There are a lot of reasons why people can’t read, and they’re nothing to do with intelligence.’
A mutinous stare from Gordo. His presumed boss picked his teeth with a thumbnail. The other three stared at the table.
Tony ploughed on. ‘So what I thought we’d do was each read a bit from the story, so I can get a sense of how comfortable each of you is with reading aloud?’ Stony silence. ‘I’ll start, then. I thought we’d begin with a story called The Ugly Duckling.’ He picked up the book and began at the page he’d bookmarked. ‘“It was spring in the farmyard. Mummy Duck had laid some eggs in her nest. She had been sitting on them to keep them warm. And one sunny morning, she felt the egg shells begin to crack. She was very happy to see six little duck chicks hatch from the eggs. But when she looked at the chicks, she got a surprise.”’ He stopped and offered the book to Pimples.
He took it reluctantly and began to read in a painfully slow monotone. ‘“One of the baby ducks looked diff . . . different from his bro . . . brothers and sisters. They were yellow and he was brown. They were little and cute and he was big and . . . clumsy. He did not fit in. All the other ducks called him names and picked on him.”’ The end of the paragraph was an evident relief. He thrust the book at Tattoo Boy who looked at it as if it might bite him.
‘“He was . . . “’ It was an obvious struggle. He had to sound out the words in his head, forming the shape in his mouth before he spoke it out loud. ‘“He was . . . very unhappy . . . in the farm . . . farmy . . . “’
‘Farmy?’ Gordo scoffed. ‘What’s a fucking farmy?’
‘Farmyard,’ Tony said. ‘We’re not here to have a go at each other. We’re here to support each other. We’re going to come across unfamiliar words here, and we’ll help each other.’ He smiled encouragement at Tattoo Boy, who had a thin sheen of perspiration on his top lip. ‘Do you want to carry on?’
He nodded. ‘“In the farmyard. So he made up . . . his mind to run awe . . . away.”’ He wiped the sweat off with the back of his hand and gave Tony a thumbs-up.
‘Great start, both of you. Thank you.’ He nodded towards Wispy Beard. ‘Your turn.’
He took the book and frowned at the page. ‘I’m dyslexic,’ he said.
‘Bollocks,’ Gordo muttered. ‘Nobody’s thick any more, are they? It’s dyslexic or what do they call it? ADHD? Total bollocks.’
Wispy Beard flushed. ‘I’ve been tested. It’s not bollocks. But I’ll give this a try. I want to be able to share with my son. I never had the chance with my dad. He died before I was born. In Iraq.’ He took a deep breath and ran his finger along the line. ‘“One . . . nith”? No, that doesn’t make sense. One night?’
‘That’s right,’ Tony said.
‘“One night, when they weer . . . were all as . . . asleep”?’ He was guessing, clearly, and it was an effort, but he was working
