Read Online Hoi Polloi by Craig Sherborne - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Craig Sherborne
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stuttering? How nice for him.”
Winks: “Leave it out, love.”
“When have you heard him ever thank me? Thank me for elocution lessons, for the lovely clothes, for slaving my guts out in this God-forsaken place? I’ve done everything for him.”
“This is a big moment for him. Let’s not spoil it.”
“This miraculous bang on the head, has it cured him from writing left-handed? Has it?”
I skipped in circles, chanted my Ss and Ps. She grabbed my left hand—“Stop that ridiculous dancing. Stop it and shut up!”—and pinched the string tied to my index finger and held up my hand by this thread. “Has it cured this? Has it? Has it?”
She pointed me to the chair at my corner desk by the window. “Sit. Sit. Pen. Get a pen.” She pushed me aside, fingered out a slip of paper from the desk pigeonhole and snapped it down in front of me. I held a pen in my hand waiting for instructions. “See?” she hissed to Winks. She gripped my hand, my left hand which held the pen, and shook it. “He still picks up the pen with his left hand. He hasn’t been broken of it.” She snatched the pen out of my hand so fiercely that saliva bubbled in front of her bared teeth and I flinched expecting a blow. She prised the pen into the fingers of my right hand. “Open your paw. Open your paw.” She took a step backwards.
“Now write. Go on. Write.”
“Write what?” I said.
“Don’t you talk back to me. Do as I say and write.”
“But I don’t know what to write.”
“If you don’t write something right this moment you’ll never write a damned thing again, so help me.”
Winks groans, a long groan of frustration, “Just write your bloody name: ‘Hello, my name is,’ just to make her happy.”
My hand looped and dragged the pen as best it could until a spindly, unreadable scrawl was completed.
“Exactly what I thought,” Heels said victoriously. “This miraculous bang on the head doesn’t extend to handwriting. What does extend to handwriting is telling him over and over again until it finally sinks into his thick skull that he must never write with the hand with the string on it. And practising over and over to write with his right hand will eventually work. Just like, as far as I’m concerned, and I won’t be contradicted, the elocution lessons have fixed his stutter. In fact I want it known throughout Heritage that I’ll be paying Mrs Daley a fifty-dollar bonus for her wonderful efforts.”
Now that I’m standing before the class, all those eyes watching, I wish I could stutter again. Mrs Quigley would never have got me to stand if I stuttered.
“What country are you headed for?” she persists.
“Aust-st-st-stralia.” Is this tempting fate? Will pretending to stutter bring the stuttering back forever? I quickly sit down. “Australia. Australia,” I say under my breath, testing each syllable in my mouth. “Australia. Australia.”
Mrs Quigley knows I was pretending. Look at her eyebrow cocked into an upside-down U. Those ripples of skin the same shape above it. My classmates snigger that they know I’m pretending.
“Up. Up. We haven’t finished with you yet, have we children? Tell us why you are headed for Australia.”
“Because he’s a drunk,” someone shouts—a girl, maybe Bronwyn. Maybe Sandra. The children, all of them, giggle and shout, “In a phone box. Drunk in a phone box.”
Mrs Quigley shushes them. “Alcohol and its harmful effects are no laughing matter. I will not have jokes of that nature in my classroom.”
“He was so drunk he fell and it fixed his stoppage, Mrs.”
“It was elocution lessons,” I counter, a feeble protest against the class’s glee.
“I said shsh,” Mrs Quigley says and claps her hands until the noise ceases. “I was hoping to have an intelligent few minutes but clearly that is beyond you. Our newspaper has deemed the sale of the Heritage Hotel worthy of inclusion in its pages.” She picks up a copy of the Chronicle from her desk
Winks: “Leave it out, love.”
“When have you heard him ever thank me? Thank me for elocution lessons, for the lovely clothes, for slaving my guts out in this God-forsaken place? I’ve done everything for him.”
“This is a big moment for him. Let’s not spoil it.”
“This miraculous bang on the head, has it cured him from writing left-handed? Has it?”
I skipped in circles, chanted my Ss and Ps. She grabbed my left hand—“Stop that ridiculous dancing. Stop it and shut up!”—and pinched the string tied to my index finger and held up my hand by this thread. “Has it cured this? Has it? Has it?”
She pointed me to the chair at my corner desk by the window. “Sit. Sit. Pen. Get a pen.” She pushed me aside, fingered out a slip of paper from the desk pigeonhole and snapped it down in front of me. I held a pen in my hand waiting for instructions. “See?” she hissed to Winks. She gripped my hand, my left hand which held the pen, and shook it. “He still picks up the pen with his left hand. He hasn’t been broken of it.” She snatched the pen out of my hand so fiercely that saliva bubbled in front of her bared teeth and I flinched expecting a blow. She prised the pen into the fingers of my right hand. “Open your paw. Open your paw.” She took a step backwards.
“Now write. Go on. Write.”
“Write what?” I said.
“Don’t you talk back to me. Do as I say and write.”
“But I don’t know what to write.”
“If you don’t write something right this moment you’ll never write a damned thing again, so help me.”
Winks groans, a long groan of frustration, “Just write your bloody name: ‘Hello, my name is,’ just to make her happy.”
My hand looped and dragged the pen as best it could until a spindly, unreadable scrawl was completed.
“Exactly what I thought,” Heels said victoriously. “This miraculous bang on the head doesn’t extend to handwriting. What does extend to handwriting is telling him over and over again until it finally sinks into his thick skull that he must never write with the hand with the string on it. And practising over and over to write with his right hand will eventually work. Just like, as far as I’m concerned, and I won’t be contradicted, the elocution lessons have fixed his stutter. In fact I want it known throughout Heritage that I’ll be paying Mrs Daley a fifty-dollar bonus for her wonderful efforts.”
Now that I’m standing before the class, all those eyes watching, I wish I could stutter again. Mrs Quigley would never have got me to stand if I stuttered.
“What country are you headed for?” she persists.
“Aust-st-st-stralia.” Is this tempting fate? Will pretending to stutter bring the stuttering back forever? I quickly sit down. “Australia. Australia,” I say under my breath, testing each syllable in my mouth. “Australia. Australia.”
Mrs Quigley knows I was pretending. Look at her eyebrow cocked into an upside-down U. Those ripples of skin the same shape above it. My classmates snigger that they know I’m pretending.
“Up. Up. We haven’t finished with you yet, have we children? Tell us why you are headed for Australia.”
“Because he’s a drunk,” someone shouts—a girl, maybe Bronwyn. Maybe Sandra. The children, all of them, giggle and shout, “In a phone box. Drunk in a phone box.”
Mrs Quigley shushes them. “Alcohol and its harmful effects are no laughing matter. I will not have jokes of that nature in my classroom.”
“He was so drunk he fell and it fixed his stoppage, Mrs.”
“It was elocution lessons,” I counter, a feeble protest against the class’s glee.
“I said shsh,” Mrs Quigley says and claps her hands until the noise ceases. “I was hoping to have an intelligent few minutes but clearly that is beyond you. Our newspaper has deemed the sale of the Heritage Hotel worthy of inclusion in its pages.” She picks up a copy of the Chronicle from her desk
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