park. I broke some leaves off (sprigs, you might say, not branches): red and orange from an oak, and yellow from a golden elm, much like the one in our garden.
When I came onto the main road, heading home, I saw a tram in front of me, and there was Lootie, sitting alone in the back. I waved and yelled, but she didn’t see me, so I gave up, content to follow. I watched the tramlines disappear beneath me.
People say that tramlines snake. To ‘snake’ implies choice, swerving and curving, almost as an act of escape. It came to me that tramlines do not snake. Tramlines are too set in their prescribed direction to snake, having no will of their own, no option but to follow a path alreadyestablished, the necessarily limiting (dare I say ‘preordained’?) grooves set in the road by council workers who, no doubt, followed a map, a plan, at the very least. Yet here I was following them. Following Lootie.
I wondered then (but only momentarily) if I had a choice?
The tram stopped and Lootie got off. I pulled in to the kerb to meet her. Because she was loaded up with bags I didn’t give her the bouquet of flaming leaves collected in the park, although I did point them out, sprawled riotously across my handlebars. She said nothing, being tired, or preoccupied, I guess. So I took some of her bags and slung them over my shoulder and we walked on home together.
‘I love it,’ she said when I asked. ‘I love them.’
‘Hang on,’ I said, and stopped to brush chalk dust from her cardigan, which was dark brown, the back covered in reversed-out writing. ‘You’ve been leaning against a blackboard,’ I said. ‘You must be a teacher.’
‘I’ve never been happier,’ she said, and she kissed me, there in the street, and me in my stinking XPress courier gear.
Lootie talked about her day right through dinner. I hadn’t gone to any trouble but I did spread the fiery autumn leaves on the white tablecloth.
Apparently Miss Svenson, the real teacher of Lootie’s class, was about forty-five and pretty tough. When the boys entered the classroom, she made them stand to attention at their desks before they could be seated.There was a strict ‘hands up’ and ‘no calling out’ policy and every page of their writing books had to have a five (not four or seven ) centimetre margin ruled down the left hand side, in red (not blue, not black).
‘I understand the standing at the desk,’ I said, ‘but why the red margin?’
‘Because Miss Svenson said,’ was the answer.
‘ Miss Svenson?’
‘She’s married, but she calls herself Miss.’
‘How do you know she’s married?’
‘Because she told me. He’s a stockbroker. There’s no children.’
‘Does she like kids?’
‘She’s been a teacher for eighteen years.’
‘So?’
Lootie shrugged. ‘So I guess she likes them. Or did once. I think she’s nearly burnt out.’
‘Hasn’t she got another ten years to go?’
‘Who cares?’ Lootie said. ‘Do you want to hear about my boys?’
‘Sure,’ I said. ‘I’ll do the dishes. You pour yourself a drink and get comfy in the living room.’
Lootie had learned the names of three boys: Russell, Nathan and Paul. I asked her to describe them to me and she made me laugh.
‘Is there a Charlie?’ I wanted to know.
‘No,’ she said, ‘but now that you mention it, there’s a boy just like you.’
‘Fat and stupid?’ I said, readying myself.
‘No,’ she said.
‘Is he the library monitor?’
‘You really do have a low opinion of yourself,’ she said. ‘You make it impossible to talk to you.’
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m listening.’
‘He’s a nice boy. He just reminds me of you. That’s all.’
‘So what’s his name?’ I wanted to know about this kid, figuring that if I did, I might find out what Lootie liked about me.
But she shrugged and acted as if it didn’t matter, choosing to rattle on about the activities that she had supervised, and those she had actually instigated. Then she
When I came onto the main road, heading home, I saw a tram in front of me, and there was Lootie, sitting alone in the back. I waved and yelled, but she didn’t see me, so I gave up, content to follow. I watched the tramlines disappear beneath me.
People say that tramlines snake. To ‘snake’ implies choice, swerving and curving, almost as an act of escape. It came to me that tramlines do not snake. Tramlines are too set in their prescribed direction to snake, having no will of their own, no option but to follow a path alreadyestablished, the necessarily limiting (dare I say ‘preordained’?) grooves set in the road by council workers who, no doubt, followed a map, a plan, at the very least. Yet here I was following them. Following Lootie.
I wondered then (but only momentarily) if I had a choice?
The tram stopped and Lootie got off. I pulled in to the kerb to meet her. Because she was loaded up with bags I didn’t give her the bouquet of flaming leaves collected in the park, although I did point them out, sprawled riotously across my handlebars. She said nothing, being tired, or preoccupied, I guess. So I took some of her bags and slung them over my shoulder and we walked on home together.
‘I love it,’ she said when I asked. ‘I love them.’
‘Hang on,’ I said, and stopped to brush chalk dust from her cardigan, which was dark brown, the back covered in reversed-out writing. ‘You’ve been leaning against a blackboard,’ I said. ‘You must be a teacher.’
‘I’ve never been happier,’ she said, and she kissed me, there in the street, and me in my stinking XPress courier gear.
Lootie talked about her day right through dinner. I hadn’t gone to any trouble but I did spread the fiery autumn leaves on the white tablecloth.
Apparently Miss Svenson, the real teacher of Lootie’s class, was about forty-five and pretty tough. When the boys entered the classroom, she made them stand to attention at their desks before they could be seated.There was a strict ‘hands up’ and ‘no calling out’ policy and every page of their writing books had to have a five (not four or seven ) centimetre margin ruled down the left hand side, in red (not blue, not black).
‘I understand the standing at the desk,’ I said, ‘but why the red margin?’
‘Because Miss Svenson said,’ was the answer.
‘ Miss Svenson?’
‘She’s married, but she calls herself Miss.’
‘How do you know she’s married?’
‘Because she told me. He’s a stockbroker. There’s no children.’
‘Does she like kids?’
‘She’s been a teacher for eighteen years.’
‘So?’
Lootie shrugged. ‘So I guess she likes them. Or did once. I think she’s nearly burnt out.’
‘Hasn’t she got another ten years to go?’
‘Who cares?’ Lootie said. ‘Do you want to hear about my boys?’
‘Sure,’ I said. ‘I’ll do the dishes. You pour yourself a drink and get comfy in the living room.’
Lootie had learned the names of three boys: Russell, Nathan and Paul. I asked her to describe them to me and she made me laugh.
‘Is there a Charlie?’ I wanted to know.
‘No,’ she said, ‘but now that you mention it, there’s a boy just like you.’
‘Fat and stupid?’ I said, readying myself.
‘No,’ she said.
‘Is he the library monitor?’
‘You really do have a low opinion of yourself,’ she said. ‘You make it impossible to talk to you.’
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m listening.’
‘He’s a nice boy. He just reminds me of you. That’s all.’
‘So what’s his name?’ I wanted to know about this kid, figuring that if I did, I might find out what Lootie liked about me.
But she shrugged and acted as if it didn’t matter, choosing to rattle on about the activities that she had supervised, and those she had actually instigated. Then she
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